Love is Ageless

All around the globe,

we sang our songs of grieving

and the pain seeped from our skin.

You were even lovely in the mist of snowfall

and you were adored and cared for

but when your face turned to ash

and all the years became clear.

You were not the angle they had all believed

and so you were left, one bed,

one faded green chair

and two regretful meals a day.

They put you in a home for the old.

On a sign outside, where the pigeons flew over,

it said “Love is ageless” and we knew it was a lie.

Revolution

Wax is dripping from the sky.

The moon carries orphans on its uncensored spine.

It will save Egypt, the dirt and the mothers

and the orphans and the broken down trucks.

It will save them like winding tree branches,

the redwoods that begged for the sky,

hoarding water,

tearing muscle and ribbons

and shattering antique china

embroidered with hammers that brought down the Berlin wall.

I will crave that splitting head ache

and freeze the spinning sky.

Spitting into the kings wine.

Our bleary eyed, sloppy drunk leader,

who could never save the country like I could.

The man with the switch knife,

with a lions face,

with a lobotomy that was supposed to fix the broken mirror,

rupturing with cracks of a revolution.

He will sleep on a park bench,

incased in unformidable laughter.

He will bleed in the shadows of upper-class bathrooms.

Rolling his own cigarets,

turning like spinning wheels,

weaving unconventional thread.

For every window I gave a name.

An idea for every page.

Afternoon naps and uninvited company.

Wings scratched, sewn, brutally tied onto my back

and forced to fly.

A hand for every face to cradle an unblemished cheek.

A silence for every room to fill.

A man for every minute of war.

One arm or leg or young boy from the slums

torn from a half emptied bowl.

Spoons, mettle forks are replaced with a plastic gun,

that will kill no one and defend nothing

but will lay on the oil-drained ground,

next to her first born son,

with a cardboard helmet,

as the scream of life goes horse

and the bodies are daydreams,

and the corpses are summer

and the suits buy a man for every minute of war.

One arm or leg or letter claiming god blessed this earth

and the heavens lurch with a sickness to great to expel.

Posed

You told the mountains, stand still,
So you could paint a picture for the ages.
An orange sky that wanted no end.
Asks only for a cherry frame,
To sit behind her wile her black dresses are folded,
To sink into the sea.
The great sun capsized like a baptism,
Spilling through the curls in his hair.
To die a beautiful death.
To be born again and know only the present.
To stand encased in sheer oxygen.

The air she breathes.

Three Dead Oysters

How can I come to love you?

Learning enlightenment was hard enough.

You left me in the absence of influence

and now who will I follow?

For every pearl there are three dead oysters.

Nothing to Keep out the Cold

Flee worn wooden life.
The clock counts down the minutes.
Old draping yellow thrown
The ancient king sits in it.

All great minds have walked this maze
Pale beneath the sun light.
She holds her wicked eyes
unmoved upon their shoulders.

Autumn came to my back yard
And the leaves rained down like leather.
Vanity fell to the thankless ground.
The naked trees cried to their brothers.

I walked among the bodies of summer
The hardened shells of bees.
I found myself in cold despair
For they had found their peace.

I cradled needless jealousy
For their ceaseless state of sleep.

Finding a Page

It’s funny for no reason.
Watching the writer, smoke,
breathing out of her arched,
Jewish nose.
Behind her pierced ears
are chains of blonde hair
and sunglasses define a stern brow.

She sees no color on the street.
All the cars are smoke.
As she walks for the door,
her mind grows legs,
wonders to the last page,
stomps a fly and scribbles
“The End” with its collapsed black wing.

Her blonde brother or partner.
The man in the red shirt.
The boy with the same haircut
-like a soup bowl- since he went to church
with his mother
and his face was pearly
and cheeks grew no hair
but wore the smile of youth
or a face painted dragonfly.

The man in the red shirt now,
wears a smile the writer gave him
on the third day they met,
reads all the crinkled pages
from the trash bin,
rewinds the writers thin frame
and washes her face with a fine jewelry cloth,
for her features are sliver,
her thighs, empty cardboard boxes,
filled only with the thoughts she can draw in English.

The writer is always alone.
She sips coke, like its the ocean.
Dances like autumn, the dead leaf's,
anyone could see are pages in her notebook,
and smoke was always the inspiration,
carving her world of madness.
The jellyfish and the snowman.
The common place gardener.

She lives her life so detached,
with him in the 7th ring,
spinning with the clouds,
in front of the sun,
not by her bedside,
by the island shore.

They are at a cafe table.
Him reading, her dreaming.
Each carrying the weight of
solitude.

A Work Day

I worked yesterday at Annie Ruby's Cafe from 9am-3pm.

I washed dishes,

thought about life,

made fruit salad,

smiled at an older man,

dropped a glass bowl.

I ate half of a cream filled donut,

ran into the door,

laughed at something that wasn’t that funny,

cleaned the front window,

opened all 4 fridges,

reapplied lipstick,

sifted powdered sugar,

opened a large can of hot fudge,

restocked the waffle cones,

told someone something about me,

took a lunch break,

wrote a ticket for a brownie sunday,

forgot to serve a unsweet tea,

got a head ache,

chopped celery,

ate a lemon cookie,

put away the cool whip,

changed the sink water,

knocked over the Dawn dish soap,

met a girl who couldn’t speak,

brought a woman some plane chips,

made an orange aide,

took a bathroom break,

washed romaine,

sung a song in my head,

brought the cook a Dr. Pepper,

watched a youtube video,

scrubbed a cookie sheet,

heard a story about beer,

talked to my mom,

dropped an ice cube,

laughed at something that really was funny,

saw a man in a red bow tie,

wiped off a table that looked clean,

stirred the carmel,

went looking for mayo,

confessed my love of Michael Bubble,

looked -unsuccessfully- for straws,

got my tips from the day before,

talked about my work schedule,

chopped 5 boiled eggs,

saw a yellow cake come out of the oven,

heard about a death in the family,

took off my shoes,

put them back on,

remembered not to take life to seriously.