December 08, 2009

three words

Sometimes when I’m alone
I think about it.
Damn, I think about it even when
I’m surrounded.
Think about what it might be like
to say it. To you.
How maybe the world would stop turning
for a split second,
and maybe you might listen more
attentively than ever before.
Maybe the sheets on my bed would turn
to blue,
and my pillow, a ship,
to sail us to the middle of the ocean.
And there I would say it
again,
and again,
and again,
until you saw my words float on top
the rippled surroundings.
And maybe you would say it
too.

October 10, 2009

no you?

no you?
no star-lit summer skies.
no you?
no crunchy, caramel leaves.
no blank pages
in want for words,
not a single silver nickel
shining brightly on the sidewalk.
this world with no
you
is no world of great worth,
of course,
days will still come,
nights will still fall,
babies will cry
and mothers will coo them to sleep.
but with no you,
the days will be dimmer,
the nights will be longer,
and i will sleep lighter
in hopes of hearing steps on my walkway

have i loved you

Scarcely,
through dark-paned glass,
have I wanted you.
Rarely,
though I’ve wanted,
have I held you.
Barely,
Hardly,
Deeply,
have I loved you.

October 06, 2009

Nice

You came to me between the hours
and the alcohol
that drenched us.
Instantly hoping for your hands
I waited.
Sprinkled silver through my fingers
the first time like magic,
ravaged.
Unable to reason through
a fog of need,
wanting touch
after touch,
after touch.
Late nights made
late mornings,
and afternoon sheets ripped
off bodies in hot desire.
Bold-faced proclamations
obviously not your style,
and I fell.
Fell hard for dry wit
and unshaven cheeks,
and I think I like you.
I think this feels nice.

September 25, 2009

If I were a lesbian

If I were a lesbian,
If I were a LESBIAN,
I would date Salma Hayak,
(if she’d have me),
because that woman has got it goin’ on,
Or maybe a Janis Joplin,
and she could sing me a melancholy song,
and we would roll a joint together, and wear colorful scarves,
speak freely and get tattoos of magic mushrooms,
If I were a lesbian,
I would date all kinds of women,
but I think I’d prefer a creative type,
like Dickinson or Angelou,
we would write sonnets and create rhyme schemes
unheard ‘til our love bloomed,
Maybe I would go for brains and genius,
Madame Curie or Pearl S. Buck,
with a hiked up skirt and a whole lotta luck,
I could convince the likes of Catherine Zeta,
or Jessica Alba to get with this,
I’d have them drooling over my quick wit
and soft, pink lips.
If I were a lesbian I wouldn’t want that Pitt fellow
and I wouldn’t need Clooney, helloooo,
I would be so pleasantly pleased with my sexuality,
I would probably be approximately.....8 times more promiscuous,
because sex would be safer and significantly less conspicuous,
because really? Where can you NOT have lesbian sex?
All you need is a blanket to camouflage those flexible fingers!
And honestly, I would never not linger in lingerie stores,
because I swear those signs are basically soft porn,
And, out? I would be soooo out.
I would be the most out.
Not because I’m stronger,
But because I’ve seen what being “in” does
to a woman,
and “in” is enforced by intelligent, intellectual,
integrated individuals,
and it is insane that anyone should feel afraid
to be who they are in this day and age,
And this is for all the hot shot,
not shit,
small dick,
threesome wishin’,
insecure mother fuckers
who say,
-yeah, I’m cool with some chicks gettin’ down,
but two men, that’s just plain wrong-
This is for every spunky sorority sister
who makes out with her best friend at frat parties,
and come Monday says,
-oh ya know, I’m not bi or anything,
it must have been the bacardi-
baby, if all you want is the attention,
then makeout to your heart’s content,
but if you wake up next to your boyfriend come morning
and wish you had a smooth-skinned, soft-lipped woman
instead, then girl, stop foolin’ yourself,
I don’t blame you,
I blame us, the multitude,
for making the closet so comfortable.
So if I were a lesbian,
I would tell young girls to follow their hearts,
and shut their bibles,
to love courageously,
live unashamedly,
to hold their girlfriend’s hand,
to kiss her in the stands at a football game,
yeah, if I were a lesbian,
I guess I’d do things just about the same,
with the one minor difference.

September 12, 2009

I'll be

If you’ll let me,
I will be yours.

I’ll be your yes
and your no,
your fast and your slow,
the beat in your breast,
the tattoo on your chest.

I’ll be the the pink
on your cheek,
and the dream in your sleep,
I’ll fill all of your spaces
with lovely temptations,
and color your eyes
with star-purple skies.

And the warmth of your coffee?
That will be me.
And the flowers in spring?
Those too I’ll bring,
and the wet on your neck,
and the sun in your step,
I’ll be those too,
I’ll be them all
for you.

September 09, 2009

Suspense

I want to be warm with you.
Wrapped up,
skin on skin.
Let your heat make my heat,
no sleep,
absolutely
no sleep.
Sugar sweet softness
your hair through my fingers,
linger there, my dear,
yes
there.
Brush across my neck,
I can
barely
stand
the suspense.

September 02, 2009

if i've loved you a day

if i have loved you a day,
i have loved you a thousand days

if i have known your smile,
i have known every
sweet yellow ray
that ever has shone

if i have lived in your words,
and been spoken so gently,
no new sounds will ever suffice

if i have seen a star, or a sun,
or a moon beaming brightly,
so i have witnessed your keen reflection
and admired your light-filled presence

if i have loved you a day,
if i have loved you
a single second,
then full is my cup
and envious are the worlds
which exist without you.

no you in my morning

grey are my mornings
with no you to wake by my side,
dew has refused to settle on
green leaves outside my window,
pity takes refuge in my dresser drawers
next to silk lingerie
and woolen winter socks

with you went the sparkle on my ceiling
and the shocks on my doorknob,
no sugar can sweeten the black coffee
brewing in my dreary kitchen,
from my shower’s head flow rays of
luke-warm fluid,
no heat to waken me
with no you in my morning

house at home

The men they all tell me,
there’s something I’ve got,
something that makes them
forget what they’ve not,
what not to say,
who not to play,
where not to go,
whose house is home

They all think they’re happy,
green shutters and puppies,
filling SUV gas tanks
like prize-winning yuppies,
but then they meet me,
and rethink what they’ve thought,
think why,
think how,
think no,
no way this house is home

They want me to teach them,
I say it’s too late,
they’ve run straight head into
that thing we call fate,
fated ring,
fated breast,
fated poem,
fated place
you call home

She is every woman

She is every woman.
She slaps beauty in the face.
She is why men hunger for female skin,
She is why lovers hold each other
at night
and why they love each other
in the morning.
She is further than the east
and Her norths and souths stretch miles
beyond border lines,
Her voice slows frenzied cities,
Her hands cradle every baby sweetly
and brush hair out of frightened eyes,
She
is my Mother,
and my Sister,
and my Grandmother,
and all Her feminine grace
is outlined with scarred knees
and weathered crow’s feet,
because She has never taken
the trodden path,
never just
existed.
She keeps secrets
because She promised,
and Her promise is purposeful,
like Her,
and like every woman who breathed
before Her.

Come close

Why so far away, darling?
Come close,
stay closer.
Your skin belongs on mine,
our legs tangled in purple sheets.
Breathe.
Do not whisper,
Please.
Do not whisper,
I want to hear you,
I want to feel every brush
of your finger’s tips,
every moist drop from your lips.
Come to me,
I will steal you
from this place.

August 30, 2009

Her

She is the kind of girl men fall in love with.
She is the kind of girl who makes
women question their loyalties.
She is the girl with the softest hair
and the shapeliest thighs,
her smile begs attention,
and her eyes, god,
her eyes tell you all
you love and hate
and wish you could change about yourself.
And when she walks?
Well, she certainly does not walk.
She glides
like liquid-sexuality,
and her head does not
sit atop her neck as most do,
but floats, instead, above her shoulders,
as if a love song sways permanently
on her lips.
And her hips?
Her hips bend in perfection
and shame the most luxurious sensuality.
Yes, her beauty flows in waves,
and her words are deliberate,
and she listens,
and you are the most important
person
in the entire world.

August 26, 2009

If you love me

If you love me like a mountain,
which mountain?
If you love me like the ocean,
is it the warm Pacific or the cool Atlantic?
If you love me wide as this galaxy
and tall as Babel’s tower,
if you love me deep as a canyon
and heavy as rainforest showers,
Then please,
love me only as real as the morning.
And if you love me
(truly)
love me like a country road,
or a reddish rose,
like a wooden barn
or warm, woolen scarves,
Love me like slow jazz,
like afternoon naps,
like wind-blown hair
and white-washed rocking chairs.
And if you love me
(truly)
love me simply,
without selfish similes
and lofty metaphors,
just
love me.

August 19, 2009

promise

I want to feel your skin so badly.
I want it like green grass,
like fresh blueberries,
like mother’s crock-pot dinner.

I want your lips on my lips,
and my hips moving
to a radio skipping
while never noticing
passing sirens.

And though they say
sparks will wane inevitably,
I will always carry flint,
and I will make flames,
and I will write love poems,
and I most certainly will not
forget
how it feels to be
in love.

August 12, 2009

I left you a letter

I left you a letter.
I hope you'll find it upon waking.
I hope you read it aloud in my voice
with my halted punctuation.
I hope you feel the words
as I meant them,
and digest them slowly
gradually
deliberately.
I hope you won’t misunderstand
or mistake my metaphors
for coldness,
please read the prepositions as closely
as the nouns,
do not (even for a second)
believe any sensual phrase
was meant to offend or mystify,
but do (in every second)
read my words
knowing every prose I lay
every simile as sweet
does not compare
to your dark eyes in presence,
your humming so deep,
or your hand so softly ‘neath my head.

August 07, 2009

Commando

I always knew I was too......free for you.
You said, I can’t BELIEVE you’re going commando,
and I said, well I may not be wearing panties,
but at least I have command over my finances,
jesus, why worry about underpants when
you can’t even balance a checkbook!

You were so stuffy,
and I licked fluffy frosting from cupcakes,
while you counted calories and shook an accusing finger
at my curvy hips,
and you made lists of things to do while I dreamt of
sea-faring on the south seas,
and sub-saharan safaris, and salads with so many
ingredients that they more or less became stew.
And you were always in such a hurry,
and I’d say, darling, don’t worry,
everything will be just fine,
‘cause you’re all mine,
and I would never let you be late for your movie time,
and that was what you did,
you sweated the small stuff,
and me? Well you always knew that I was
unable to say no,
and that spot behind my ear
pretty much sealed the deal, dear,
but it wasn’t always about sex, no, if it were,
then things probably would have turned out terrific,
no, it was about you not seeing me,
and about me needing to be touched
in a certain way that said -hey, I missed you today-
I didn’t need to hear it ALL the time, just once in a while,
I didn’t care if you could tell when my hair was different,
or I got a new dress,
I wanted you to get off the couch when I came home
from a long weekend away, and sweep me into your arms,
but instead you played Halo on X-Box Live,
and I got grumpy, and you told me to chill out,
so you moved out,
and I moved on,
but now there’s new movement on your front,
because you’re saying it’s all changed now,
that things are different somehow,
but I’m afraid you can’t change the core of something,
of someone,
you are always going to be angry, and pessimistic,
and just generally unhappy,
and I’m always going to be,
well, I’m always gonna see purples where you see greys,
and today, will always be my favorite day,
and if you see an ass showing panty lines,
you can bet money, sir, that ass is not mine.

August 04, 2009

to describe your stars

to describe your stars,
to write of your satellites,
to replay just one fine melody,
there exist not enough letters
for words
and not the notes
for a single chord,
futile to relay your loveliness
through speech,
and your hands,
an aimless attempt
it would be to
speak of your hands

if it be your liking (as it is mine),
I rather would hear you
sing me sweetly under moonshine
and rest those hands
under this love’s curls,
etch your star language on
my heart so never may I
lose its translation

July 28, 2009

I would not

I would not leave your heart to dwell
in any other sacred place,
than the nearest I can feel its beat,
as close to the noises mine too makes.

I would not hold your hand in mine
if it did not fit with perfect sense,
if our fingers clasped so tightly there,
met with the smallest, slightest pretense.

I would not steal your kiss today
only to tell you I must go,
I hold it on my lips and neck,
in the safest place I know.

I would not say I love you
if in the words no solemnity lie,
I say them, my love, in sincerest of breaths,
as can only be spoken of you and I.

July 27, 2009

Woman, completely

When I walk down the street
with my womanly swagger,
the men they all turn as if
something’s the matter,
I don’t bat my eyes,
or swivel my hips,
I don’t flip my hair,
or pucker my lips,
but they can’t resist me,
so womanly,
so completely
a woman.

I stroll into a bar,
not flirty, but casual,
I smile ‘cause I smile,
I laugh ‘cause I’m funny,
I can make you feel easy,
that I’ll promise you, honey

So don’t get all bothered,
when resist you cannot,
it’s no fault of yours,
it’s simply what I’ve got,
because sexy is sexy,
and beauty is all me,
I’m so womanly,
so completely
a woman.

July 18, 2009

Beautiful

Beautiful.
I love that beautiful is all relative,
I love that you could look at a work of art and say “That is really something”, and I could look at that very same piece of artistic prowess and say “Meh”,
I love that your beautiful is not my beautiful,
but that his beautiful may match her beautiful and what they’ll have will be so beautiful that they’ll think back on what they USED to think was beautiful, and say “man, what were we thinking?”

Beautiful is inclusive and exclusive at the same time,
for example, we might say colors are beautiful, but we all know what happens when you mix together every color in your paint set,
yeah, you get that murky, brown, puke-y color that most people would never define as beautiful.
Or how a triple-chocolate cake is beautiful,
but a triple-chocolate cake with some gasoline drippings added for flavor is nooooot so beautiful,

I want an internet where every time you google “beautiful” a different picture parades itself across the screen,
b-e-a-u-t-i-f-u-l, click, and you see a picture of a pig-tailed little girl on a summer night,
sitting on a fencepost, licking an ice cream cone that drips from her wrists to her ankles,
or click,
and it’s a grey-haired couple, hand in hand on a rose-lined path,
and it’s clear that their steps were lighter in earlier years when their knees weren’t arthritic and they’d seen fewer wars,
but it doesn’t matter, because they still have each other.
Sometimes I think we’re losing touch with what beautiful really means,
with Botox, and latex, and lift this, and plump that,
we need to return to the understanding that skin deep is
not deep enough to define the depths of beautiful,
that surgeries, and eye creams, hair implants, and hours at the gym won’t change the fundamental, rudimentary potential for beautiful that lies within each of us,
I wish I could amass all the beautiful in the whole world,
roll it together into one breathtaking ball of awesome and
air-lift it to the top of mount everest,
and there it would sit, where it would emanate equally waves of beautiful throughout every dirt, gravel, or paved street, so every last person got their fair share of beautiful every single day,
so every individual could say,
Wow,
I experienced beautiful in the most beautiful way.

On graduation

Please tell me this won’t last forever,
please tell my these loans are forgiven
and my time was not wasted.

Directionless is a terrible place to be,
perhaps as awful as overly-focused,
only less lucrative.

July 17, 2009

Love poem

This is a love poem.
This is a love poem,
not a “see how beautiful my words can sound” poem,
or a “listen to how profound I am” poem,
This is a love poem.

I’m not a subscriber to snuggly metaphors,
or saying I’m completely yours,
I won’t do it, because that would incriminate my most
intimate ideas of independence,
and sensible is a quality in which I pride myself.

I won’t tell you that your eyes are like sunshine,
and I won’t tell you I would die without you,
I would be just fine,
and in time, I would probably find someone new,
and they may or may not be like you,
so no, I don’t need you,
I don’t need to hear your “I love yous”,
you’re not some muse from which my poeticism is inspired,
I don’t need to hear the
music parading from your piano like a circus of genius,
I don’t need to see you grin at my ideas,
you say my eyes get so big you can’t resist playing along,
or telling me I’m wrong,
so you smile, and I love that smile,
(but I don’t need that smile),
and I love how you throw your arm around my neck,
when we’re walking, like I’m some safety net,
and talking to you late at night on my cell phone,
and your voice grows deeper,
and our words get slower,
and you swore the moon glowed brighter
as the distance between us grew smaller,
and you didn’t care about cars, and clothes,
and conquering fears,
and my dear, I never loved you so much than in that moment,
I would have frozen it,
but I don’t need to have you,
I don’t need to love you,
but I sure as hell want to.

July 14, 2009

Where my America sleeps

Mountains are majestic.
Oceans are overwhelmingly inspiring.
Snow-capped peaks fill me with awe,
and forests of evergreens ring out in exquisite naturalness,
but real elegance, true inspiration
lies in the rolling rows of corn
planted so expertly by farmers
with sun-spotted hands,
the most authentic sustenance comes from midwestern
plows sowing soybeans, and small-town kids tearing off tassels for
five bucks an hour in a smoldering summer heat.
This is home to me.
This place, so thankfully distant from crowded city streets,
this place, so close to the hearts of my brothers and sister,
where we played softball, and built tree houses,
and found first loves on middle school swing sets.
This place where my mother made military-sized pots of
macaroni and cheese and insisted we eat our vegetables
before heading back out to further stain our hand-me-down jeans.
So many memories here,
sometimes they’re so thick and tangible
I am able to relive them as I walk
down main street.
Trips to the corner shop for strawberry jelly beans,
bike races won for dollar slushies,
kissing boys on rusting monkey bars
and etching eternal initials into wet concrete.

This is where my America sleeps,
where my dreams were planted,
where my soul rests its head.

July 05, 2009

What men want

Us women are always trying to figure out what men want from us.
How we can please them,
how can we make them want us.
I’ve done it myself, and so has every woman in this room.
Should I wear the heels or the flats?
Oh definitely the heels, they make my butt tighter AND my legs longer.
Does he like my hair long or short? Brown or blonde? Curly or straight?
Should I talk about politics, or would I come off as too strong-willed and opinionated?
Do I order dessert?
Oh absolutely not,
he’ll think I’m a future whale just waiting to snatch a man so
I can eat chocolate cake to my heart’s content.
Should I tell him that I actually DO need affection and that I really DO like chick flicks (because the characters are just so real and I can empathize with their struggles)?
Do I tell him I’m a feminist?
Oh hell no, he’ll call me a flaming liberal,
tell me to burn my bra and hand me a razor to shave my lady parts.

The thing us women need to realize is that men don’t care if you’re blond or brunette,
if you wear pink or green or polka dots or horizontal stripes,
and those highlights you just paid $90 bucks for? Yeah, those will go completely unnoticed,
because what a real man really wants is a woman with some god-damn self-confidence.
That’s right, a woman who works what she’s got,
makes no excuses for who she is, or how small her waist is (or isn’t),
and can eat a bowl of moose tracks ice cream without even glancing at the nutrition facts
(okay, maybe that’s just what I want).

Most men don’t even realize they want this type of woman.
They fool themselves into thinking they want an insecure,
does-this-make-me-look-fat,
I-depend-on-your-compliments-for-eating-disorder-prevention type of girl,
when all they really want is a woman who has her shit together and isn’t afraid to look real, act real, and be reeealy, really good in bed.
Yeah, I said it, you can quote me, and don’t “psha” me,
because I know this is how it is,
and even if it isn’t,
it would be wonderful if instead of a bunch of
male-pleasing, self-doubting females running around,
we had a whole hoard of beautiful, confident, self-assured women who don’t give a fuck,
(but enjoy fucking), and loved everything about themselves despite what men or
anyone else has to say about it.

Until then

When you kissed me on that bench,
by the lake,
under that tree that dripped with summer romance,
I thought I must be the luckiest girl in the entire world.
You imitated the bullfrogs, and I laughed,
and you loved to make me laugh,
so you blew raspberries on my neck,
and we spoke about pink elephants, and black holes,
and islands we would discover together.
We held each other like lovers who would soon be without
their counterpart,
and swore we would never love like this again.
But we both knew you were leaving.

I asked you to stay.
Asked you how I was supposed to seduce you from
hundreds of miles away,
And you told me there were plenty of benches in
Tennessee for me to kiss you on,
(and you always had something clever like that to say),
and I told you your wit needed updating, so you said,
“your kisses are better than hot coffee under my front porch
in a morning rain.”
I said, that’s pretty good,
kiss me ‘til it starts raining.

And you told me I was your favorite girl,
and I was thinking... “you bet your sweet ass I am”,
but I diplomatically replied with... “and you are my favorite boy”,
and you insisted I call you if insomnia set in,
so I did, and I’d lay on my pillow with my cell phone to my ear,
smiling, while you read me poetry in your deep, playful baritone until I was too sleepy to complain of the places between us,
‘til I slipped into slumber and dreamt of your hands
moving over my body with such deliberate strength,
but so....gently, so....perfectly.

And I like how you speak in full sentences in text messages,
and how your eyes soften when you see me,
like I’m some relief you can rely on,
And I’ll probably never long for another as I have for you,
and I can guarantee that no person has ever been so expertly missed as I have missed you,
and you will live in the deepest parts of me until
bullfrogs stop ribbiting and rain stops falling on roofs made of tin,
until that little, bald section of your beard begins to grow in.

I will love you until then.

Ice Queen

He was like every other early advancer I had come across.
He thought dinner, and a movie (WOW), and some eloquence-lacking conversation would make my clothes fall right off in the passenger seat of his trendy 2009 Jetta.
He was just like every other 9 to 5, pink-tie-wearing,
drunk-off-Michelob-Ultra,
buy-your-girlfriend-a-Coach-bag-so-she’ll-keep-putting-out-kind-of-guy that makes me want to chuck my chilly ass off a train bridge.
He wouldn’t have known a real woman if she walked naked through Nordstrom with ninety grand worth of axe body spray
strapped to her back.
He said I think you are an ice queen, and I said well,
you and your nice jeans,
and your manicured fingernails don’t melt this iceberg.

I like a man who wears cut off t-shirts,
who can build cabinets with callused hands,
who drinks black coffee, shoots straight whiskey, but still reads me poetry by candlelight before we make wild love as dawn peeks its way onto white-washed walls.
I don’t need a man with fortune,
I want a man who appreciates the greens in the stems of wildflowers and
gets lost in the leaves of lofty oak trees.
I don’t need a man to protect me, I want a man with safe arms,
always open and optimistic and strong in principles, not in arrogance.
But you, you are not this man.
You are all the same.
With your spikey hair, and perfectly polished pearly whites,
and not a scar on your body,
because you’ve never done anything dangerous enough,
you’ve never taken the rough road through windy, dark streets.
You’ve never taken a chance,
you won’t even dance by yourself,
with the door closed,
and the lights off.
But I suppose I can’t fault you for this. Because it isn’t your fault.
It’s probably what everyone’s always wanted for you your entire life.
It’s what your dad did, and what your friends do,
and you probably think you’re successful,
and you may call me an ice queen now, but if you only knew the pictures I can paint with my tongue you would rip off that Hollister, American Eagle, Abercrombie bullshit and let me teach you a thing or two about living dangerously.
Because I am not your average Barbie bimbo,
but I can do back bends, and I can limbo,
but HIM though,
YOU though, you’ll never know what it feels like because to you,
I’m just an ice queen,
unwilling to give it up.
So you call me when you’re willing to give IT up.

For Sam

I wish I could write you a poem that would explain everything.
I wish I could write you a poem that you could reference
when you need to know how you should feel
when you don’t make the basketball team,
or when your first girlfriend leaves your heart broken in pieces,
or when you think that no one in the world understands you,
but this is not that poem.

This is not a poem about love, or successes,
This is not a poem about life’s mysteries, botched wisdom,
how to swim, how to read, how to understand women (yeah, right).
This is a poem for you, my little brother.
This is a poem to tell you how much I love you, unconditionally, forever.
I wanted to tell you that when I look at your little hands,
I get a feeling deep in my soul that peace is possible,
that all is right in this unforgiving world.

When you smile that toothy grin,
geez, that little smile,
it’s the brightest thing that’s ever blinded me with happiness.
I would give you everything in the world if I could.
I would gather all the good things that were ever created,
mold them together in a giant mass of awesome,
and keep it in the basement so you could tear off a little piece when you were feeling sad,
or needed a reminder that things generally turn out okay.
I want you to know that things aren’t always going to seem fair,
that you WILL get caught doing stupid shit,
and you WILL wish you hadn’t done it,
but be glad you did,
because you shouldn’t EVER hold regrets within yourself.
Live every day like you do right now.
At 1 year old.
With cheerios on your fingers, juice in your sippy-cup,
and a contentment that every adult wishes they could grasp for
one
single
day.

April 28, 2009

"A" for effort

You. He told me.
You are the nerdiest nymphomaniac I ever encountered.
He told me the words I chose to speak and the topic of conversation was all Greek to him,
that he couldn’t understand why any woman would read poetry,
let alone hold “outdated” ideas of feminism.
He wasn’t the deepest, most seasoned lover I’d had.
Sometimes he wasn’t sure where his hands should caress, or how his tongue should press against my...lips.
Sometimes my hips would ask him if he could move just a little bit to the left,
and sometimes he understood,
and sometimes he didn’t.
Sometimes he’d say, “hey! Slow down up there!”
And I’d say, “hey! You’re so slow down there!”
Most of the time he moved to his own rhythm, and that was okay with me, as long as he,
you know,
respected the outcome.
And the outcome was always slightly better than average, but it was never that clenched-fist, muscle-spasm, bury-head-in-pillow-for-fear-of-waking-the-neighbors’-neighbors
kind of orgasm,
But it was dependable.
It was that little, black dress in the back of your closet that always feels flattering,
and that book,
that book you’ve read over and over and the pages are falling out,
but it always takes you to the same, wonderful place.
See, I didn’t care that he needed direction as to where to put his....erecti....hands,
because I was his professor, and criticism was something he could surely withstand.
So I gave him an A for effort,
not because he made up in coordination what he lacked in experience,
but because there is always praise to be given for passionate persistence.

April 21, 2009

My God

I saw this man standing on the fountain at my school,
He was yelling at passers-by and shaking his bible in the air like a weapon of war.
His imposing, roar of a voice was getting rather heated by the time I passed by in my tie-dye and jeans, my brown eyes met his
and I smiled without thinking, (mistake of the century).
He cried, “Sinner! You need some saving!”
My God, that’s strange, I don’t feel as if I’m drowning, or choking, burning in a pit of hot lava, being trampled to death by a herd of wildebeests. I feel...good.
I said, I appreciate your concern, sir, but I’m simply not sure that I agree.
Because the God you shriek of is all fire and brimstone, spiting and smiting, judgment, deprivation, drip some water on your head and you’re granted salvation...my god.
You preach of exclusions and black and white with no grey in between.
How can that be, sir?
Your God tells you to shun the Jews, the Muslims, the Buddhists, the gays, the gay-supporters, the pro-choice-ers, the feminists, the liberals, the evolutionists, the trans-gendered, the women who work too much, the men who don’t work enough, the divorced, the free-thinkers.
Sir, I don’t mean to sound combative, or at all as though I have this insight into His nature within the scope of my worldly understanding.
All I can convey is my consciousness and the
God that visits me at night.
I’m not saying you’re wrong and I’m right,
because the realities we see are molded by our experiences
and maybe I’ve been more fortunate than you.
But the God I know is all peace and kindness.
Not tolerance, but acceptance with open arms.
He’s warm and natural, greens and blues and purples and reds.
He smells like a baby’s soft skin, and rain and wind,
and the perfume my mother wears only on special occasions.
He tastes like a lovers’ kiss, wild raspberry stains on my fingertips,
and chocolate chip pancakes with whip cream faces.
The God I know records no wrongs on His Blackberry with a petty vengeance, no.
He’s always on love’s side.
I find my God in the strangest places. Not in cathedrals or mosques, or masses or sermons, no. But, on a flight to Miami and the woman next to me is flying to the funeral of her young sister and I hugged mine just last week.
Or in a mother saying good-bye to her son, a Marine, and she’s so damn proud but scared as hell this may be the last time they’ll speak.
You see, sir, your description and mine could not be more disparate,
my God is all tender touch and compassion,
not discrimination and prohibition.
My God is
love,
sir.

April 20, 2009

My Breasts

My breasts.
My knockers, my funbags,
my titties, my ta-tas,
My love lumps, my love muffins,
My hooters, my jugs,
My boobies, my girls,
My melons, my chi-chis,
My bosoms, my sweater puppets,

My breasts.
See, my mammaries have been displeased
With all these pen names they’ve been forced to work under.
My chest is distressed from this mess of misnomers it’s been cloaked in.
These euphemisms created by my male counterparts, such an art, guys, really,
but I think you’re missing my meaning.
See, I’m no angry feminist hating on men, but you guys need some pointers,
so please take this in.
Boys...my breasts aren’t your play toys but I invite you to enjoy them
if you promise to adore them and not try to hoard them as your own and please don’t pinch them, or rub them so hard they feel like they’ll fall off!
They’re attached, you know!
Don’t go back and forth and back and forth, no woman wants that course of action,
get some sense!
Don’t suck and suck like your mother’s teat,
you’ve been weaned too long to be holding on to some Freudian notion of juvenile pleasure.
Don’t yell at me from across the street, “Nice rack!”
Did I ask for your approval? I’m very aware of the...qualities I possess.
And if you think that your crudeness is cool to your cronies please reconsider that your words are just bitter perversions of desire,
cause you KNOW you can’t have ME.
Don’t think I don’t notice you staring me down in the grocery line and pretending to reach for a magazine so you can lean in to see in my cleavage.
Don’t think I won’t pop you one right in the kisser, cause mister this sister has HAD it with men who think my self-esteem is pieced together with poor pick-up lines and honks from your dodge neon, PLEASE!
I used to think that my breasts gave me power over men,
I could tower over men in my five foot three frame because I became the master,
But I was all wrong, see, 'cause I won’t be a woman who uses her body as a weapon against the male species,
I want to use my body for running, for dancing, for hugging, for lov-ing.
My breasts aren’t ME.
They’re a part of me that happens to be made fabulously.
But that doesn’t give you free reign to ogle and fondle,
and openly express your judgment on how I must be eas-y 'cause all you see’s a great pair of
breasts.

March 17, 2009

Don't go

Baby don’t go.

If you go from this place
the pain I will face will disgrace
this beautiful, sensual, sexually charged
bit of wonder we’re under, this thunder that roars
as we soar through the doors of the clouds
of this love so loud, and we’re proud
that we shroud none of these vows that we’ve made
in such haste, but this taste, this taste!
This taste of embrace,
such a waste to discard this part of ourselves
that we’ve melded from you and
from me and from blue and from heat
And we meet with a sweet, such a sweet sense of longing,
belonging that comes only through calming
with embalming of a love so deep
That it cheapens the very word...love, love

Love, that mystical, magical, actually difficult place to live
where faith is responsibility, where you’re
given so easily, breezily a gift that moves mountains!
I’m shouting! I’m shouting!
Don’t go my baby, don’t go.

This rhythm of livin’ you’ve given my heart
can’t be taken away, say you’ll stay!
don’t betray all the things you’ve been feeling inside,
let it ride, my love, let it ride through the night, it’s so right,
feel my hips sway along to your syrupy song
hold my head in your palm, let my neck meet your lips
and we’ll kiss and we’ll kiss,
let no feeling like this be dismissed,
pure bliss that exists in electricity
between you and me, we’re freed by this sea
of emotions that’s anecdotal to the notion of you leaving me be,
only to dream of the days we shared under sheets
when the beat of our brains mattered not,
just the thump of our hearts and the start of our selves,
united in throws of rose-colored prose,
Don’t go my baby, don’t go.

January 25, 2009

Why I write

I don't know why I write.
I don't write for renown or recognition,
for people to marvel at my words (marvel indeed).
I scarcely write for myself.

Maybe I write because I've lost my voice.
It's been drowned in the tumultuous caverns of my soul,
I've forgotten its pitch and timbre as if it were never in my possession.
It remains unrecognizable and foreign to my being,
but I must salvage what is left
because I have so much yet to share!
Too many loves to be loved and purple skies to be seen,
too many beauties to be adored to be
without a pen to chronicle them!

I don't know why I write,

maybe I've found my voice.

January 04, 2009

On love

I will not love you for your smile,
I will love your smile because it is yours.

I will not love you for your eyes,
I will love your eyes because they are yours.

I will not love you for your hands,
or their sweet touch upon my skin,
I will love your hands because they are your own,
and their touch is the warmest gift.

I will not love you for your voice,
or your scent,
or your laughter,
or even your talents or good fortune,
I will love you because I know no better way,
because your smile is my smile,
and your eyes, my eyes,
because your heart is melded in mine,
and my air arrives at your breath.