Killing two Birds With One Stone

A flash of finger down my neck
And the wren sings to the dove
Perhaps I am in a different body, or a different time
But no, there he is in his anger
The door slams, but I am too intoxicated
With my mistake

I can feel his breath on my lips
Is mine just as sweet
When a wren builds a nest
Will the eggs hatch a tuft of white, or a smothering of brown

The touch was too intimate
It spoke of knowledge that only he should share

As the lights draw dark
And my arms twine closely with the dove
I watch as his body breaks
And I have ruined everything.

What Goes Around Comes Around

I was a creative child
a liar, manipulator, adult impersonator
There wasn’t anything that I couldn’t have
think, dream, take

I was the kind of child that parents forgot was a child
The kind of child left alone to take care of her self
The child in the corner of the playground holding court with her imaginary friends

Then one day I forgot about myself
And I remembered everybody else
they wanted honesty
asked me to sacrifice
I gave it to them and forgot how to take

But I still have one imaginary friend to speak to
Another child that may come tomorrow, next week, next year
That may have my eyes or my blonde braids

I tell her to take, and breathe, and create, and love only her self
And when I give birth I’ll give her a kiss good bye
As she creates her own life without me
I’ll be smiling and forget that she’s a child

Just Before I Sleep

To rest my eyes
And bury my day in a pile of blankets
To turn my thoughts like god creating the Garden of Eden
As sleep whirls

Like a leaf
Turned around and around
With just a flick of the wind

There is a song in my head.

To fade into my self
A smile held back only with my teeth.

To turn into warmth
To be wrapped in warmth
To swim in the warmth

When the lights finally shut off
And the world crumbles away.
Like the moment before complete bliss overtakes my body
And I can’t help but cry out
In sheer joy.

This is death, and birth, and sleep
And I curl more into my mattress
As my body shivers and goose bumps cover my arms.

The Groom

My neck turns
and in the corner of my eye his image flickers
like a gold coin
found in a bushel of reeds.
Do I pick it up?
Place it in my pocket for some bread?
Or perhaps a better use might be
for luck.
But alas, as I reach down
my fingers scrape the surface
and the gold turns to tarnish.

I will keep it anyway
for luck
for all gold fades
and it must have been luck to see it in its glory.

Perhaps

Perhaps
the world can tilt
and I can converse in sensible tones
without the anxiety
as sweat pours down my legs
and the carpet trips my steps.
See how I impress?
The bangles clang on the slight arms
their eyes bloom as lotus
as mine wilt in the sun.
My mouth has begun to spew serpents, instead of diamonds
when the prince approaches the well.
But perhaps.
I can grow into my clam shell,
my Venus body will become inoffensive,
but their earings catch the sun
just as it hits the horizon
their bright colors burst open like flames.
Perhaps,
but not today.

The 1000 Year Old Temple

When standing among rocks older than dirt
with carvings of gods you don't know
the sun beats on your back
and you wake up
anew, young
without the curse of time
until you spy the crumbling wall
and the modern trash can
and the world is just as it was
old, used and asleep

1.08

Ping

He moved the fork between his
two fingers
before dropping it
to the plate
only to realize that
she had gone
and the
fork
was all he
had.

A Late Night Visitor

My leg itched.
Domino dust was falling onto my skin.
It burned underneath the blanket.

Only with much effort did my sleep heavy eyes open.
I could hear the rain outside,
tapping my window, wanting to come in.
I was not alone.

I blinked.
I was in the shower, washing away the dust.
The burning stopped, but I wanted to stay longer, under the water.
I sat down, opened the shower door.

My fingers were beginning to prune.
The wrinkled landscape turned white with chill.
The constant churn of the water through the showerhead
drummed on the porcelain tub.

I saw the finger first.
The knuckle, large and blue, caught my eye.
A ring seemed to rest so precariously on the knuckle edge.
I wanted to push it back up to the palm of the hand,
as I often did to my own ring, when it had shifted with movement.
But there was no palm, just a gathering of fingers, curled.

A shape beamed from the dense steam,
hip bone, hem, elbow, a few toes.
Wisping in and out of clarity.
the beam of light and blue solidified part way.

This half person, headless, stood inches from my own dangling arm
Neither she nor I created a reflection in the mirror,
The fog, so thick, covered the walls.

That ring, it called like a beacon in violent waves.
A diamond wrapped in tiny circles, around and around
Silver and black.
I wished with all my being for my long ago wedding ring,
Buried somewhere deep, to find its way home this moment.
If I had a knife, I would have cut my finger off,
It screamed for companionship.

Her dress moved.
The fingers uncurled.
I could not longer lay still surrounded by water
but the leaden water pressed against my chest
like a train running over the tracks of my ribs.
My arm still dangled from the edge, limp.
My heart sang, a deep bellowing song of sorrow.
The ring, I must have it.
It would fit so perfectly on my cold wet skin
Its smooth silver wrapping my tender, soft skin.

The curled hand was soon upon me.
A loving hand to my cheek.
Such a comfort.
On my check, then through.
The ring, it was in my mouth.
I spit it out onto my fleshy belly.
Its shine, a dull rust.

There was no need for a towel when I stepped out of the shower.
I was just going to go back to bed,
and with the heat, a little air on my back felt good.
I was naked, but a small silver sliver around my finger.
I laid on the bed
Letting the night air smother me.

My toe began to wiggle
on its own.

She had followed me, wanting me to stay awake.

A Message in a Bottle

The bottle opened.
inside, a small sea shell
white and worn, with small grooves from the sea.
my thumb moved along the edge
carving its name onto my print.

I threw it back in the ocean
with a swift flick of the wrist.
as tempting as it was to watch the speck of white
get smaller and smaller and smaller
as it swam across the tip of the ocean,
I did not.

I turned my head and faced the wind
letting it lift my skirt above my knees.

... August 2005

Unexpected

Finding a person in your pocket
well, that's unexpected.
I go to a friend's party,
drive a stranger home,
and there it is
a person falling into my pocket.
I study him, like I study a penny,
to see if he should remain
tucked away next to my hip bone.
I leave him there
forgetting I was ever without.
I wear the same pants everyday
just so I don't have to empty my pockets.

...July 2003

My Kinda Man

I travel down your 10 freeway
rolling the window down,
tracing the telephone wires.
Coasting along your deserted streets
your air spills through my hair
and your fingers spread across my back like wings.

My fingers carress your battle scars,
riot remnants.
You've seen the worst in people,
yet your starlit scars continue
stretching your arms as far as you can.

Your poker face won't work with me,
seeing the beauty of you.
Your landscapes is glowing
under a California sun.
Cruising along your arteries
I wish to hear your heart beat, my L.A.

...March 2003

Autumn

That empty shell sitting on the table;
that exoskeleton shell of a bug
left on the table counter, waiting
for the wind to pick it up and throw it god knows where,
is me,
brown, brittle and crisp
like a fallen leaf on the ground
snapped underneath my feet as I cross the street.
One false move, or a snap of a butterfly's wing,
and I, the shell, am crused to dust
brushed off the formica with a sponge.

That beetle making its exit
across the kitchen floor
into the crack in the wall leading to freedom
filled with greener grass and white picket fences,
is you.

And I let you do it too.

That's a turn we never saw coming, the bettle and this skin;
the wanting to be a shell of a thing
hallow and delicate
beggin to tbe crushed.
But the trees all shed their leaves in the fall
and the leaf welcomes death
like an accepting mother letting her child into the world.
We rake them into piles
ignoring the grave suicide of nature.

That row of trees there,
growing side by side,
each shedding its summer weight for thinness of winter,
shaking every bit of excess,
is us.
Bare boned, barely breathing,
taking in slow breaths,
conserving energy through the cold
without mittens and scarves wrapped around our trunks
courageously baring the brunt of the world
naked.

...January 2003

Night in my Car

The large white moon hangs low
in the navy blue thrities movie,
while Saturn bursts a crater,
ash and fire spit from its rings.
I fall back into his arms.

Driving in my car
I am in the passenger seat
and twice in the back
watching myself drive the stick shift
while he turns the wheel.

I find a book with twisted letters
while natural disasters outside cause death.
The letters fall off the page onto the carpet,
sentences, paragraphs, chapters all causalities.

the world turns to sand
while the stars become beach balls
floating over my head.
He picks up the book and tries to read
but I change my mind
and would rather drive myself and myself and myself around.

...April 2002

Reading "The Best Cigarette"

I'm reading this poem about cigarettes
and it makes me want one
even though the few that I have had
have left me
unimpressed
but this author's smooth words
envelope me in a thin smoke,
making me want to hold something
between my fingers
and gently kiss the tips
of thin white lighted rolls.
His words speak through
the smoke rings
and mix together
when they meet at the ceiling.
And when that cigarette
becomes a train
leaving trails of smoke behind
as the poet works at his typewritter
I imagine myself a passenger
waving my hands
to an abandoned lover
waving back at me
with tears in his eyes
while I smile through mine.

...August 2003

Sound of Things

Your words, palpable,
press on me
like a wet wash cloth
sinking into the shape of my face.

Conversation, a land mine,
just like they say
blows up, words
become ten times their normal size.

I am lost
wandering in my own thoughts.
I listen to the sound of you,
like warm milk,
dripping down my throat,
until I see daylight.

...June 2003