Monday, May 31

Dancing on a Steamboat

The Newsboy grabbed my hand and asked me to dance,
Love to, I said, I'm married to the drummer just so you know.
Just having fun here,he said, he's phenomenal, he says,
I'm not used to being the center of attention, really
center of the room, only two on the dance floor, attention.
I let my cape-sweater flowing behind me slip off,
I handed it to someone to hold it and I went back out
Red tank dress revealing my shoulder blades,
a bit shy about it and wondering if I look too.

Two rum and cokes, a couple glasses of white wine
And those warm sticks you suck on and puff from
mingling with the crowds, sneaking in cryptic convo
with those select friends a bit more sought after.
My cryptic visits to the bathroom, only to escape
sitting outside talking to the bouncer about
Don Quixote and his third time reading it,
I breathed in the air slowly trying to slow down
my spinning mind, Oh! but it was so clear.
I convinced those who entered to show me their IDs
since I was standing right by the bouncer anyway.
No I said I was just joking and let them pass.

Whispers and touches in small passageways, wishing
to know if everything's alright? It was so far.
Why is it I'm totally ok being the only feminine aura
in a pool of congealed men? I think it's because
I see them as people, as real boys who
"wear their hearts on their sleeves" as my mother says.
When it comes down to it, they are probably
just as shy and nervous as the rest of us.
I'm not intimidated or hurt by the average male's
failure to ask questions about my life or be interested
to have conversation with someone else's wife.
Afterall, that's only human.

Kitty Kats, Klubs, and Kings of the Steamboats.
Play us another song, sing us a Zelda, enamored by you.
Grab my hand and thoughts and ask me to dance them
out of my head and onto the dance floor.
Afterall, I'm only human.

Thursday, May 27

Today I like everything:

I like the people cursing at each other in the waiting room outside my office,
I like that homeless man who always says hi to me each morning
I like the sickening smell of their B.O. three days old

I like Enrique Inglesias singing overhead
I like the prospects of this evening in a bar
I like your morning glory as you so delicately put it

I like the deadline and the stress I feel capable handling
I even like the Greater Good today, rare
I like facebook and all your faces and insecurities
I like my insecurites too.

Sometimes, nothing can make a good day bad.  Even Enrique.

Friday, May 21

 A Friend or Three

Your smile, my sister friend, floated around the room, evaporating and adding to the room's humidity,
it permeated the air and condensed on the slender wine glass half full of rolling rock,
slid down the stem and, your smile, watered my hand resting there.

Your five o'clock shadow (our was it four?), my dearest, massaged the face of the Cat,
a purr then forced itself from his throat like love shot from cupid's arrow;
he licked your chin, and, with a small leap and after noticing the drips on my hand,
frolicked over and licked my sisters smile clean from my hand.

Your hand, my brother friend, strummed gently upon the strings of an out-of-tune acoustic.
Setting it down and scratching the sofa fabric, the Cat sauntered over to catch the sound.
Snatching him in mid-air, your hand placed him on your lap, each finger gently touching the soft
fur, shedding my sisters absorbed smile onto shirt sleeves and dusty corners of the room.

Why sweep the floor when its so full of you?

Tuesday, May 18

Not a poem; just an experience

I had a dream last night.  I was blurry. I'll describe the most significant piece.

I saw this house on the hill of a cobblestone street.  It was sort of old and decrepid, but not too much. Just probably looked that way because it needed a paint job.  The house was tall and a faded red with a huge staircase winding down from somewhere, I could see through the window.  Following the stairs was a line of curtains hanging from the ceiling on a track.  They were unmatching curtains, but they were big heavy dusty carpet-like curtains, like the kind you see in old victorian homes.  They remind me of a fabric out of Jane Eyre.     The next thing you know I am in the house.  I see a large black woman handling the curtains, trying to move them or hang them up in a different pattern. She was high up near the ceiling, on a ladder or something.    I left the main foyer of the house and meandered into a room.  The room was old and dusty, but beautiful.  Things seemed in transition, furniture semi-covered, piles of things in the corners or middles of rooms.  This room had two pianos.  I went over to the first one:  it had keys but looked to function more like an organ.  It had ugly blue and red keys that were a plastic material. .  I remember calling it a harpsicord in my head.....and I played one key and it sounded horn-like.  I didn't appreciate the sound.
The next piano set up right next to it and actually closer to the door where I came in was a extremely long grand piano, the huge heavy type that aren't shiny or polished.  The sort in old practice halls for choirs and orchestras.  This piano had beautiful keys, ivory colored and clear and cold to the touch, slippery and smooth.  The keys played under a medium to hard weight of the fingers onto the key.  Soft touch pianos make playing too easy and less strenuous on your fingers........but harder touch piano keys give much more satisfaction when one is struck. Strains the fingers a bit more, gives you more weight to push around.  Makes each key, each note, distinct.  I like hard key piano's like a like the spanish language: each letter is pronounced; nothing is slurred. 

I don't rememeber what happened next but I know that I suddenly had to run out of the house and away from it becasue someone was trying to find me and I was being chased. I did not feel alone but I did feel like I was supposed to run from something.  I looked back at the house from a block's view away.  Then I got in a car that pulled up and drove off.......

Monday, May 17

A Little Less Than Cumulus

Mr. Gray felt gloomy today.
Sun, shining, took all the credit.
Mr. Gray's clouds were overcast  by the
ingrateful passer-bys
wondering how high the bird is in the sky
and why the grass is sometimes
a yellow green.

No one gave a thought to the work done
slowly over nights and weathers and
air pressures and humidities,
the long slow process of collecting
each dewy puff to form
his bathtub hair substance,
(hair meant to grab their attention,
the hair of a child spiked and glopped up
with sudsy shampoo)

Mr. Gray didn't feel so confidently cloudy today.
He felt sunny, and that really sunned on his parade.

Somnambule 23

I did not dream of this a lot last night
Nor did the birds achirp or frogs trumpet
Not in my wakeless dancing did a fright
Jump out at me and snare me in its net.

I didn't watch the shadowed valleys fall
Onto my walks, nor did I let the cup
Of mine to overflow, I did it all,
'Cept with my enemies at table sup.

And surely Goodness will you follow me
Despite all of the days of my own life?
And dwell with me thou Good and Evil Tree
Deciding to postpone eternal strife?

     I did not dream of this at all last night,
     Not in my sleep, but in my waking light.

Tuesday, May 11

Cave of All Wonders

I spoke my minds truest truths
My words walked on the sofas and took a seat next to you
scratched at the thread hanging off the arm rest and
pulled open the fold-out legs to piecefully listen and
take snapshots with letters and quotations and phrasings.
Your smiles became "driftily dazing in the raindrops dew"
and your darting eyelids and lashes "the glass of gems and geniuses". 
My prose stood up for a minute and left to run to the loo,
but turned instead to view the living room's poem from a
wider horizon, zoomed out and up, even climbing onto the table.
Fermented juice swishing around in each's glass read
"I am the captain of my ship" and the stain that swished out of the glass
onto your faded white t-shirts replied "Oh captain my captain"  and
the shoes staring up from below you both blinked and quietly whispered
only to me "I took the road less traveled by"
I winked, which was of course the corresponding line to finish his thought.

Dazzling dungeon of works and words!  Cave of all wonders and warlords!
Grant me always the poems in each room.