FOR LEXI (FOR NICK)
a posy of flowers plucked fresh from the country of some heavenly earth cannot restore my love—
a box of sweet city chocolates assorted in dazzling array will not return my peace—
when everything is broken, even the vibrancy and joy of family and friends has nothing in it but death—
the rhythm of life— the swirling sky, the passing of time— alone will grow my love—
the rhythm of life— radiant sunrise and regal twilight— alone will be my peace.
ELECTION DAY
everyone's legs and feet look so beautiful behind the ballot box— long skirts and gladiator sandals— khakis and unstrapped high tops— jeans and chinos— slacks and low heels— knee skirts and black boots— little kids climbing up the poles.
SIPPING TWANG
sipping blackberry vodka— dark magic— listening to thoughts in twang.
1-CALIFORNIA
beautiful lesbian with straight hair balled up in a knot atop her little head.
stray, wispy strands charming not chaotic around her denim collar and stark headphones.
i wonder what she thinks of the news and the misogyny in our culture and the hate in our weather and the plunging dignity and her lips.
NO ONE KNOWS
no one knows what it's like to sit stoned in the back of a taxicab staring at the seagulls and crowd flitting about in the red light of a San Fran intersection. except thousands of people living in the city.
UNICORNS
the people laugh— dark in pastels— under street lights fluorescent white, casting familiar shadows across the dirty living concrete underfoot— black— sprawling— creep of progress the flowing solid.
unicorns wag their horns gratuitously
in the cool night air.
sparkling stars blink weakly in the distance made brighter and more beautiful by the freely passing clouds. gliding
the mind moves the thumb praising the freely passing clouds.
LOVE
my comfort, my chaos, my everything— exploding nameless on the first day of the year with a spicy smile of darkness and wonder and spiral galaxies of feathery hair.
CHARACTERS IN A SMALL THAI RESTAURANT
the white tech bro, just graduated, showing his parents the town, discussing Family Guy and South Park. “i know a lot of things,” he says. the three white teenagers—the one in charge, another in pink Hello Kitty pajama pants, the last hapless. the young woman w her mentally handicapped partner. the young brown girls staring at their phones. the old white balding man sitting by himself watching tv on his mini tablet while slurping up soup. the quiet couple repeating, “genius, genius, genius.”
TEA IN BED
i am sitting in bed, where my love has just handed me a hot cup of tea. i do not know what content of leaf it contains, but that is no matter. i accept all kinds. i accept all kinds of beginnings to sentences, even when purely egotistical. i am sitting in bed. the white blanket soft and plush spills out from my waistband, a growth upon the pastel-colored comforter. feathers fly everywhere. the mug is too hot even to lift, let alone to drink. visions of Bob Dylan in my mind. i am here, sitting in bed, wondering whether the tea of mysterious leaves will relieve the slight aching in my head. too many screens. lights. sounds. too many visions in my head. will this be my home in a month? cities are vicious things. all i want is a humble little home where my love and i can cook delicious things to be eaten to sustain our lives while we while the hours away listening to Emmylou Harris and her kind bang animal skins and thump the rims and pluck horsehair across the horizon of time. i want to edit my run-on sentences before they are even written. and so i do. my friend wants to know if i can write another piece of prose poetry for her zine and i don't know that i can. so i open up a big blank window and attempt it. the lines materialize likes ones across the zero sum screen. half of everything i say is meaningless. the meaningful half comes out without being called. the other half self-corrects as it shows itself the way out.
NOONTIME CONCERT
forward the lightning divine falling of human hands upon the ivory keys issuing forth 18th century tones tingling the scores of human souls patiently seated in wooden pews ears open reverent and available to the source emanating the one true word.
behind the shuffling of slipshod feet wetted by rank pavement flooded w debris and mud flushed from the corridors we call our homes of dead wood and toxic cement assembled into trinkets jingling an endless interruption to the brilliant sonata that never stood a chance.