I had been buying more and more clothes lately, trying to make him notice me, but so far nothing had worked. That's why tonight I was taking the direct approach, and heading over to see him.
Getting in to see him wasn't easy, but I've always been a resourceful, maybe even sneaky, kind of girl, and a little shattered glass grazing my arm through my new blouse didn't bother me too much. Nor did the sound of alarms, which I managed to blank out, concentrating instead on the passion that coursed through me, that left me breathless as I observed my love, silhouetted against the window.
"My darling," I said. "I've come for you."
His back to me, he made no reply, but this didn't bother me; I hadn't expected this to be easy, and his playing hard to get would only make our eventual embrace all the more volatile. Which is just how I like it, after all.
"I've noticed you watching me," I told him. "Like what you see?"
He did not reply with words, but I could feel his eyes watching my reflection in one of the many mirrors dotted around the place, and his gaze made me feel wild, made me feel naughty, so I started dancing, rubbing myself, sliding my top up to display a small portion of my smooth, flat stomach, tantalising him. Still he did not come to me, but I was glad of that; I was enjoying putting on a show, and saw no need to stop yet.
"Too dressed for you?" I asked, feeling bold all of a sudden. "Don't worry, that can be changed." And with that, I began to strip, letting all of my clothes drop to the floor, trying to ignore the wind that flew in through the shattered window behind me, sending a chill through my firm buttocks.
"You like that?" I asked, and walked over to him, stroking his shoulders through the top he was wearing.
He seemed reluctant to take the lead, but I put this down to the fact that he had been standing in the same spot for weeks on end. I knew that he had been waiting patiently for me, and that was why I had broken into the clothes shop to be with him.
But no matter how hard I kissed him, the man that my jealous friends told me was just a mannequin would not kiss back.
They enter on tiptoe
Arriving from some minefield in the heart
Sometimes in bundles or in pairs
Occasionally a solitary wanderer
Who strayed from the pack
Come to map uncharted habitats
Irrigate a desert or carve settlements in the wilderness
Bent on colonizing the outback of imagination.
It's time to establish a wildlife refuge
In the skirmish with creeping asphalt
A soaring shopping plaza
And seven identical motels
An endangered species can't reserve
The honeymoon suite at the Hyatt
Or dine at a restaurant that spins
On the tower of the Holiday Inn
A sandpiper pecks with genteel grace
At the emerald algae that coat
The few unblasted stones where the sea
Left her signature last week
Dotting the beach like gray ellipses
It’s imperative to close the border
Seal off the area and mount a sign
Hunters will be prosecuted
Our preliminary diagnosis revealed no apparent abnormalities
No early symptoms of the disease were visible
True he spent hours at the zoo
Observing the cheetah measure her territory
With tethered but predictable speed
Watching the polar bear
Pace from one smoothly hewn stone to the next
With deceptive affability
His favorite pet was his Doberman whom he found user friendly
He remembered to file the incisors
Till they were indistinguishable from the ivory tips
Of the poniard set in the parlor
He neglected to clip the nails
That had carved a hole the size
Of several finely crafted grenades
In the surface of the bedroom floor
At day care he demonstrated an unfaltering sense
Of expertise in the area of property rights
On the beach he staked out the lot for his sandcastle
With a steel tape and a marble eye
He achieved coitus with a treatise
Experienced orgasm with a slogan
Human secretions of any sort disturbed him
Sweat, semen, a tear.
A seesaw is a sorrowful thing, though inanimate.
I know it must have emotions deeply seated,
Though they do not show,
It rises upward and then drops downward repeatedly,
With monotonous regularity,
Upward, and downward, then upward once more,
It travels with no forward direction.
It hears the weeping children injured, when they fall,
And listens to the angry voices of their mothers and their fathers.
A seesaw appears to be a simple plaything,
A board balanced upon a wedge of wood.
Sliding boards are thrilling;
There is joyous glee for a child upon a swing,
Carefree, gliding through the air.
There is no repose for a child upon a seesaw,
Who has no forward direction.
It raises acrophobiclally,
And falls downward towards hell.
It rises upward, downward and upward again,
And descends towards hell.
There is more pleasure playing in a sand pile,
Where children bury their heads hiding from the world.
If you pass by a playground,
You shall always see children falling off of a see saw-
Can you hear these children crying?
Listen to their voices screaming out in fear,
As they rise upward without control,
And drop downward, downward, and downward towards hell.
The porch without chairs,
a house of empty chairs with empty arms.
A house with walls,
empty walls with frameless rectangles and squares,
where light once captured us,
our children and your watercolors--
lilies asleep on a pond,
morning glories enfolded upon a trellis.
A house of stairs without footsteps,
without shadow of light from our bedroom,
the bed without you, your arm a crescent across the pillow.
Our bedroom without laughter,
After breath, silence,
and after silence, the search for words.
as the day ends not as right as before
i dare to flee inside a rat hole
for a chance to feel alive
a shake in a mid-stride
for the seemingly stronghold i could not thrive
as a yearning evokes not a lone tear can deny
of what a false move have led me to this state
as my path have diverged from my plan
lost am i, in a dreariness of it all
alone and yet striving
for a chance to make a difference
to put meaning in my life
as a shadow has been cast, befallen i may be
the strength is still within, never was lost in me
to feel alive, strong and true
is it nothing but a mere facade or is it really true
i longed to feel and yet couldn't
to let go, i must
Victims of Medusa grow beards of moss
In the jungle tangle, covered in lime
Every tree and bough, the rocks and the water
Know there is no shame in falling victim
To her clever trap. This is the season
Of mists and mushrooms, of howling chicks
Waiting for fresh frogs and fish delivered
High up to their impregnable hollow.
Soon it will be time for the fledglings to earn
Their wings under Medusa's watchful eyes—
When she cries lava will flow to the seas—
She grieves on universal bones of stone;
In her mouth plates collide, buckle upwards
Into folds, blocks of rock shatter, fossil
Molds and holes are filled with her minerals,
Her teeth carving V-shaped scars and valleys;
Pilgrims come visit her to pay respects
Wading through shoals of hungry piranha,
Crossing rope bridges and tricky terrain
Where implacable realities hold
Sway, they crawl in the crowded, pellucid
Pool at the lip of the great Water falling,
Their fragility unfurled into strength
Because she inspires them to believe;
They are like hornets returning fully
Laden with their harvest, are exposed and
Weathered and harden to form beautiful
Stone carvings, fluted columns spun into
Threads, one hand extended to the heavens,
The other to the earth in that ancient
Juxtaposition of people and dreams
And nature blending the two, monsters that
Grow solely out of people by way of
Dreams like the romantic belief in a
Child's innocence now petrified, even
More absurd than the innocence of a
Landscape as opposed to man-made beauty,
Like a stream is purer than the statue
Of liberty, or a breeze more pristine
Than the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel;
There isn't or ever was natural
Humanity, it doesn't occur wild,
No pattern in their genes instructs people
On how to build their houses, Medusa
Whispers to them the blueprints to cities,
So ignorant of their human nature
That cities fall in disrepair yet the
Fantasy insists that every plant is
A delicate plant gravely misjudging
The toughness of plants, it is human life
Which is frail and civilization which
Flickers in constant danger of being
Blown out, no sooner does a building lapse
In disuse than a weed forces its way
Through cracks in basement floors and openings
Around pipes, in the pores in blocks of stone,
splitting them apart.
Mama, why are you crying? Is there no milk for our cereal this morning? What happened to the milkman? He always comes and delivers his goods by now. I don't mind eating my cereal dry! I like my food crunchy. Sometimes the milk makes my breakfast soggy. Did you know that? Mama, please don't cry!
Mama, why do people say I favor the milkman? What on earth do they mean? Am I not as nice to the postman as I am to the milkman?
Along the cobblestone path I walked
Somewhere along the way
I lost myself.
It hardly mattered,
I climbed a tree or two,
And there were wildflowers growing everywhere,
In the springtime the sun would glance at me
From behind the cirrus clouds
Perhaps only to greet me
Upon this path I walked every morning
I walked alone, and in the summertime,
I became a patron saint.
Enamored of the deer, I was, and
I adored the blue jays,
I sang with the mockingbirds.
I danced with the evergreens that
Swayed in the cool autumn breeze,
In my solitude
I would walk along this path in the wintertime,
Through the falling snow I could envision
Miles ahead of me
Branches and branches of barren trees encased in ice,
I would wonder if this is what heaven others spoke of-
Too spectacular to be deemed reality-
I whispered back to the voices that spoke to me
Only I could hear.
Somewhere along the way I had lost myself.
It hardly mattered
I was a child of the wilderness
The deer, the evergreens and the barren maple trees
And the voices inside my head,
Together, we became a family.
It is late summer, and
The air is sultry.
The woods are a place that I find peace and harmony
I hear the locusts screaming,
The chanting of the crickets, and the song of the nightingale, as the
Evening would set in.
I have been called a wounded spirit, a lost soul.
I hear voices whispering above the locusts' screaming,
I feel my tears falling with the rain which
Has just begun to fall from the approaching storm.
A storm is raging inside of me.
Somewhere along the way
I lost myself.
It hardly matters though, as
Wildflowers are growing everywhere,
Canadian wild geese are flying home in V formation.
I have fallen in love with the splendor of the woodlands.
I talk back to the voices that speak to me gently and unobtrusively.
Somewhere along the way,
Somebody found me and snatched me from my home space,
Took me away to a cinderblock building, and closed the door behind.
Now I find myself walking up and down a long hall-
The floors are tiled, and the walls are white and endless,
Everything is antiseptic- clean, and
Strange people, dazed and sleepy-eyed are pacing up and down the halls,
Somewhere along the way,
I became lost, and then found.
I miss the evergreens, the sun and the song of the whippoorwills, and even the
Screaming of the locusts.
But the voices inside my head and I...
We are still a family...
The mockingbird startled me while I tried to write a poem. I became lost and my brain quit churning like butter gone sour. All thoughts slipped away and neurons collided like ships crashing into icebergs.
The mockingbird laughed at me. I did not laugh back. The poem was destroyed and I cried for its return.
I heard the screaming inside my head. If not for that, I would have thought I was dead. But poems do not die. This one would be back, safely tucked away in my gray matter for now, after the flying creature departed. I would have to wait. No poem today.
Rumors at the rave
His boot buckles
To Frankie Knuckles
Club kid moves
Bette Davis moods.