Retail Therapy

March 21, 2012

Maybe you’re like the coat I
tried on last Tuesday;
so alluring from afar
I couldn’t resist
stopping, despite my hurry,
to have a closer look.
everything screamed,
you want me…
the shape nerdy sexy cool,
the texture irresistible to the touch,
the color a perfect complement
to my skin tone
and miraculously,
suitable for every occasion.
an absolutely, yes! with cigarette shaped jeans and
turned down chucks
an oh my, wow! with a glitter-strewn
dress and chunked-up pumps.

Excitedly, I abducted the coat from the
hanger, dropping my bag to the
ground, no time for a fitting room,
too eager to wrap its fullness around my body.
sliding my arms into the length of its cocoon,
the lamb’s hair thread coddled and seduced
me.  I can stay here awhile, I sighed.
I pulled it tighter, closer to my skin, running
my fingers up and down its length, slowly
absorbing its weight on my frame.
and despite wanting it so badly,
it didn’t work.
the cut was off, the length awkward,
the workmanship sloppy.
as they say, a monet.
dazzling from afar, but messy
details under the microscope.
ultimately all wrong because
up close against my being,
the coat left me feeling ugly,
momentarily disappointed
by the drawing of truth.
I returned the coat to the rack,
listening to the sage voice
whispering softly in my ear…
why waste the money when you know
something beautiful
is just one shop window away.


Last Night

March 20, 2012

After a long absence,
you appeared in my dream;
crouched beside a bucket;
pink rubber gloves elbow-high;
hands thrust into sudsy water;
wringing the excess from a green
scrubby sponge used for scouring
surfaces in need of expurgation.

I, too, had my own bucket,
but the difference…
I was obligated to clean;
bound to the work at hand
and standing tall, body pulsing
with repetitive tasks.
but you,
you were flying under the radar,
crouched low, as if in supplication,
making an offering;
your demulcent support,
palpably steadfast;
your body,
my structural beam.

Every now and then you turned
and tilted your head to the left
holding me with your gaze,
chocolate eyes
as round as ever
and deep as
the wishing wells of my youth,
as if to say,
(silently proclaiming)
I’m still here.

les deux serveuses

March 13, 2012

You can’t shrug off the heavy coat of
negative energy that wraps around
your body in their presence, I gambol.
I don’t want to wear the coat, she roisters,
it makes me ugly.
I work really hard to keep that coat off, I jape

i whisked. and hummed. and smiled.

Whistled. Not whisked, I correct.
I like whisked, she retorts.

i whisked all the way around Paris.
fumbling, bumping and rolling along
the rolly-polly edges of the toe-clogged avenues
like an empty cannette, regarding but disregarded.
hungry to be ripped around its circumference once more;

Hahahahaha, the volleying match halts:
Melanie, cannettes don’t want to get laid.
You are so wrong, I argue.
They just want to get re-used, she
Re-filled, me
I suppose actually, filled-up, she
(ah, there we go)

where all is well returns to the lips of the world.
rolling along again with a little cannette smile on its face,
polishing the rolly-polly avenue edges, toe-clogged no more
but carrying more debts than before.

Oops. Dents, not debts.

well used and well worn.
happy for not being torn.
without being worn-out.
and only a couple of doubts
that could be cast aside into the pile of pay-no-mind
with all the other desires that are pined

To pine? Yes, it works.

away on the breast of the blue jay in flight;
into the winds and out of sight.
into the land of aluminum dreams
where no threads pull at the seems…
…the seems-like haze of the wistful maze
grinding me into the arms of my beloved can-opener.

Well, you got me on that one. Ha ha.
I guess we can put a fork in it.
Or just put a stamp on it.
Or publish it.
And put it in the recycling…

Will he be mine?

March 11, 2012

He’s never coming back,
I toss to my co-worker.
The lunch shift is winding down;
the tables increasingly empty;
the din of excited chatter diminishing
to a quiet hush hanging over our exhausted
bodies, providing a reprieve, the perfect
moment to play the roles of confessor
and confessee.
A smooth wooden counter, polished by years
of leaning in and leaning over, holds my weight,
standing in as an instantaneous confessional.
She and I huddle close to begin our afternoon ablutions.
What is the state of affairs, she lobs.
He’s never coming back, I lament, loosely and loquaciously.
Of course he is, a kind and gnostic voice extols, raining
upon me like God interjecting, spontaneously appearing
in our make-shift shriving pew.
Turning my head, crystalline eyes of pure blue softly seize
my gaze. I recognize the customer from table three,
conservatively dressed, bespectacled and balding.
Exuding selenite patience and a deep well of knowing, he smiles
and dives deeper into the pool of immediate communion swelling
between us and repeats,
Of course he is.
A moment of silence follows; we stare and dive deeper.
And if he doesn’t
C’est la vie, I offer.
My Swedish sage winks,
A pause.
He’s coming back, slips forward from his lips;
one last reassurance as his fingertips gently graze mine;
money and receipts pass between us, dislodging
the plug, emptying the pool in a fervent swirl.
The next day, as my Prophet promised,
he returns,
creating another lament…

What I Like

March 8, 2012

you asked.
and i wanted to tell you,
but shyness stole my words.
a wall of self-possession subtly deflected
the question and castrated my pluck.
i wrestled, pushed, tugged at its gates,
eager to let you in, but they barely budged.
the crack invisible to your eyes;
my whisper inaudible to your ears.

what do you like?
what do I like?
What do i like?
what Do i like?
what do i Like?

the hand easily confesses
the words that the mouth
holds back. red ink mimics
the blood that pumps and turns
hot at your touch….

for starters,
hard deep kisses,
long, deep kisses,
gentle, whisper-like kisses,
lips gently touching, exploring
my lips, my face, my skin…
for starters.
six more pages spell it out
floating, curving along the
the slippery notes of the piper.

What I Like Pt. 2

March 8, 2012

What I Like...

Booty Call

March 1, 2012

At dawn,
a balmy inferno erupts through
the steadfast orange curtains
obscuring the window that overlooks
the balcony eight stories above
the snow-blanketed street.
The same balcony we stood upon
the night before.

You smoke a cigarette and I lean over
the railing and feel a surge
of adrenaline as I stare upon
the abandoned asphalt rushing in
and narrowing its focus to a fine point
just in front of your building, where
many drinks earlier, you stood
and greeted me hello, kissing each
of my cheeks and me kissing yours.

I’m afraid of heights, I whisper.
Really, you ask.
No, I reply and then turn to head in,
leaving you to finish your cigarette which
you then toss aside in favor of things
that will happen on the other side of the window.

Minutes later and cumbersome clothes discarded,
we discuss the color of the four walls surrounding
us and you mention that the morning will deliver
a spectacular show as the first light of day imbues
the densely dyed curtains hanging expectantly
behind our heads.

Hours and a hundred kisses later,
the sun awakens and takes its place
in the germinal sky, engulfing the room
in a brilliant-fog-layer, luring you
to me once again, burnishing our bodies
in a fulgent blaze.
Our skin an unanticipated canvas;
our bodies eager containers, engulfing
the coral lambency between them.

Taking in the spectacle, I cannot look away,
entranced by the splendor of synchronicity
made hypnotic by the simplicity of
eight floors
the silent street
lulled to sleep
by the blanket
of last night’s
nervy offerings.

no vision.
No items of concrete
flow easily, pour
from my heart, erupt
from my depths.
No dams have burst
open to allow the guts
of my determination to spill
forward, expressed here
and there by means
that sometimes feel trite,
like this poem or that photo
of the streetlight casting
an ambient shadow of the railing
on the tersely blank wall
in her apartment at 2am.

The head tries to justify,
manipulate, deviate from
the moment as the urge
to write, to feverishly scribble
these words, right now, overtakes
me and infuses my arm with
a maddening energy that must
be released, yet the ball of uncertainty
in the center of my belly,
the rubber band tightness in my throat,
the electronic pulsing in my head
and the micro-cassette critic’s voice rob
me of the flow that i peripherally glimpse,
having existed once upon a time when
I ran wild and free through fields
of honeysuckle and oak trees
with no thoughts other than the
pure pleasure of my bare feet
hitting the ground and the glistening
drops of dew on my tongue.

Holding this exuberant apparition
tightly against my being, sitting
with the reawakening of truth,
I ponder,
how is it even possible
to continue this way, jaws
clenching in my unfed desire
to feast-
when in each moment
I am fed by the nectar
of me
to you. and you. and you.
and me.
If only i would pause
long enough to suck
and swallow.

I sit frozen on the tweed covered sofa
pressed against the wood paneled wall
of the oxygen deprived waiting room.
My numb and disconnected body sharply
positioned upright as my fingers slowly
graze the textured surface below,
absently, rhythmically stroking.
Right hand,
Left hand,
Right hand,
Left hand,
Right hand,
Left hand.
I feel nothing except
for the sand paper coarseness
of the fabric teething at the tender
skin of my fingertips.
rumbles through my head like
a train moving slowly but
sedulously down the tracks.

The receptionist, shifting, lifting
her sour weight, shoves open
the frosted window she labors behind.
“Fifty-four. You’re up,” she bellows.
My fingers continue to trace their familiar pattern.
My body continues to sit motionless.
I don’t know how to move.
“Fifty-four!”  she roars, the words
striking me like a slap across
the face yet fear restrains
me, and the pattern on the wallpaper
mesmerizes, clamping onto my gaze;
its gold leaves fluttering and mutating
under the fluorescent lights. Squinting
my eyes, I see a tornado building
momentum; spinning, tormenting when
“Fifty-four!”  again pounds into my ears,
and suddenly my hand is ripped from its rhythmic duties;
my body yanked through the room.
“You’ve waited long enough.” the receptionist sneers.
Her impatience morphs into brute action
and I am thrown through the door adjacent
to the waiting room window. Sunlight
sears my skin and blinds my eyes.
I struggle to gain my footing
as I am clobbered by the words
“Don’t fuck up this time”.

Skipped a Step

January 28, 2012

According to Elizabeth Kübler-Ross,
there exist five stages of grief:
technically, these steps apply
to grieving the death, the loss
of a loved one; but i believe
all loss is like a death, of sorts.
and loss comes in all shapes,
colors, sizes, experiences…
for example:

a dear friend moves away;
your favorite pair of boots take their final step;
the cafe where you buy your morning
coffee shutters and disappears;
your lease ends, forcing you to change
cornerstones of your life shifting,
all these signify loss and require
the dutiful adherence to the aforementioned
steps; that is, if one is to move into the process
of healing and, ultimately, freedom.

pondering the process, i realize in my desire
to be conscious, to say the right things, to
use every situation as a catalyst for growth,
i skipped a step.
time to backtrack; hop on that down escalator
to a few floors below and run, bare naked on
that abandoned level, making up for missed
imagining that day, checking my list,
these are the things i should have said…

Fuck you.
How dare you?
You suck.
Do my feelings even matter?
Don’t lie to me, don’t sit in front of me
and tell me how important, how
momentous i am and then walk
out of my life.
nothing you say is believable, afterall,
actions speak louder than words,
and your actions tell me i am
meaningless, not momentous.
sometimes i hate you, sometimes
i wish we had never met. sometimes
i wish i could annihilate all traces
of you from my life.
in case you missed it
the first time, fuck you.

I’m sorry; did i say too much;
did my expressions of self-healing
go too far? did i ruffle your feathers?
if so, not to worry. i’ve also been told
that a true friend can hold the weight
of another’s pain and confusion; that
one should never hide behind politesse.
because, yes, sometimes even beautiful
and pure people get Angry. it’s healthy.
Elizabeth says so.

and now i can move on to acceptance.

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