weaving threads
not as complicated
as we like to make it
strangling good sense
we never come out on top
but
the pot is always
boiling

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Precious

She cried during Star Wars
and he laughed at her
which made her cry more
turning to lay her cheek
against the cool glass
raindrops on the window
like diamonds

‘Isn’t it precious,’ she thought
lighting a cigarette
and hearing him cough
from across the room
but he’d never tell her to stop
crazy about her grumpy moods
in love with how she exhaled

“Maybe we should get away,” he said
getting up and walking over
kneeling at her feet, and
wrapping his arms about her legs
hearing her reply how she liked
things the way they were, and
feeling her fingers in his hair

 

Sleeping with the television on

Did I sleep?
I remember moments
when colors flew by
kaleidoscope
and merry-go-round
and you–-smiling
that must have been a dream

our fingers
formed a web between us
and you lifted your hand
to
brush hair off my forehead–-
shivering with the notion
of one hundred nights

I trampled you
and you asked for more
assumptions. predictions. affirmations.
and a storm
of peppermint schnapps
the tip of your tongue
lazy–
saying–
come on

and I was drawing you
into every waking hour
the way I saw you
each day
a new destination
to reach that sunset
with you still seeing me–-

Didn’t we die, bit by bit

4 leaf clover

(redux)

I walked around
the disease
adding up the slights
I heard talk of gangrene
waiting for that four-leaf clover
since ten
(holy shit)
that seems foolhardy

each night
something new tossed into the stew
with the carrots and red potatoes
the gravy and its
discontent
covering everything

wasn’t that sweet
following with cheesecake
and café au lait
each measured step
on rose petals
to silk bliss
the decay forgotten
for hours

Photo by Joe Papp, Wikipedia

screaming kettle

come to me you stolen moments
those pseudonymous pleasures
walk the night with me for the day
as lovely as it was, hung very chill
your touches and glances, never
will I forget how they sank to bone
even when I was content
I felt more or less alone, without
the comfortable stroke of fingers
down my naked thigh, their magic
part of me at the cellular level
your lips in my ear calling me ‘petal’
ignoring the screaming kettle
intermittently making me sigh

yesterday, we

touched
wind chimes tangled with the drapes
the phone rang
ignored

an unexpected flood
(the ending did not come fast)
of memory

your blue ribbon
for tenderness after the storm
mine ripped off me–
disqualified
for fear of
fall-
ing

forgive me–the
edge reminded me
of slides and roller coasters

should I say sorry
for
the bite mark

Red heart in black

stockings

I drank my wine
watching you rip the petals from my roses
beckoning me like some hot movie
shaking my head no
laughing

you dropped them in a path
begging me to follow you
barefoot
I poured another
watching Bruce Willis on television
taking off my stockings

I heard you in the doorway
watching quietly
so I did not stop, then
slipping down to the rug
I rolled over
remembering Spring
in the grass

I said
if I am very still
while you drop petals over me
will you tell me again
the story
how you felt that first time
still you remember

the lights went out
our red hearts in darkness
the sound of a match
filled my ears
a candle
casting shadows
as you dropped
to your knees

Her cheeks

rodin-watercolors

I approached her with some delicacy
pastel cheeks straight from Rodin’s canvas
and she approached me as if I were a meal

had I caught that falling star?
every notion of what we were to become
wrapped up in that streak in the sky

one more time around the bend
the train that goes through
remembering her, again

eating up the nights until
there were no more left to spare
our stars let us down back there

“For a little while I felt pretty,”
she said and I touched her cheek
just before she bit my finger


watercolor by Auguste Rodin