Sending poetry to the world
Dreaming of Tuesday’s
parties, glorious rippling
colors, all manner of
food and gaiety, strangers with
strange stories, big ridiculous hats,
cacophony of singing,
and drunkenness, lots of it
spinning, hours disappearing
under the weight of the night
and slow dancing whispers,
all versions of us
unwilling to believe in a
dawning Wednesday.
We were born to roam midnight streets
to leave sticky notes of jazz on exuberant thighs
stopped beneath streetlights of dancing rays
gnawing here and there, tipping them back, tossing aside.
We die each hour of impending day but
the streets become a blues pulse, thumping. Again,
hold on to night’s desperation and grind slow
into cobblestones content with the hour still late, late, late.
a Sunday like red wine must
as my expectations of your
sweet harvest lips, so tantalizingly close,
like pressed
bodies bubbling in
that Sunday Indian summer way
where outside heat
provides the stomping and
each gasp like long legs swirling down a glass
provides the buzz.
(written early this summer, revised today)
black eyeliner morning
thin lines so intensely dark
dredging up emotions like those rock n roll
evenings of cigarrettes and skinny
black jeans smeared
sticky lines of whiskey, black dirt under
fingernails cracked
eyeliner like rebels haunting
a low e
on certain nights dark
footsteps take their own path out,
leaves rustle behind.
soon the orbit of
a moon gets dizzy with us
feet keep walking on,
those left behind, they
know not the compulsion – the
pavement nods, yes.
she carries a dull reminder
the way thin shoulders begrudgingly
hold a shirt-
the bruises hurt less than the head
and the floor is
overly joyous to see her, again.
nothing is clear but the ache –
promises broken, slinking away,
just as light skirts certain corners
of the apartment, hours passing.
why does
the wood here smell
of urine
two dancers find their
own
rhythm while an old lady
walks out
with her dog
straining
to leave
all the while
the upright bass
competes violently
against
the trumpet
and the man on my side
says, with whiskey
breath,
i hate myself this
much.
wide-eyed wine glass
sees a pair of lips pursed
coming at it —
tossed back, wine glass
teeters then straightens
its dress; one shaken stem
smoothing tousled hair.
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