Friday, August 12, 2011

My Perfect Woman

My Perfect Woman

She walks through the door,
the fluidity of her stride pulls
my attention towards her.
My thoughts, the ones shackled
to the neurons deepest
in my subconscious, force
their way through my lips.
Nervous, I trip over my own
feet, I stumble into tables
and catch myself
on strangers' shoulders.

Her kiss is bitter,
the taste of pine needles
rests on my tongue.
Her tongue tickles
the back of my throat,
it reverberates the length
of my body: Warms
my chest and stomach,
I feel them rise they way
they did when I first looked
at my first crush. My heart beats
faster, pushing blood against
the skin on my face.

She's never said no.

Not even in public, as long as I promise
I won't be too loud or too obvious.

Some nights, when I get home
from work, still angry at rude
customer, she is waiting for me
on the kitchen counter, her top
already off.

She's always leaves before
I wake up. But I don't mind
making the bed after tossing through
a light sleep or cleaning the mess
we mad of the kitchen table..

It's in my nature to indulge, now and then.
So pour the tonic, twist the lime.
Oh, how I love you,

Wednesday, August 10, 2011

Inspiration from Japan: A Collection of Haiku

The Sun's beauty looks
best distorted by stratus
clouds on its way out.

The snail's slime won't let
him forget where he's been, but
songbirds see it too.

She and I watch skies
throw sparks towards the ground. Real
beauty’s dangerous

Helicopter leaves
don't fly, but catch wind and spin,
enjoy the route down.

Snow blankets windows,
blankets cover legs, chili
burns my tongue. Perfect.

Stars lead ambitious
moths, those without desire
never leave porch lights

Hummingbirds hover,
sip their favorite flowers.
eagles soar, miss it all.

While most people honk their horns, they sing and dance to enjoy traffic jams.

Here, on a quiet night, you can't hear nature over the A/C units.

"Jake," written on concrete with firefly goop in the name of childhood fun.

Birds' nests sit on neighborhood signs, the trees were all made into houses.

A Poem for Broken Friendships: Song Thrush

Thrush Anvil

Come, past the birdwatchers
sitting on the bench with their binoculars.
Come to where only the trees
can hear us sing.
Come with me to see my thrush anvil.

Look at the scratches and stains
down the sides from years of use.
Look at the broken shells
on the ground.

That one, the burgandy and burlywood
spiraling towards the center,
cracked around the edges, talon
scratches down the middle.

That one, half buried under dirt. Time
will finish burying it, tiny pieces
already lie scattered under
the golden leaves crunching under
your every step. It'll never
be put back together.

Pick it up.

Close your eyes and feel it.
The smooth, unbroken
surfaces. The jagged edges,
weak spots cracked under pressure.
You might feel it fluctuate, inhale
and exhale.

Wait for the wind to stop rustling
the tall reed grass.
Put the shell up to your ear.
You won't hear water
as it crests onto a beach. You
might hear half of an inside joke.

Look at this piece,
flipped upside down.
Collecting water,
weighing it down.
Look, deeply,
into the water it's been collecting.

You might see your future.

You might the faces of the people
who trusted me once.