secrets

our silence comes easy
and there is much to it
the commingling of our fingers
and the swapping of palm oils
and the nimble saltation of fingertips
it says so much.
and yet you stare at my neck
and say that my throat is the
home of a chorus of birds
and such harmonies never allow
for secrets.

storm

driving home
from the farmer's market-
I can't see anything-
through this storm-
I come home to sleep-
with you-rest in your
arms full of things-
mine are. We share a
beer, really talking-
for the first time in
weeks I kiss you-
and I don't mind
that your beard is gone.

upon waking

all is up.
a dreamy boy fills your legs
with such a torso-
he acts like your tongue is hard candy-
and the crust in your eyes is cinnamon.

strawberry

July 12th

My love's hands and eyes
so full of surprise!

he sees nothing wrong with giving me
a synthetic strawberry.

covered

there is a small leaf over your eye
and yet you can still see me.

stars

in the shadowy enclave-
you see fireflies.
I see stars.

flirty

lean in a little.

say it like it's a secret.

make your breath sound like italics.

click your tongue against the roof your mouth

then you'll sound like me.

the typewriter.

naked

lipstick on the teacup steaming bedroom eyes.

glasses resting folded newspaper bookmarked novel.

barefoot toenails pink lotion ringed fingers.

naked on the oriental throw rug.

~


piss fart shit jokes muffled laughter.

worms dirt seaweed sand bottle of beer mosquito bites:

pretty girl-boys don't even look at me.


someday I will be a woman.

blind haiku

where I'm coming from-
you cannot "see"-self-blinded-
and not listening.

stay, stay, stay

August 2003! A spree, and the W.A.P
another month of you and possibly me
W.A.P stands for wild animal park, if you don't remember-
the way you forgot to count the months till November.
When we shared a bed, in the blistering heat--
You ignored those new blisters all over my feet-
barking, tired from walking alone.
Choking, dehydrated, yet chilled to the bone-
my car overheating no insurance, registration
now I have to wait for the train at your station.

See, here...
there is a sea here
it's here every year
dear, it catches every tear
it drifts too far and little too near

it's sullen, and blue,
and it whispers "I do-"

and

"Hey, whatdya say...
Could ya Stay, Stay, Stay?
maybe we could make it for a day."

Maybe we could make it.
I guess in the mean time we'll just have to fake it.

thoughtful hillbillies

RICK:
Hey Rick?

DICK:
Yea, Dick?

RICK:
See that sky roll on by? (points)

DICK:
...Oh, my...

RICK:
Don't i-t'almost makes yer wanner... cry?

DICK:
(Sighs) Yea, er die...

RICK:
I mean, don’t-it makes yer wanner ask… why?

DICK:
Don't think(thoughtful)- Nope. Can’t say I’d-wanner even try…

(both take a deep breath in)
(RICK exhales but DICK starts hacking and coughing)
(RICK slaps him on the back)

RICK:
Dick! Wha-happened?! Yer almost choked, why?

DICK:
Oh, Rick (coughs)... I think I swallerd-a fly!

write away, dear

to have sticky pins for fingertips

and ballpoint pens for thumbs.

then I could fascinate myself to you,

and write away doldrums.

Opal

take flight
in linen and lace.

things will mesh
if you want them to.

just throw yourself
up against it and
maneuver dainty
fingers over tiny buttons,

really,

sometimes you deserve
a good lashing.

Pine-ing

wrists with a desperate
tingling sensation
all there is to do
is bind them
to each other
weaving them into
a coiled rope.


scratching my nails
against the hard bark of a
tree. hacking away
the chipping bricks of
bark. such a loud
shriek it's soul makes.


there it is the living,
vulnerable green
that weeps sap
all over my fingers
and pleads me to stop
picking.

last waking hours

A woman's stance
feet parted so
that like a breezy window
the mantle opened slightly
lets in curves of salty air-
but here there is no, in
simply out there peeks
a corner of skin revealed
and just above the navel
a ripened orange,
brown with sugar
floats.

A bend and twist
of a monarch's
wings
A dart of fluttering,
flaunting
the color the butterfly
melts to buttery
compassion and cream.
And around your
body it does
curl.



Lifted setting sun
before the
walk of that green
mile, a foreigner's
thirsty hands
are quenched
and a broken
mouth is mended.
a face falls
as eyes close
as whispers
like wind chill,
biting.

A heaving breathless favor
rests upon a body of
silken nurturing
pillows with a soft voice.
Diffusing the despair.
Of dying will
and tired eyes.

These are your
last waking hours.
open and entreating,
She will cushion
your terror.

small stone #8

Another Indian woman
living on our block
has hair swept back and braided
has jeweled toes,
is in all yellow traditional regalia,
and walks with a limp...

small stone #5

that little bird under the leaf.

she didn't hide from me.

she hopped out,

to take a look.

small stone #4

husband and I trek a mile for ice cream

just for the creamy banana,

crunchy pecans, and chunks of

thumb-sized chocolate.


shoes flipping and flopping over

overgrown grass peppering swirly brown mud-cakes,

skipping over white dots

powdering the steamy asphalt

Day 5

After dark.

for Joel

Heartily bolstered with pancakes
and the soft innards of oranges,
We were rolling around in ivory fields
of Egyptian cotton. Tossed about
in a quilted universe of a
holiday spent alone.
Radiophonics
and the whirling sounds of
melodramatic acting and
otherworldliness in the
background we are
sheltered by our own
singular dream of what
this world should be.
But eventually
we arise
and, after a late afternoon
shower,
allow reality back in.
We bicker but once
in the car, but cool it,
realizing
in the parking lot
that we had arrived
at one of our favorite
places. We stroll
easy, like adults
down that familiar
trail of gravel
leading to the
wooden planks
stretching out over
the river drag.
You listen for wildlife
and I see a goose.
I say to you God wants us to notice things
That's why he shows us a tree twice.
Once coming out of the ground
and once reflected on the water.
You say you want to glide
like a hawk, so your
arms never get tired.
You like the way that looks.
Then you look at me.
Something fills within us,
and we once again
leap through the
local park like children
Each going down the fireman pole.
And I remember
what a spectacular idea
it would be
to have a picnic
after dark.

Day 3

The Anchor
for Joel

When love embarks,
with its generating
propellers slicing through
the interminable oceans
of imperfection
that are, for a moment,
entirely perfect,
We greet them.
We are exquisitely aroused
and have effervescent eyes
that gorge themselves on
the way that fireball displays
vitalities on the water.
The propulsion of this
journey is inescapable,
irreversible
and the anchor swings with us
all the way inside of us.
And so we do.
And so the way that person is
when we first fall in love
is always inside of us.