Playtime

The last sinewy fingers of sunset
stretch over the hilltops,
begging me,
pleading,
“I’ll stay two more minutes if you stay too”
And so we stay,
and as I begin to leave
suns golden fingers plead
just two more minutes—
stay and twirl your skirt
in the white foam of the breakers!
Two more minutes I stay,
each time I turn to go,
one last sunny ray reaches,
stretching for me to stay and play.
As the path I’m walking
lights with the brightness of sunset,
I turn to say goodbye,
and watch the last finger of dark
slip over the sand

I Miss You

I miss you—
oh how I miss you.
Listening to songs
that used to make me cry—
because they reminded me of you.
Your photos in my house,
those blue eyes
tell a thousand stories
from a dozen picture frames.
Maybe we’re strangers again,
maybe we’ll start over,
but I can already feel
that you’re moving on again.
I never thought it would be like this,
so short,
I wanted forever,
but you knew it would never come.
I hate that you knew it.
I hate that I miss you.
Oh how I miss you.

Tied To You

In my dreams

I’m tied to you

‘cause I look to you

to make me beautiful.

I wait

to find someone

who will look at me

the way you used to.

It’s been months

but still I remember

how you feel.

It’s just too bad

we weren’t real;

there was no us

when the bed was gone.

I think of you now

and wonder

what I liked about you.

Just One More Time

Just smile for me,
just one more time
look at me like you love me,
like there’s no one else here.
I could wander this life,
alone and small,
and contented so,
just as long as you smile,
just one more time.
I’m not meant for you,
but I never asked more,
all I ever wanted
was that darling smile.

Betty Crocker

Little Miss Betty Crocker

cooked my dinner, and fed me spinach.

She moved around my kitchen,

like she knew where she was going.

I love to watch her move;

when she dances to Janis Joplin,

it’s just like Love.

Betty Crocker closes her eyes,

and sings along as she makes cookies,

and licks the dough from her fingers.

Little Miss Betty Crocker—

my favorite cook and mistress.

Alien

Each new face passing by

looks mysterious and scared,

wary of me, the stranger,

spouting ideas never heard.

My blinking eyes stare,

searching for a human connection

where all I see are lies

and scared restrain.

I feel alien here

in my own home,

where I recognize every face

but I’m even more alone.

Missing Marbles

Lost:
Tuesday night--
Happy Hour.
One hot pink,
patent leather
vintage, rhinestoned clutch.
Left on the bar
at Bartini on twenty-first
next door to the  fondue place.
Contents include:
twenty-seven dollars,
one obviously fake i.d.,
a Yellow Cab business card,
and one Tri-Met bus pass.
Also,
one "Blushing Bride" pink lipstick,
a Swiss Army knife,
and two apparently invaluable,
but priceless marbles.
If found:
you can spend the cash,
use the i.d.,
keep the bus pass,
throw away the lipstick,
and sell the knife.
But the marbles...
please
send my marbles back to me.

I Outside

I small featured
I stark naked
I cold shaking
I empty handed
I wide-eyed
I knock-kneed
I lurk out
I gaze in
I long gone.

The Origin of Blues

In the deep, dark, dank
of a sweaty, swanky swamp
where the bodies roil and toil
day in and day out
the melancholy alto
of the creole saxophone
moves the bowels of a  party
to a good ol' foot stomp.
The wooden porch shakes and quakes
while the music rocks and rolls.

Unfinished

high heels tip tap tap

click clack clack

in chartreuse ankle straps

with one strap come undone

click clack clack

she dances and prances

with one strap come undone

teet'ring on tip toes

she dances and prances

in chartreuse ankle straps

teet'ring on tip toes

high heels tip tap tap.

Safe Space

I press my face into the tightened flesh

(of) her pregnant belly where I find my safe-

ty from the world of violence, wars, and hate.

I am protected here, within the space

of padded tissue where her baby grows.

I wish I was her infant swaddled by

the feeling of invincibility.

She sends her mother's care through veins of blood;

embraces the life she carries in her womb.

This new-found mother's love gives her the glow

of inner peace and health that I will nev-

er have. Instead I wrap my arms around

her pregnant belly and press my face into

the safety of the space where her baby grows.

Solitary Streetlamp

Turn me on in daylight hours,

just once I’d like to light a lighted path

and sleep in darkness.

I’d like to stand on a desk

and cast a dimmer light–

to feel dwarfed by my giant sidewalk size.

I dream of strolling the cement paths,

hand in hand with lovers and friends,

uprooted from my cement block jail.

Always wondering what the rest of the world looks like,

wondering from my solitary street corner–

I am forever unmoving.

Dreaming of Love

I met an ex-lover last night;

we made love once again.

He told me I broke his heart

when I walked out on him.

I said I remember things differently,

that he pushed me away

when I lost my mind,

he lost interest when I went insane.

Then he got excited again,

told me about his new wife,

all the children she wants,

and their whole new life.

He could have had that with me!

But he told me Not one child more,

‘cause two was too many,

and he never wanted marriage before.

I felt so out of place in his new life,

so I faded away silently,

wishing—despite all his flaws—

that he had chosen me.

Only A Dream

i pretended his face was

                                    real,

that your rough hands touching

                                                mine,

            were his.

i woke at sunrise today,

and forgot why i’d dreamt

                        in the first place.

The Ensenada Groom

So hot—too hot—

to be wearing his captains uniform,

but of course he wouldn’t be married without it.

He took my breath away,

so handsome.

He wore those medals

like badges of honor,

so perfectly shiny I believed

the metal could protect his heart,

and maybe even mine.

Haiku Series: After My Uncle's Death

Fingers on the tree

grasp at the passing wind

while my sun sets west.

            Life will never be the same—

            my uncle is dead

            the past is now a dream.

Finally I’m free

to roam this world on two feet

with my eyes open.

Dear Laura

To think of you as an action instead of an emotion. Impossible! Or maybe...

There would be Ani DiFranco, there would Camel flavored smoke and an abundance of chocolate. There would be no meat, there would be no boys, and yet...there would be no sex. There might be a sex book, or an independent film about the stereotypical homosexuals, and later that night, there might be a sex oil massage. But our giggles are only light tickles. I’ve seen you nude, but modestly looked away.

In the end, every action with you is an emotion, every moment with you–a nostalgic cue. Because every action comes down to it–I miss you.

Denny's

We gather in Denny’s

demanding nights darkness

denying dawns presence

until we’re ready for today.

Dancing our words

between the plates

giggling girlishly at history, and

speaking through the silences.

We are discovering, secretly,

our endearing future,

by driving out the doubts

of a dying past, while

the madness of morning

drowns in a basket

of delicious cheese sticks.

Untold Love

The meat of our romance

is an untold love affair.

My broken heart

—speared and deflated—

is the relevant storyline.

And the fallen fruit of my confidence?

a testament to when relationships grow…

            awkward.

Pretend Daydream

I play pretend,

make-believe a lover.

Usually that lover is you.

Sleepy Sunday mornings

and breakfast in bed,

the way my hand fits so well in yours.

The last words of the day

whispered over our pillows,

our secret gazes

met with smiles

across a crowded room.

I fill my daydreams

with only a version of you–

a version that’s not you at all.

Morning Love

While we lie in bed

your hand brings me the slow dawn.

The reflection of morning in your eyes

glows above the hum of sunrise.

Between our sheets

the dimpled texture

of your nude skin

becomes my personal canvas.

You shiver like gasps

to watch my hands

pull at the air

that floats over your body.

Your cold touch

heals my warm isolation.

The sigh that escapes your lips

keeps me staring and still.

Drinks With Dad

Drinks

with Dad

at a loud

blues bar.

He paints

himself a smile

with his

cutely crooked mouth.

We flirt—

he with the men,

I with them all.

He drinks

a blood-red merlot,

I like Mike’s

Hard Lemonade.

My envious friends

love my dad—

“he’s so cool.”

They want dads

to take them out

to buy

not their love

but their drinks

at a loud

blues bar.

Hot Day, Ice Water

It was a summer day,

that’s why she did

what she did; because

the heat was too much, and

the air was too thick.

She ordered ice water,

no ice, only water,

from the poolside waiter

dressed in button-up shirt

and thick black trousers.

Sweat pooled on his brow

in the midday sun

while she spritzed herself cool

and jumped in

to swim a few laps

in the turquoise pool.

The glass he brought back

was crystal clear clean,

ice water, no ice, liquid

filled to the brim.

Her lips touched the rim,

sipped the cool liquid, nice,

but her tongue tasted metal,

tap water, she knew

and detested the taste.

Spat it out at once,

at the waiter’s sweaty face,

his surprised sweaty face,

now covered with distaste.

Humbly he apologized,

asked her forgiveness, she

smirked and admitted,

free drinks would be nice.

The Right Words

You said all the right things

 at all the right times,

and I’m charmed with your words,

until those words lose meaning.

I’ve forgotten how it sounds

when you say something real.

I study your hand instead;

pudgy knuckles nervously flick your cigarette.

You keep talking,

but your blue eyes refuse to meet mine.

You talk until I forget what you’ve said.

I nod my head,

provoke more words,

so I wait for them to make sense;

I wait for you

to finally say something worth hearing.

Orange Juice

An unattractive garbage bin

stands at attention before me.

I punch ineffective fingernails

into the tough rind of an orange.

I expose the pulpy meat:

juicy, sticky–sensual.

Sweet pungent orange soaks my skin,

my hips grow aware of their shape.

I bite, I nibble, I suck,

this bin itself is not my prop;

I abuse its shape, its height,

maneuver the air between us

while I lick the juice of my arousal

from my fingertips.

Young Fruit

Love, captured when young

--like fruit—

is apt to bruise

and turn to meal

for lack of cultivation.

The young starfruit,

kept in warm humidity

and rotated weekly

can produce delicious results

but the high school crush

grows bitter on the tongue

poisoning the heart from within.

Guard your heart

behind protective walls—

wrap it up in temperate climes

to avoid spoiling you love

with the heat of passion

or the early freeze of disappointment.

Three Cranes

I drove mother home the back way that day.

Connected roads that wind their way

past pastures and country, large

open fields that students call watershed.

Winter began to dwindle that day,

and start losing it’s heavy, cold weight,

made way for the springtime twilight.

As I made the last left turn onto Bell road

we continued our discussion.

I subconsciously slow down the car.

A sheep farm sits there on Bell road

where the smell of onion

permeates the hot summer air every year,

when the sheep are left outside to graze

on the piles of the rotten vegetable.

We both look to the yard

where the sheep graze, even now,

and their tan wool is camouflage

as my eyes jump into the next block

of green green spring grass.

Three white bodies

stand equally apart from each other,

white like bright teeth,

in an otherwise toothless mouth,

each on one leg apiece.

Three egrets–

though there are more likely to have been cranes,

with long thin necks

holding up impossibly heavy beaks,

stretched higher to watch us

slowly passing to watch them.

Nearly stopped on the curvy road

in front of the sheep farm,

I took the photo in my mind,

knowing the creatures would be gone

upon my next return, surely

they’ll have continued their flight,

and perhaps grace another farmers yard

with their awful beauty.

There Was War

First there was peace.

There was a garden,

and there was quiet.

There was woman and man

but there was no child.

Then came the sin

and from sin there came anger.

There was hate

so there had to be war.

There was war.

There was blood.

There was fear.

There was war

and hate.

There was war

and anger.

There was war

and violence.

There was war.

There was a bomb,

and then there was no time.

There was a pause,

there was a peaceful, silent moment,

there was silent peace.

There was peace in all that silent death.

There was a forgiveness,

there was an abandonment of anger.

There was heaven, then.

The Shortest Kiss

It was the shortest kiss in history

but my toes curled and spine tingled

and it opened up your mystery.

Now it’s been two weeks,

plus twenty-six hours

seventeen minutes since we brushed lips

and I miss you like you were mine.

I’ve been drawing your eyes for days

my margins curve into your smiles,

because I miss the way it felt

when I told them you were with me.

Now it just hurts too much

to talk to you like it never happened,

because that was the happiest I’ve been

since I don’t know when,

and I can’t see you the same,

like any other girl I’ve kissed,

‘cause your kiss meant something more to me,

and I can never let you know.

Softly, Softly

Softly, softly,

step softly on my grave,

don’t let me go,

show me you’re brave.

Speak softly to me,

softly, softly,

tell me secrets,

tell me lies,

so long as you don’t

say goodbye.

Carry my heart softly,

softly, softly,

don’t let me fall,

I’m in love again,

and feel so small.

Love me softly,

softly, softly.

Porcelain Anger

A cold china dish breaks

against black pavement

into sharp white shards;

            like fragile raindrops

            splinters suspended in midair,

            in a frozen moment.

Porcelain chips cut

through a motionless breath

while the action loses its anger;

            a beautiful symphony of sound

            crashes in on me,

            quiets all other noise.

Like a sigh of relief,

the shatter leaves behind

one fulfilling silence;

            awe at the crunching underfoot

            pieces of my anger,

            swept into the dustbin.

Oil On Canvas

Gray horizon meets golden morning light.

I watch days dawning,

and feel a part of the painting;

I’ve become a piece of foreground.

In two sparse dimensions

I long to smell the salty morning air,

to feel a cool shiver rush on my veins

to meet my shaky bones.

Every sense smothered,

I feel the absence of reality.

Nothing is real.

I’m just oil on canvas;

the edge of a silvery seascape.

Lost inside two dimensions.

Like Sex

The white girl

with blond hair

who wears a dozen

cornrow braids

presses like sex

her hips

against the pool table

in the student union

where she smiles

with blue eyes,

bites on her lips

nibbling like sex,

shyly staring down

the young black man

with an afro

whose only interest

is the 8 ball

and the corner pocket.

Jazz

The jazz that sounds like

neon lights:     blue     red     and orange

sweeps me out onto the sidewalk

where the city

grooves

and moves

and all the music lovers

are out be-boppin’ on the corners

where color and faith and sex

are just more reasons to perform.

Frozen Fingers of Heartbreak

My icicle fingers

break over the rough land

of my lover’s heart

which I hold in my hand.

I hold in my hand

a foreign coin from Canada

which someone gave me

for being Amanda.

From the day I was born

I was weary to sight

for my face was all mangled

and shied from the light.

Ping pong ping

the other kids were so mean,

they teased me and beat me

ping pong ping.

Now that I have a lover

I have nothing to fear.

No more taunting,

not one more jeer.

Comfortably Awkward

The promise of your presence

arouses my anger.

Undeniably

I’m tingling with nervous excitement.

I’m rehearsing what I’ll say.

I’m deciding on a demeanor.

before too long

we’ve fallen comfortably

back into our old patterns.

And still the awkwardness finds itself

edging in between our words.

All the things we left unsaid

appear in the sidelong glances;

those knowing asides

that everyone sees

but no one understands.

Burnt

An August day turns into night

without the breath of a cool breeze.

The warm air,

humid against their skin

chases two sweethearts indoors.

The reddened bodies sit

with flesh that aches

the way sun faded leather is taut.

The girl hisses short breaths of pain

each time she moves.

Her pink skin exposed

he skims an aloe covered hand

across her shoulders and tender back.

Beneath his fingers

her skin feels like

the hot hand of passion

reaching for his groin.

Barely breathing beneath a sunburn

an ecstatic smile scorches

across her peeling lips

the delight in her eyes

meets the hunger reflected in his.

Her image of intimacy fades

like the white imprint

of his touch on her skin.

A Living City

With my eyes open

I am looking upon a living city of

... the bare purple nipples of women

feeding hungry babies,

sky-clad children

playing in the cold air.

... men in their official meetings

pretending to take a casual break,

keeping their trained ears open,

to any business opportunity.

...women walking off their mochas

in their clashing skirts and sneakers,

never missing a window shop sale

or another chance for coffee.

... a quarreling couple

oblivious to everything else,

about to find the end to their unhappiness,

in a humiliating public fight.

...the noisy din of cars

that are speeding past us all.

Fat

I dreamt I went to my funeral naked

and roll upon roll upon roll

of my fat was bare

for everyone to see.

Every inch of my soft, elastic hide

lay open to public inspection,

and I could not escape.

You so-called friends

and loving family members

whispered and pointed,

poked the pale pudding flesh

of my well endowed breast,

and tried not to see

the stretched expanse of my belly.

You were all so inclined,

to compare your physique to mine,

that in later evening hours,

I reveled to see you all,

naked and blemished,

standing before your mirrors

brushing a hand over the flaws

that upon your funeral,

will be the signs of life you miss the most.

Breast Envy

The sight of her breasts was impeccable

through the thin white material of her blouse

and jealousy filled my own large chest

for want of fleshy perkiness like that.

My own pendulous breasts hang low on my chest

wearing downward pointing rose nipples

that no one ever gets to see but me

and only when I lift them upwards

one at a time by hand in the mirror.

I was a naïve 12 years old

when last I had small B cup boobs like hers—

what I wouldn’t give of myself now

to be that small chested again.