The poems:
so you said meet you there
and I went
hoping to see some shred of
what?
it was in that stare I think
were you really looking at me
In That Way
or were you just looking intense
you drama queen
sipping my coffee I wondered if you
hugged everyone
you asked to lunch
the slight chill from your sweaty palm
burned my exposed back
and I tried not to cry
when you kissed me goodnight
Big purple chair
my blue raincoat draped over it
it looks like a bruise
naggingly familiar and suddenly
I think of you
and the trembling beat of your heart.
Is that where he hit you?
I sink into the cushion
it’s like surrendering
but then
I guess I learned that from you.
The last time I presumed to love you
I was gently reminded
that I was too young
for such matters
sent on my way with a push
But still you came to me
in dreams in imagination in
my basement while my parents were away
I remember the shag carpet
white and flesh colored lines entwined in perfect spirals
interrupted only where my hands clutched helplessly
as you made love to me
as if I were made of glass
afterwards I felt ashamed
at the way you avoided me
in the locker room
you said you didn’t feel right
pretended you didn’t notice the rug burns
that matched your own
I remember the day I learned
that you had died
the day I tried to swallow razor blades and
failed
a car crash
-of all things-
to think that a boy like you
could leave a boy like me
in such an
ordinary manner
the commonness of it all was almost insulting.
the last thing I remembered
before I slipped away
was the sensation of your arms wrapped around me
as your tongue defined my shape
and it
felt
good.
Assaulted
by the repetitious sounds of loss
and I suddenly want to scream
for God to tell me why
why I never finish what I start
why my friend had to die
why my love is dying
why she said goodbye
and then God can explain the return policy because
my life was broken when it arrived
and I want a refund.
But bullets don’t go back to their guns
love won’t rekindle in us
a mother’s return can’t erase the scars
Some things can’t be returned
ivory skin
sculpted form
incredibly plain in the way
only beautiful blond girls can be
generic girl
generic boyfriend
who raped her within an inch
of her generic life
while she was drunk and unconscious on his floor
anger, depression, fear
her palette of emotions
to paint her canvas
red with shame
see, here’s a house painted there
and the wooden swing she used to ride
complacently she sat
while he pushed her on that swing
whispering rancid apologies
(they never really mean to do it)
until she burned the house down
and he stopped coming over
to visit.
the ivory box
she crawled inside
fell and shattered
like glass
but oh well
It happens.
So there I was
your rough draft
and the Editor in you
just couldn't resist
make my hair a little
less kinky
and the rest of me for
that matter
polish the manners,
the fingernails too
delete a few inches
of hair
slap on some makeup,
thick as paste
a final copy for the
world to read
you changed my screams
to lower case
so as not to upset the
eyes
see?
I can be beautiful.
The last time he danced
was alone bathed in the moonlight
the moist sweet grass entwined in his toes
embracing him
It was the lawn of his beloved, 1943
and thunder roared an ocean away
much like the crowds
he brought to their
feet
at every performance
Words never came easy to him
and he could never explain why
He never wore shoes when he danced.
But blisters and hardened calluses
spelled out
the price of his passion
and he loved every imperfection for that
It was the graceful curve of his arch
the gentle point of his toe
the delicate recovery from his leaps
(no small feat I tell you)
as he wrote the contents of his soul
across the worn wooden floor of the stage
that mesmerized them so
A year ago I learned that he had died
in one final dizzying
performance in a theater in Europe
He waltzed across ravaged earth
through fiery rain
until he took his last step
and his destiny exploded beneath
his feet.
I watched you run
run, run, running
flowing through my life
in one glorious rush of pleasure
painfully aware of every whispered tick of the clock
Straining to make the HERE and NOW count
Counting, counting
until it's no longer days, but
weeks, and then years, and then lifetimes
that measure the span of our love
You always preferred the fall
but I find it
unappetizing
trees seeming to explode all around me
bloody jaundiced leaves plunging
to crackle beneath my feet
like bones snapping
I have always been partial
to shades of gray
and white
winter’s first snow
outlining delicious dusky mountains
delicately texturing ridges and crevasses
where secrets hide away
I was fluttering
floating
drifting down away
on the currents
that were you
and me and everything between us
till the whitewaters
of inevitability
drowned me
but oh
what a way to die
Oh John, John
where’s your head gone?
It was a woman
who has left you so.
It was with great ecstasy
that she pierced your tongue
In a fury she locked you away
with the metallic tang of needles
still in your mouth
Your eyes betrayed no fear
but the wrath of Herodias was fierce
and I believe
that in the end you cried
John, what did you think
when that woman’s fingers caressed your lips
to desecrate that holy tongue?
I imagine
how your pulse quickened
when that maiden danced her dance
that spelt your doom.
I wonder what your dead eyes saw
that final instance before
you were locked away
Does the darkness frighten you now?
No, I think your martyrdom
gives you courage
to sit
and wait
till your day of blessed salvation
And on that day
I’ll turn and ask you
was it worth it?
Watching them together
touching but not touching
(are they really even together?)
I am reminded of you
(or rather us)
sitting across the room talking
as I study the pattern of your stockings
the intricacy of diamonds within diamonds within the curve of your
calf
weaving endlessly
Your eyes caress the lines of my shape
eternity defined
in gazes that lock just a little too long
as I find myself drowning
willingly surrendering to the rise and fall of your tides
Your hands are naked.
They’re like that all the time they’re not
ashamed so why are you?
A handshake is two hands making love.
This is encouraged in our society.
A promiscuous hand
is the mark of a friendly person.
Celibate hands belong to unfriendly people.
Thumb wrestling is kinky sex
because it is competitive.
When "tag team" rules are applied it becomes
an orgy, because the digits function as individual units.
I love hands they’re beautiful the
cornerstone of civilization.
God bless the opposable thumb.
Someday when we’re in the twilight of our years
I’ll see you again for the first time
and realize that the blurred images
overlapping memories of years passing by
were just a screen covering the picture of you
frozen in time
my youth encapsulated in that one perfect moment
of beginning and ending all waiting to start
after this is over
and you’ve burned a place in the stars to hold you
I’ll realize all the areas you’ve charted in me
your long forgotten country
longing for you to return
Innocence