Monday, August 23, 2010


On the second day, on that lucky Friday off, on her way to the market, she saw him through the window of the cafe on the water; she had known this was a possibility. Had it in her mind when she dressed that morning. Saw how that green tee with the rip on the left sleeve made her eyes pop. In this shirt, she appeared, interrupting the writing he had just sat down to do.

It thrilled her that he drove a motorcycle; they ripped around the ocean side, through the steep cliffs and dense forests that sandwiched the many houses. She could smell summer with more strength, perched behind him, hands lingering on his back longer than necessary as he leaned into corners. The gamut of richness. A mouth filled with dark chocolate. A snapping dog. An exhilarating yelp of relief as they got away, unscathed.

There was the reading of each other's work that day. An unexpected kiss on her back patio; the fierce desire with which he approached her when they stood in the cool shadows of his living room. She lured him to a river, under the pretense of watching the sunset, but instead her passion came through her words, shocking her even, as she realized that she was doing everything she wanted to do to thrive in life. And that she was; that she really was. And that no one had given her the patience, or the care, or the clean ears, or the open eyes to allow her to spell it all out to herself, to spill it all out to herself, to reach in to her chambers and pull out the immaculate rainbow of possibilities that are her opportunities in this world.

All he did was listen.

Sunday, June 17, 2007

swimming shorts (i)

12 y.o. girls
wear board shorts
at the public pool
to cover errant hairs
that don't appear
on the inner thighs
of the women on t.v.

let the self
consciousness begin.

Sunday, June 10, 2007

the jaded optimist

subscribed to blue skies
but that didn't work out

pouring over a glass of wine he writes love letters
that were never meant to be sent

Friday, June 01, 2007

patio philosophy

a collaboration w/ dw & brahma on their day off

chairs and rules are meant to be broken
kissing and bedframes, superfluous.


in a lineup w/ a
lover at the supermarket
we realize that
angry white men are tiresome
arguing over the price of
tomatoes--inflation his
only interaction of his day
he blows it
and she smiles at me
grips my hand real tight
pats my lower back and calls me her baby

Friday, May 25, 2007

the secret life of ms. prism

you are drenched in it
commensurable beauty
a haunting, an apparition
each time you come by to tuck me in
i awake w/ the same
confusion empty empty sheets.

you must exist—the seats displaced
the resting place of cadaver bottles—
my confusion settles, you are not
a spirit but a true man
—an honourable man
amidst the confusion
but ‘what is good’ and what is bad
and how long will we ask
each other this—
knowing monogamy doesn’t really
exist, knowing that the
nice nice individuals we appreciate
(but could never be)
tuck their
gently laid perspectives
between comforters
at night.

Tuesday, March 13, 2007

thursday night brigade

sun stretches longer now
begging to be kissed back

setting a little before 8
lingering in fine folds of skin

contact points draw further

melt into that not always stark box
neat square ‘single’

before leaving the house
personas’ are drawn
sorts that wear too short
skirts, alleviate boredom.

avoiding eye contact, fundamental.
fabricating his/story, fundamental.
laughing off compliments, delightfully fundamental.

peripheral listening and dry humour
float the evening further
when singles turn to doubles
nothing but the dance floor gets

attn: straddling dirties in dark corners then purging in the bathroom is not recommended

if only someone had a megaphone or a business card to spread the warning. a place like this ought to communicate this prayer by osmosis.

incessant dance pyramids w/ beautiful women
laughing, touching, indifferent to gazes

tracks from three years ago, t.o., repeat. poorly mixed, just as the drinks. but who cares?
it’s 3 and there’s no going back. recycled convos circle
i’m cared out, a sack of potatoes
at least my feet won’t get snowy.

mornings culminate w/ cabbies that are never
who paid?

Saturday, March 10, 2007

save the day light