meeting

If this space
is actually a map
how many words
up until
I reach the place
where I meet you?

_______________

I almost
don’t
want to
ever see
you again.
Almost.
I shall go
in wound
tight
and then
unravel
like a piece
of string
that gets stuck
to the sole
of your shoe.

child's eyes

how bad
and how
bright
things
get one
after
the other
like god
playing
gleefully
with the light
switch

_________________________________


the clinking the clattering a smattering of tinkling laughter like silver sprinkles mixed together with bubbles of giggles popping at the surface like willful children peering out charmed by the grown up smell of the smoke the spirits the ash in the brightly perfumed air mimicking a profusion of hothouse flowers blooming unabashedly making me wish I wasn’t just six tonight

poet

yes, that’s my daughter. as a matter of fact
she often does sit in the corner by herself
like that. no she’s not special in that way.
but i would say quite unique. she has
a strange way about her. but more than anything
else you see, she makes pearls. yes, you know
those glossy white round things. fortunate?
i would hardly say so. poor child just can’t
seem to string them together.

________________________________

I remember
the evening that
I heard someone
say, I am a poet.
I bristled, was
indignant in fact.
Even though
she was indeed a poet.
I had her books.
Had read each one.
But how could she sit there
and just simply say yes,
I am a poet?

in your garden

A fist sized lemon drops
Embarrassed
And tries to hide
Its largesse
In the arms of the earth

apology

Forgive me this trespass that is none at all
Forgive me this absence for I have never been
more present to myself.
And forgive me too, for coming first
to the realization that we are of no help
to one another

stepping out

I don’t really run,
but I have
this walk
that’s always
threatening
to break into
a run
it allows me to say
that I have never
run after
a bus
for instance
but today
as I tried
to keep pace
with my run
-away life
I happened to step

right

out

of

it

and a pace that does
for asphalt
and corporate
carpeting
does not do
on parallel roads
with their pine needles
and errant pebbles

entry

when you walk into a room
the earth doesn’t stop
its spinning
the chatter doesn’t stop
its bubbling
it has even been known to happen
that someone didn’t notice
you’ve entered
and that my soul is singing

transformation

If I stand still long enough, in the shadows of the frangipani, I will melt into its waxy limbs. Holding out my palms, my bold leaves, I will stroke the the cool summer breeze as it carries a stray hint of jasmine like a torch before it, coloring the night with its charming scent. Softly watching the summer sky with wide eyes, containing a hint of tomorrow’s sunshine in my heart, I will be glad to have stood so still.

trinket

Tonight her tiny looped earring unfastened itself. A silver curl broke away from its circle. It’s sharing a bed with another body that’s the fault. There’s no room to turn without something getting caught against the covers, or him.

He noticed it first; the glint of silver against the soft lobes held him, fascinated.

Your earring’s loose.

Reaching for her ear for confirmation, she uttered a low curse. She cursed the covers, the proximity, the silversmith and her own fumbling fingers that were never able to fasten the wretched little things anyway.

Would you?

Yes, would you ever be able to slot such a miniscule silver thread into its rightful place? Or would you see that perhaps the circle was meant to remain incomplete – it has been known to happen, after all. You could simply say no, admit defeat. Why tie up all loose ends and why commit to the connotations of this circlet, now hanging from its hinge forlorn?

His fingers brushed her skin in their attempt to clasp the sliver of stubborn metal without causing injury. How he’d hate for her to wince. Not that she would. But still.

There.

It’s done now.

A battle won. Someone had to lose.

pink

Driving home from work today I was suddenly sixteen –

dashing for the door but first taking time to twirl
for a critical consideration of my reflection
in the hallway mirror

You look lovely,

you said from right behind me and the amusement in your voice washed over me in alternating waves of hot and cold as shades of pink blushes went down to my toes.

Driving home from work today I heard you speak to me
ten years later, when I thought I’d forgotten what it felt like.

busy

I made lists
all the time.
I kept account
of each moment
lest any be wasted
or even worse
left unfilled.
It’s the empty spaces,
I used to think,
that threatened
to allow visitors in
but here stands loneliness
uninvited and uncaring
of all that I have left
to do today.

knowing you

I just called
To check the facts
Get an accurate reading
Put my finger on the pulse
And find out exactly how fast
A heart can race
When there is
The possibility of you
On the other end.

_____________________________

You smell like August
and its crushing weight
is a velvet curtain
enveloping me,
I struggle to breathe
While summer rises like steam
from off your brown skin.

_____________________________

I wish I knew more about the weather.

I would speak casually
of cloud formations and low pressure areas,
murmur with concern over the Pacific storm patterns,
and remind you to take your umbrella with you today
because of the slight chance of rain.

The clouds grow dark and scowl
at me through our kitchen window.

I say nothing as you walk out that door.

I just wish I knew more about you.

_____________________________

fear

It builds up at night. Emanates like a breeze from within, at first just brushing by your heart, before your mind is even aware of its presence. There is a tightness then, perhaps you stir slightly, brushing it off.

737

It gathers strength as I watch it form, drawing like to itself, accumulating forces and swelling with its own essence until, heavy with promise, it breaks free and runs down the wet window pane.
My attention breaks away from the raindrops following suit and I resume vigilance of the city that sprawls wantonly before me, glittering and winking unabashedly, tempting the watcher into itself. The sky that embraces the city’s magnificent shimmer is dense and impassive, as lovers of such scintillating objects often are. The searchlights atop the building dance across its dispassionate visage, teasing the thick blackness as they skim across it lightheartedly, eliciting nothing more than a low rumble from the thus tortured heavens.
I reach out my hand and place it on the cool glass, which immediately flushes at this familiarity, clouding my view of the bejeweled city far below, a veil that could little detract from my fascination with it. The glass is throbbing beneath my fingertips with the same energy that pervades the atmosphere in the club; it pours into the walls and pounds from within like a mad, unrelenting heartbeat that imprisons my own until my body is in synchrony with its frenzied pulsations. It is the drum of a city and it’s some 30 million people, their hearts beating in time to the waves washing over them, holding them in their grip, enthralling, mesmerizing; every nerve being touched by the fire raging through their bodies. Controlling, commanding, making them powerless to resist, their eyes shining with the sheer intensity of emotion that every shift creates. Each body obeys orders that aren’t even its own and there’s the mounting excitement of knowing hundreds of writhing bodies around it are similarly bound by this narcotic experience, willing sacrifices upon this altar. The spell cast is irresistible, undeniable. They feel the blood crashing within them; angry tides whipping the shore with a fury that has a sense of abandon and delight. Music takes over, each new rhythm a new form of seduction urging them on further and further.
I watch them forsake all notions of modesty and control as they feel the pounding in their ears, the steadily increasing flow of the hypnotic beats, a pulsating effect fans out encompassing minds and bodies. Imprisoned by music and their bodies’ eager betrayal, the heated atmosphere sets souls ablaze, escapists’ doorways to a freedom usually only achieved through the retreat sleep provides from the day’s anxieties, or death’s absolution. There is an all too temporary abandonment of sensibilities, people spinning wildly in a world at once alone and yet a part of the many, each searching for his unique escape.

illusions of grandeur

I’m glad to have not pursued those dreams
Sometimes the failure to do, it seems,
Can be all that remains if you are to speak
To yourself of all that you could have been

bubble

the heart is like a snow globe
sometimes
a tempest rages within
storms of anguish,
blizzards of sorrow
quite out of proportion to the world outside
but sometimes the falling snow settles
and all is clear
and contained.

the same page

I know you’re reading the same novel as I am. I overhear you mention it. My copy is lying on my bedside table. It’s precariously close to the icy condensation left behind by a drink I can’t remember the taste of anymore. Every time I turn the page, I imagine you turning it too, way over there, right across the city. I try to read the words as if I were you. I try to change my perspective, disregard my point of view and squeeze from each page a drop of your reason.

We don’t see eye to eye. When I speak you can’t hear me. When you talk I get confused.

I may as well be reading a different novel altogether.

Perhaps I will.