Ripple

Tonight, I adore you
my Poseidon.
Wash into me.

Tonight,
I implore you,
make me your sensation.

I consume you, my love.
I taste the tender nuptials
on my lip
longing for flesh.

Rain encapsulates me
calling me to your shore.
Waves crash into me
with ecstacy.

The triumph,
the thunder,
the current sucked under--
You
my true strife.

Ripple through my caress.
Taste
my salty
sea--
drown me
into the night.

We will dance
our methodic melody.

The depths surging
the shell of my compass,
the pull, always taking me
to my north.

I call for you,
for your solution
lapping at my skirt.

Lord of fantasy,
King of my delight,
to labor for me
would be futile.
For I am
intrinsically
yours.

The lonely

I am not good at friends, at people. I am only good at this...pen and paper.

Who knows me, but you?  My plethora of books, generally leather bound and chicken scratched like all the others. In each one you will find the same angst, the same pain, and the same loneliness. 

It seems to be me, the lonely. Many times I love it, welcome it. It is where I can be exactly me. It is when the lonely is no longer lavender to my being, but salty leather and rusted chains that I must reach out. 

New Coffee Spot

I sit now, in a new place. The music is weird to me and the people order strange coffee I have never seen before. 

The coffee is beautiful, more sophisticated. A steamed milk heart swirls the top of my maciato, which here is a different drink than my old place. The cup is so small that my enormous hand swallows it. My dainty pinky looks so out of place when it lifts as I drink. 

I am handed a second glass, sparkling water, which is to cleanse my pallet following my maciato. It is refreshing. 

The baristas are not emo kids or random band mates working between gigs.

This place is marked by its passion...you taste it. 

Oklahoma

I must turn the station
as a mother weeps
for her child.

The lost souls swept
unremittingly
in the blast.

My own woe bleats,
as Miranda’s sublime cry
bray’s out to the crowd.

“Mid-February,” and “only December”
slice into my quivering
disposition—
Miranda and Blake “remember.”

They remember Richie
just as I remember Brandon;
two brothers lost before their time.

Blake is only able to vocalize
one verse, with eyes shut:
“You went away.”

The victims anguish is conveyed,

(the one left to mourn):

It is not clear in his voice,
his strum of the guitar,
nor his words.

It is his intimacy,
and the internal grief
that proclaim his conviction—
and personify mine.

It is not just about a 24 year old young man,
or a 17 year-old boy.

This night,
it is sung for Oklahoma
and the lost children
of the tornado
that took Moore.

Miranda betrays the lyrics,
eyes shuttering
as she releases the words:
“when it’s so close to home.”

The “home” she sings for
is not just a geographic state—

It is also the pith of abandonment.

Maybe it is in the melody,
or the Southern twang:
it could be the simplicity in the lyrics,
or the memory that rests in Christmas day—
that make their voices feel like mine.

The truth, at the core—
the damage.

Unlike a passing tornado,
the fractured foundation
remains.

Agino

He swirls his burgundy  glass, 

tears fall back 

like they always do. 

A sunken, foreboding moan 

release from his lip.

The spice of the abrusco, 

trifle his tongue--

palpitating each pore

of his epithelium. 

Brain receptors detonate,

like tannerite 

to his passe palate. 

It is that bittersweet memory

:the toast,

from the same burgundy glass,

with Elsea Corbin

(who died last November).

Every May 12th 

he would uncork a bottle of Agino.

For 57years

they shared the last sip

on their lips.

The notes linger: 

like a peppery bouquet,

held by a young girl in white lace.

The notes linger:

 like the end key to Canon in D.

The notes linger: 

like a samba 

across a robust, crystal  canvas.  

The notes linger:

 like the shadow 

of an empty,  burgundy glass. 

Nicki Manaj and Si Robertson Meet in a Bar

My next assignment is to pair two known people who you would generally not associate the other with and create an encounter. 

Nicki Manaj and Si Robertson Meet in a Bar

“Aren’t you that Mickey Ninja lady rapper?”

“Oh my gawd!

Crazy Eyes Si?

Darling, darling let me finger

your beard.”

Nicki rakes her long talons

through the brush

of the duck mans

facial mass.

“You know back in Nam

a man’d hafta pay a hooker

5 cents to stroke his beard.

Now ladies be payin me.”

“It’s like a fuzzy, matted,

nappy,

straw set weave.”

Nicki starts dancing around Si,

pink and jade beard hair

bouncing on her head.

“I feel like I am six years old

in Tobago.”

Si grabs the ladies hand,

twirling her bouncing body

off of his desert tan

crinoline tutu.

“I used ta live in a

Winnebago—

Daddy made me dig my own crapper.”

“Me too Papa Smurf, but I said Tobago!”

Winnebago, Tobago,

Tai Chi, Sweet Tea,

same difference

don’t ya think?”

Peace and War

Peace and War

She was a girl, 18 years old.

It was an innocent question:

“Where were you for 9/11?”

“I was in second grade,” she replied.

The hair on my arm

penetrated my frail sleeve—

the breath in my lungs dropped

like and IED.

The tear of my sorrow

remained dry.

I was 20 years old the day the Twin Towers

went down.

I watched Flight 11 at 8:46 am

crash into the North Tower

behind Katie Couric.

I drove to Ravenscroft Beauty Collage

where I attended school.

The TV in the commons

at 9:03 am

broadcasted Flight 175 crashing 

into the South Tower.

All of the differences

that once separated people

diminished

as we held hands in prayer.

Camille and her sister Avril sang

the Hymn— “There’ll Be No Dark Valley.”

I stood, hands clasped, head bowed

too petrified

to sob.

I came from peace.

I came from the Clinton administration

and Bush comedy reels on SNL.

This girl, 18 years old, has lived

mostly during war time

not peace.

My friend’s fathers did not die in Iraq

when I was in second grade.

When I was 15, brothers

didn’t fly home in aluminum

transfer cases

with draped flags.

When I was in second grade

my friends step-father had raped her

and her sister.

I held her as her mother

chose a molester, a rapist,

over her own children.

When I was 15

my friend held me

as my brother

flew home from Mississippi

in a 20 gauge steel-box

draped in my mother’s tears.

My hairs prickled on my arm,

and my voice quivered in its desire

to mourn

for this 18 year-old girl—

because all she knows is war—

what I honestly want to cry for,

is me,

because in that moment it occurred 

at 18 

all I knew

was war.