these words came from somewhere outside of myself. they're more fun to write than read, but....

Friday, August 19, 2005
Full moon magic

Full moon magic
riding high
feeling right
feeling love
feeling you across the seas

long distance love affair
you and me
singing loud and louder

like the rabbit in the moon
like the storms on the sun
like the stars whose light is already dimmed by the time we see

it's the dimming of the day
it's the dimming of the dawn
it's the steaming seeming shimming shining sheen of wet slick sidewaks after a New Orleans' rain.

It's the hot soupy air that sneaks up and has a seat on your lap and the lightning that parts the sky and shakes the house with its hellos, both too intimate to be socially appropriate. I'm glad mother nature doesn't follow the rules.

12 Aug 2005
Words Across Skin

Your words brush my hair from my face and look into my eyes with intensity I didn't know that words alone could have. I feel your closeness, can even feel the breath that speaks these words in my ear, and cold chills rise on my arms and my soul rises to the surface of my skin, and then, not knowing borders, passes through this physical boundary and reaches outward toward the sun, where I'm sure I'm from. And where I'm sure you live. And where I know we'll meet and smile and I'll make tofu scramble on the hot furnace that is the surface of our love and we'll eat with our hands and no words will need to be spoken because our eyes will say it all.

sometime in May 2005
RocketShip

While I wait for the stars to align,
I'll paint my toenails rocket red
and ride to the moon on them.

sometime in April 2005, on a bar napkin

Men always know the music--
wherever there is good music are good men.
Women will always be the first to take the dance floor,
but men will be in the shadows, holding the beat.

It is a rare woman who holds the beat.
She is a jewel.

20 June 2004
RainDancing

The sky rolls with thunder and lightning exposes the darkness, causing the frogs to chirp and chickle, their version of a rain dance. I too chirp and chickle, but it rains in me already.

This moment is magical and the air is electrified with its potential. I feel the rumblings of thousands in my chest while hundred year old drums sound a rhythm of the ages. Inhale.

Exhale.

Jan 2004
for X.M.

Her mother always told her she was special, and she never denied it--until the day she realized that her mother was weak.

That was the day she donned a mini-skirt, dyed her hair, and pretended to be special on outside. She tried to cultivate a love of wine and jazz. She stopped burning incense and started to burn herself. Slowly at first, but soon the scars began to sneak out from under her sleeves.  When asked what she did, she said she drank beer for money and spit in the street. Some thought her clever; others thought her an ass. She was neither.   

She wrote pathetic poetry that never rhymed and when alone, she would undress and examine every crevice of herself, contorting her body and craning her neck. She looked out of windows, wondering where birds go at night. She went on a all-fruit diet, and her teeth began to rot away. She pulled one out, its roots bloody and swollen. She planted it in wax and sat it on her mantle like an effigy. She loved with abandon and slept with anyone who asked. Her emptiness grew, and so did her thighs.    

Later, when her mom died, she sang "Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound" a capella at her grave, while tears rolled down her face, leaving blots on her dress. She stared at the sky and marveled at the sun. She watched as the hours turned into night, and the cars ceased driving by. She lay down on mound on dirt and made what would have been a snow angel, but there was no snow in the South in the middle of summer.

Instead, she sweated and her black dress was brown on the back. Digging her hands into the dirt, she longed to here feel the way she did the day that her mother had taken her by the shoulders, looked into her eyes, and proclaimed her special.