Thursday, April 30, 2009

stretched thin as it is
his head heavy on my shoulder
and we sit in the dark.

Comma splicing is seen as a beacon
You know there are greater spotlights in the

Wednesday, April 22, 2009

I got nothing to worry about, she says to herself
In the bathroom, she shimmies to Diana Ross and the Supremes,
raises her hand to the mirror and protests a man sullying the name
of love.
Her man sits in the next room half listening to her murmur to the
acoustics of the bathroom, half reading his day's work.
She's got nothing to worry about, so she calls out,
"Hey babe?"
"I love you!"
She imagines him nodding with a smile.
I love you too.
okay, nothing to worry about.

Sunday, April 19, 2009

I Want to Write a Poem

Everyone knows that they want to write a poem
they feel it in the space between their eyes and hairline
They have lights to guide them in the right place,
towards the sign that says: "Emotions for sale!"
They write like sex shy boys fuck, in the dark against
their will and they finish very fast.
There are usually no takers.
When I thought we couldn't surprise each other,
it's three weeks into the fray and i barely know you.
That's not awful, no, far from it.
I don't need you knowing me just yet either.
We're allowed to love one another with secrecy and
a special kind of deceit.
I'm allowed to come to you wanting your affections
and not tell you why.
You see? Not all is said aloud.

Tonight, I plan to dream

Tonight, I plan to dream about walking though walls and
peering in on a secret meeting of the Masons.
I need to know what's going on there.
I'm going to get caught and there will be
a shoot out, a one sided shoot out
because the Masons still use Crusading Weaponry.
So I somersault through the air with two uzis,
steal back the Cup-o-Christ, and speed away on
jet powered rollerblades. In my dream
I will not be afraid of rollerblades.

I Can't Change

I would never eat black-eyed peas and cornbread if I could help it.
I don't need to get back to any proposed roots, I am not a plant
Have you ever been sick to death of pushed legumes and heritage?

Monday, April 13, 2009

Inside the Bookstore

The tinkling laughter of older women from the table next to us is able to distract me from my own thoughts that puddle around my feet. “He thought I was younger!” Their laughter peels the paint off the walls and sends the lead-laden flecks into the air. “He looked at me and said, “‘Forty?!’” “‘Four-oh?!’”

The next table has two theologians. One older woman, one younger. They are lovers. Interlocked and intertwined with their chairs close and studying, the sounds of their voices are hushed as they sink under the oak of the tables, folding themselves into tiny satin packages.

Bouncy Celtic music cocks my head towards my husband. I look at him and watch his eyes move wordless over the lines of a magazine. His knee bounces to the sound of a fiddle and drum without provocation and without shame. I want to reach out and lay my hand on his thigh, but private times are meant to be private.

The lovers whisper and glance at me as I pass to get water. The younger is kissed on her cheek
The laughing ladies throw napkins in the air to follow the howls of their guffaws.
The walls shake and separate, they lift and my thirst seems less of an issue.
The husband I left is quiet but bursting with unknown energies pulling at the strings of these walls.


And all that’s heard is page flipping. hums. and tap tap.
And then I said,
Where the words are, the actions follow.
I don’t know what I was talking about
It seemed plausible at the time
looking back, it doesn’t seem true.
It seems a little like a put on.

And then you said,
The nights are long and it feels like
I am falling.
I know you’re joking and I laugh
Which seemed plausible at the time.
We ran past the post of taking
you seriously.