Sonnet Electronica

She's hunched over a screen

tracing a thousand dot trajectory.

A headphoned brunette music queen

in finger flying waving fury.

You're like a little mouse.

Not meek, but small. Quiet. Beige.

But not beige like a suburban house.

Tan and hinted russet. Heart encaged.

A frame that purses lips

and is drunk off one glass red,

kind and timid woven strips

of colored passion- and dread.

No, I haven't seen any watermelons here.

But it's okay that you can't steer.

De Sade

There are Americans singing

In the kitchen downstairs.

I’m eating cold chicken and staring at the bed-

I don’t remember changing the sheets,

But I’m glad I did.

Jose Cuervo is winking at me

Tipping his hat

“Hola, Senorita” he says.

I just ignore him.

I’ve been thinking about cause-and-effect.

I think it’s more circular than linear.

Fate is kind of a wobbly concept.

The Americans singing have started in on Stairway to Heaven.

God help us all.

I’m glad I’m not down there. Face a veneer of sisterhood,

Arms crossed in discomfort.

Friendly people bother me. They’re too easy,

And usually easily discarded of.

I like the tough sinewy ones,

The arguers, the abusers.

My first love was a sadist, I think.

I fell in love the first time he pushed my embrace away.

When I think back, I always smile.

I’ve been thinking about the smell of black coffee

And cleaning supplies,

And the first kiss I ever had,

From a boy under five feet tall,

On the Fourth of July.

He slobbered all over me then I cried.

Gloucester Arms

Two pints in and I guess I’m attracted to you after all
in some unusual way.

Not enough to be yours
But enough to experience the flutter
Of taking your hand in mine and enjoying
The warmth of the contact
Like hands stretched over a burning bin.

It’s nice to know that I have a voice
As I tipsily stumble over all the hurt and beauty of this world—
And you listen, and that’s enough for me.

Both of us from the same land,
And from different lands too.

And it’s so nice to feel the magnetic pull of- not happiness, i wouldn't call it that-

but a slow and steady leaking of christmas light warmth from my stomach

to my heart.

Two pints in and there's a smile from my face
Riddled with the cracks of a short but long life
Full of feelings
A big ladle of feelings
In a spoonful of matzoh ball soup kind of place.
Not home, but good enough. My legs are home.
My heart, my chest, my hands, my nose.

So this one’s for you,
Kind child. 1989 was a good year.
Today, a better day than most.

365 Bruises

To be worn like badges

Over my poet’s heart:

Bruises.

Blue, green, yellow and purple,

Like a flag at half-mast.

I tell the doctors I fell down the stairs.

And they sigh, and roll their eyes,

And hand me an ice pack and I’m off again.

They know, and I know,

That these bruises

Were given me

Like gifts, wrapped with love and care

Into fists and belts and paddles

Into words and eyes and tears

And kisses salty-sweet, and sticky pink palms,

And warm on a cold face.

But I tell the doctors I fell down the stairs again.

I wear them like a slip under my dress.

I cherish them.

365 bruises, one a day or more,

And everybody knows

I like it.

Packing Up.

In the back of an attic mind

Bookshelves and uncracked spines

And dusty bottles of claret

And boxes of old records

There is a single-beacon projector

Shoot shooting up

Recalling

A feeling, November two years ago.

And I want to describe it but there aren’t words,

Though there’s a chill in the air and the lights were bright

On the Boston commons and I cried

But I wasn’t sure I was sad.

There were teenaged gangs in the background,

Fucking around in the dark

And laughing over cigarette smoke-

I can still feel the night like a rueful carousel.

I can still feel the night like the traces of scars,

Cuts healed over. Bruises fading.

I want to describe it but there aren’t words,

I can smell it but cannot taste it fully

Like sweet rose hookah smoke.

And in my head

Someone is singing

About better to stop loving now.

I’m not sure I agree.

Thanksgiving

High and playing off a plastic keyboard piano

London, England-fingers flying,

I am living vicariously off of

This delicate, strong blond performer.

My own fingers are perpetually cold here.

Chords are dancing by like horses

Pulling a carriage

19^th century style

Trotting along, carrying the post.

The sun sets early

On the British empire

The car headlights speed by

Sixteen’o’clock,

Dragging by the last smells of summer,

Lying damp and tired

In the piles of leaves on every corner.

The swampish smell of indoors

A muddy sauna

Evaporates in the air.

I could go for a plate of something.

Maybe a hot glass of something or other.

My cheeks feel red and smooth with cold.

It won’t be Christmas for-

It’s thanksgiving-

And won’t be Christmas for weeks.

And yet I feel like

At any moment

I could be curled up back to a warm fire.

This piano sounds

Like electronic heaven.

My heels are warm beneath my legs.

I might be feeling something

For the first time in weeks.

With no dinner, and no drink, and no

Laying-of-the head down.

And I feel like I should preserve the time.

Redheads

I wonder if god’s existence is

Proven

In the fact that I am jealous

Of the talents of all redhaired people

More or less

The tall and freckled redheads with hollow cheekbones and

Collarbones

One playing a piano sumptuously

While another sings

And one strums a guitar

And one’s got the harmonica pressed to his lips.

This redheaded band of brand of people

Who are so overwhelmingly

Interesting

-Spiced with something

Mysterious and alluring -

Burns the tip of my tongue,

Leaving it feeling singed and rough for days after.

I wander around aimlessly in the musty rain

Searching for something to make a noise with

To throw to the paved streets with a crash

Anything.

But silent

Muted I take the restless slumber

Of a person

Who dreams of beautiful redhaired people

To betray me and leave me

Breathless, mostly.