Poetry

All around us Aura Leftovers Silver-Belled Steaming Kettles They Hurt You Today

		they hurt you
			still you hold a 
	simple smile and it sits 
		on you
		she says all this while taking a drag
			(they both carry compulsive cigarettes
				and sigh)
		
	there's something in the stars
		she knows there's something
		in the way the lights twinkle on muddy
			eyes
	that see muddy things, muddy
		water is ruff water
			is ruff right now
 
	swim up stream sweetie,
		swim up with me - we can watch stars 
		until 
	morning dawns on Adams front lawn
			because up on that hill
		there's no such thing as hate
			inside
		once you breathe
                   		"close your eyes, I'm talking to you"
	once you breathe
			you can whisper,
				I love.

All around us
				
the tall rush
	of an upward breeze
 	against the self-assured 
	
			resplendent 
	buildings
who grayed
down at us

That time when we were young
near the metropolitan Museum

wishing real hard
that we were
omnipotent, large,

our bodies filling with energy

like Manhattan was endless 
electrodes of inspiration

flowing through our hearts: 
a whole state park
	Mount Zion
Boulders
of courage.

We stand back nowadays, mapped out,
	pensive...

	approachable, even with our heavy books and substantial minds. 
We tread lightly through this ebb
	as a spider 
	it's home

Sighing heavy for some provocative memory;
	a siren to sing that sweet song of relief.

Aura
				
Flowers - like Venice
illuminate
this fragile situation.

Smoking on Broadway
while the midnight rains

and I listen
lisping
lighting candles.

It's as though there is 
an oceanic breeze

soft, like shaved legs and lace
on a mattress
with cushy springs.

and stucco buildings 
with warm wine

eclipsed by the blueness of the
Mediterranean 

which blows through the linen curtains
 
and releases the sound of small feet pitter-pattering

?

I watch (amused) as my cat walks by
leaving wet paw prints:

a reminder of where I am.

Today
				
A caged, troubled, feeling- 
	with a persistent fear of cliches-  
embodied in that moment 
in my chest 
where one learns to whistle; 
that same place where one learns to cry.  

Laying there,
coiled up, 
bent off bluesy tunes, 
the worm eats the brain searching for answers.  

I chew my lip until it bleeds and look silly, 
	spaced out, 
	staring out 
of the window while we ride.  

All the while I'm learning to ride,
	to toss the dice, 
give it up, be one with the moment
which take you along;
	the journey is only so long.


But you know what? 
Sometimes,
	even when it is sunny,

there, in the corner of my chest, exists a bag of ink.  

Deep blue and fluid.
  
Sometimes when I speak, it drips out, 
causing shades of emotion to mingle with my words.

My words that shimmer awkwardly in front of my self conscience body parts:  

	I brush my hair aside and 
	give my audience a tender smile.

Shame is the same color as deep blue;
which looks like crooked poetry
scribbled in layers of words
crushed between leather-binding
and acid-free, college ruled, bright-white paper.

So, I do things like watch clouds; 
it's enough knowing that peace subscribes itself to things like that,
 
and that peace enjoys spending most of it's time with folks
who watch stars,

or take long bike rides to see, and to smile, 
at the man who bakes bread,
because it's what he does, so simple, that smells so good, 
and isn't that what god is really all about?

Touch down, tag team, children's game.

A silly fear of cliches 
because not one word that you know
will ever begin to describe who I am or 

the pain :
	(bags of ink, dark and wet)

the beauty :
	(golden harmony when you think about it long enough) 

and the simple, mellow truth :
	(when the wind blows on your face as you take the bus into town)
	
that make up who I am.

So, today 
let us chat like it's lemonade
and go sledding like it's Vermont.
We can write like it's poetry
and walk like the morning is a lengthy
relaxed sidewalk.

If you watch me 
with those quiet 
mellow eyes:

my chest will open up, 
my mind will race with humor,
and that ink will fade into silence.

Leftovers
				
I break the binding in order to move in closer.
The faded lettering 
beats me up for breakfast.

I aim my chin toward my left shoulder for protection
and hold my cup a little closer to my breasts.

There is the kind of snow outside 
that traces frosty fingers
against the glass; 
the outline
of so many paisley winter ghosts.

Only here in this chair,
warmed by the thinking sounds of coffee brewing
and casual socks,

I can begin
to understand the motions
one may take towards freedom.

Silver-Belled Steaming Kettles
				
It wont always be like this:
the dull gaze,
the uncertain digestion of dinner,
the fading mind as it races towards the pillow.

It is not easy to wash your socks in cold water
or listen to the cat's pleas, 
as you attempt to squeeze bone-dry food from a stone.

And let me tell you 
how the river of thoughts can cramp the mind
as you wash dishes from the water
of silver-belled steaming kettles,

so that you may eat eggs on a grease-less plate.

Hmmm,
if everything is timing,
then right now is simply
the worst minute on the dial.

Later, I am sure, we will catch our
hands moving with strength, 
like the flash of a silver fish,
as it washes itself under the heat of a tap;

or we will carry ourselves over 
the humbling brown moments of the day
our lithe bodies swaying with endurance
toward another drunken sun-rise.

We do prefer heat first,
labor last.
Or how about a sharp tie and a fancy gown?

For now, 
we chip and peel,
we sigh and moan,
we talk about the cold of that neck biting wind,
then simply go about making the bed.