She is not a poet. This is not a poem.

She leaves poems all over the place

like dirty socks.

Words worn for a minute and rolled off into a wad in the hall,

under the bed,

in an imaginary New York apartment with wood floors,

but this is just Phoenix

and the fucking heat will burn a hole in your soul

like the words you want the world to hear,

but instead just sit on an unread unfollowed unsubscribed blog

without anyone–not even your mother

ever laying eyes on them.

She

sits in her white suburb at the kitchen table scarred by the

careless hands of children, and she stares

at the wall thinking

about how to put these words into some sort of meal

that makes people devour them and sit back with full bellies

savoring the juiciness.

She is just making poems from a box, ordering takeout

phrases that just do not satisfy.

She

used to be part of family dinner and even though it wasn’t New York,

the poems didn’t matter anymore.  She was full.

And now, she is alone in a room full of people

and the words matter to no one else

but fill up the moment, the day, the life

for they are all

she

has

 

 

Advertisements

After the Fire
Let the Motherfucker Burn

It turns out to be a moment
like a police officer showing up at your door

informing you that a part of you has died
all of the breath leaves your body

someone has to shake you to inhale
but you can’t find the air

that is the moment you realize
nothing in your life will ever be the same

the moment you realize it was in fact
too good to be true

when no matter the angle
or the distance

the only thing in focus is him smiling
at her with the secret whisper that was only for you

too late to test the smoke detectors
too late to clear the dead brush

this is not the fire of welcome home
no, this is to oblivion

where your life and the walls that contained it
are blackened smoke and ash melted into a muddy heap

where nothing, not even your own hand
is recognizable

Lost to Avalon

We were born under the stars
in a redwood forest
our words spilling into the night air
from the twisted vines of all the lovers before us.

It was no accident that the redwoods burned to the ground
the same year, the same month as all our promises.

Yesterday, I reached through the ashes,
pulled the magic through more than a decade
to wrap my body in it once more.
When it was over, I saw at last
the magician

packing up his illusions.
I could not unsee.
No more sparkle in the stars, bodies in the moonlight,
lips and breath like wine.
All the real magic was left to the wizards and fairies
of Avalon.

We are too grown now–
too drunk to believe.

After the Butterflies

Long after the butterflies
have flown,
after the artist’s hands stopped painting
thick textured strokes, composing our oneness, our space,
you can stand all winter on the edge
of the canyon
waiting
for the shapes and colors to change.

It is easy to miss in the watching.
When looking closely at the line between darkness and light,
you see there is only blur,
bits of darkness mixing with tiny breaks of light.
They are not themselves.  They are not each other.

We have journeyed many times around the sun,
only to find ourselves now in this alien space
where you look familiar, but have no gravity.
Where I find myself floating away
untethered, bound to become the distance.

This is the place where we no longer feel
the desert floor beneath our feet. Here where we were
once drawn together in your cool shade.
It is now a far away fairytale place, a
time lost to dreams.

Me, waking atop that mountain
exposed and burning in the midday sun.

Heartsong

I fold myself up, and you wrap around
I the seed, you the ground

in the breeze, soft piano
I watch closely the purple aura of your hands

in comes the violin
your solid gaze guiding me in the dance

no one has ever looked at me that way
I recognize you from years of wanting

your face no longer a shadow
your touch no longer a whisper on my neck

music playing a slow sad melody
something acoustic my bones can hold tight

I miss you even from the time before
I knew you. Waiting for your dark eyes

to come settle into an all night conversation
between our bodies and the music; a love without words

even when words are all I know
I am humbled speechless by this vast thing that is us

born silently over a pile of broken rules
through the pounding bass of naysayers

captive breath, as notes like butterflies release a prayer
let this ballad last

never apart
until there is no sound

Coltrane and Rainy Days

Cursor blinking on the page

unfinished labor of money, not love

while lost in a moment of Coltrane

always back to those honeymoon days

where it was cool and rainy outside,

cool and warm inside, barefoot in blankets and books

philosophical political purposeful conversations,

nights filled with red wine, the soft twinkle of

patio lights surrounded by passionate minds and

laughter, the burning of more than just candles

between us.   Another time before children,

before the fast-forward of life and cymbals

banging, before beds were strictly for sleeping,

before bright lights.  Maybe it was only a moment

or something we saw in a movie once.

 

Lost in the lazy piano and hot-blooded

trumpet, I can see those artist hands

of yours against my white arm

resting on the slow breaths of your chest.

Music drawn to a sad close,

I hear it– flashing cursor, pinging email,

stacks of paper.

But this day; this life,

was meant for so much more.

Scientific Method of a Kiss

1 – Ask a question
His lips are moving, but what is he saying?

2 – Form a hypothesis
He is talking about work, but his lips are mouthing love.

3—Conduct an experiment
Smile back. Let go of doubt.  Release inhibition.

4—Analyze results
A second date.  Attraction. Lips and hearts magnetic. Explosion.

5—Make a conclusion
This kiss, resulting in explosion, confirms hypothesis.

We are in love.  Have been since ask a question.

Phoenix Rising

some of us were lost
spent our twenties in the Bermuda Triangle

we forgot who we were
lioness and dove, dragon and fairy

only then could you cage us
imprisoned by your tempting promises

it wasn’t until we banded together to
learn our own hearts and gather our spirits full force

we could see through the fog
clear to the mainland where our flag was flying

we let go of the island of the lost
became deaf to your words of mass destruction

they damaged us like no other warfare
until we accessed the power to heal ourselves

and release all that held us bound, lifeless
rising from the ashes of our mistakes

to become the mighty Phoenix and fly
forever leaving you and your kind behind

Wasting the Good Surprise

Sitting quietly waiting
at the OB-G Y N
when who should appear
but the EX of my worst mistakes
his sweet new wife, their parents
and their peanut’s ultrasound

Trying to avoid his stare
to identify his former conquest,
I didn’t look up from my tabloid
to see who he used to be.
Flashing a coffee stained smile,
he sat down to tell me his life.

He bathed in himself
through five or six patients
until finally “wifey” ran out of
3D pictures and grins for
courteously questioning in-laws
and her mother’s raised brow

She smiled to my rescue
through awkward introductions
and polite recollections of the years
I wasted in her shoes;
although so happy now
for unanswered prayers

Alone at last, still waiting
I realize, my secret is unknown
to everyone but the beast unburied
from the wasteland of my past.
I can no longer sit smiling with the secret
you and I were saving ‘til the bump of the belly.

Twenty-four

Anything can happen.
Like one of those days
when hell freezes over or
pigs sprout pixie wings and soar off
to Neverland.

You asked me out for Sushi–
I said yes to play along,
with a smile that tempted faith
in humanity.
A debate which fortunately,
you lost.

The whole way there my thoughts
turned to grins.
He’s just a kid. Soon there will be
a camera in my face
seeking reaction to the final reveal.

Then we arrived at this place–
an intimate Cherry Blossom
wood, red brick, and candlelight.
And I realize…
This is no kid.
Dark brown eyes boring through me
for real, seeking all of my truths.

And I no longer know anything
real or unreal.
For the world has turned strange, colorful.
All of its rules blown away in this whirlwind
leaving me like a child
in a place full of whimsy and wonder
and absolutely no adult sense of reason
to resist.