What happens.
What happens, when
the cold morning breath of a foggy night
slips under the covers and over the lips
and bare feet stretch evenly over a woolen rug
to a world that smells of light eucalyptus
and an open balcony door —
What happens.
Exactly 11’o clock!
The streets are dark and quiet,
dispelled childhoods tucked deep into beds
of rubber, bleach, contact tracing —
when I look around me I see
my bare feet are blue & bleeding;
I see small swarms of cheeky mongoose rushing
from trash can to trash can
leaving filmy residue on the carpet street walk
down the lane for a while with me
and see what I see.
Weary eyes opened wide
propped up on toothpick espresso cups
licked clean, licked smart
the woman in the wide-brimmed hat
warm breath, wild thoughts
tells us of visions,
the dessert dunes
camels in hand
Mount Tahat in the dust kicked up
no way!
some shout
get outta here!
Standing with salty toes smelling of fish
on the grandstands of Nazare, cliffs so big
cresting giants double the height—
rising great walls of freezing winter water
jackets on so tight, skins the color of rubber
suctioned, hands so white gripping tows
a mammoth wave rising like the froth of a pub beer
it crests and slams—
I hold up my hand.
The light breeze swifts
a droplet of ocean onto my chin
and the twinkling lights of a Waikiki
late afternoon cruise beneath my epoxy board.
green mint tea seeps around the rim
of the garden plate
ductile : serpentine
I set the cup down
and it clatters.
It’s about how to see
the things how to get
to the vision
the tea cup is significant
and not a step in that direction.
In the sudsy bathtub with my lover
hot & content, one finger
fiddling a weeping joint
we soak in lavender
& hold each other ;
slippery skin to skin.
‘cause
I want to do two things : first
try to show that life finalizes itself
on the threshing floor, engorged with a life-
time of self-thinking thoughts and self-sinking
assertions.
Wisps of sainthood waft about this living room—
give me flamenco, give me Persian rhythms and
sweet gypsy jazz, swing it all out of speakers
perched high on the cabinet counter.
Bits of wild wind shoot through
the second story windows,
running from the belching mountains beyond
the poplar trees in the backyard.
The gusts lift the melodies and snuggle them
into marrow-bones, into wall studs, into wallpaper
maps pasted with thick sticky tack, ivory-camel white.
There I sit, idly running a finger
over the yellow and blue threads of this wingback chair,
beleaguered by idiosyncrasies, “personal
touches” I’ve someday gotta pancake punch— Continue reading “101 bpm”
Beyond the ribbed panes of the kitchen window
swings a gorgeous plum and yellow philodendron;
sweeping lacquered leaves catch the breeze
half in split leaf, half monstera,
a good name for such a beast!
She belongs to our neighbor,
who carefully disregards her day after day,
neutrally striving to feed her natural sunlight
(9-9:30 a.m.) and a sprinkle of cloud water
from the Mountains half-past
whatever the sky might bring today.
The mountain shudders under great weights of gusts and snow,
groaning and creaking
the six English climbers huddle rope-tied
to rocks and tree branches listening for avalanches.
And I sit here,
at this metal patio table,
so arbitrarily square,
in a humid afternoon swatting flies and wondering
what I will have for lunch.
