A Sudden Spring Forward

Unexpected

and pleasantly surprising.

Carried into Monday morning

full of February sunshine

and the anticipation of spring blossoming;

Petals unfurling and

darling buds of May-

Rough winds do shake

what we mildly maintain

and what we never saw coming

Into one glorious sidewalk tornado.

What's been done and undone swirls together

against an urban graffiti sky while

the brick stacks out back bake in the burn

of setting suns and longings left unspoken.

TATTOOED GYPSY & THE BURNING BLUE EYED GOOD BYE BLUES

Scabbing tattoo gypsy heart;

Red around the edges-

Raw and aching to be scratched.

Try a little tenderness.

Don't baby it too much.

Stay and go and come away again soon, with me.

Down these halls

Painted over words we let slip

Then slide...

You just go for the ride and I stand behind you

watching you walk away.

It's the smell of piss and shit and blood on a Saturday morning after;

Someone stole your shower head and it's too cold to do laundry.

It's "Thank God the bar's across the street" and  "Are you gonna eat those fries?".

It's a heavy bass line that makes you wanna take your clothes off and dance and it's too cold to sleep alone.

52 card pick up under the back stairwell.

Inky finger print bruises on my hips.

Angry ruby wound;

tight around my wrist like twist ties 

and the ties that bind, and the rope we wind up with 

like a noose turned neck tie.

We run. We hide. And seek. 

We find. And blind eye turn on each other.

While we huddle together against the

concrete chill of warehouse heater blues

hit the snooze button one more time

Before out the door we stumble.

Mumble into our scarves and the scars

we carved into our arms.

Dollar coins and subway rides to work to work to work

We pray this will all just work.

And I'm done with I love you's from far away lips

On this unwashed Monday, but at least my clothes are clean

even if my mouth is dirty, and my mind is dirty and 

my fingernails are covered in war paint and I'm down in this trench of a gutter

with just a hot plate and some styrofoam cups to raise up

and rally myself against the day.

Scabbing angry tattooed gypsy soul;

Those sour words at the back of my throat 

Let loose and I let them. 

Bite and burn like acid on that loving heart.

To break those chains and break myself apart 

and find the marrow worth saving,

Braving this skin that I'm in.

Freezing, bleeding, needing and believing 

I can begin again-

tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow....

Back Seat Hurricane

The day before the hurricane
neither of us had to work
and we spent a whole day parked in the woods,
steaming up the windows on my grandmothers Saturn,
even though they were open and the rain was coming in.

Your bones pressed hard between my thighs,
I could feel every atom in your body vibrate
and compress itself down into the tips of your fingers.
We were soaked in sweat, clinging to each other
your breath lingering on my lips...

I can taste you now and feel you still.

Bearing down on me
until your hands were raw and I was on fire-
Burning up underneath you
in the front seat of my car
like teenagers on a Friday night.

The roof and the sky blurred together in a swatch of grey
Your eyes pierced the haze of
cigarette smoke and humidity.
I lost myself in the ocean of your salty skin
and drowned, gratefully, in your arms.

Train Tracks and Other Metaphores

This is a poem for my generation

written on a Monday at the office,

while I Facebook and YouTube

instead of filing and data entry.

Because I'm trying to peer over the wall of time

and spy on a life I had once, where we all went to high school together

and cut classes in favor of the beach and the woods

and driving around in your parents convertible without their permission.

And in the dark of the night my footsteps make no noise,

and the cars on the high way are a river of fire. 

I am followed by my street light shadow,

these are train tracks and other metaphors.

Where are we? We wonder out loud,

to each other, and to ourselves, and to no one in particular...

Who have we become, and who did we want to be?

And did we lay our plans with as much care as we should have?

Probably not. But there's no time now to,

Lament some of my moments of execution..

Where I lost my grace, and fell out of they eyes of honesty,

and struck out.

And in the dark night my footsteps make no noise,

and the road to anywhere is paved with dreams.

I am followed by my street light shadow,

these are train tracks and other metaphors.

We are treading water somewhere between the shores of Child

and the rocky horizon of Adult.

We are piled into rowboats, some of us with children,

some of us with men, and some of us without..

We are filled with wanting and painted in covetous technicolors-

We dare to dream the American Dream that our parents dreamed

and distilled from their parents who dreamed and distilled it from

their parents, and now it holds just a drop if it's original elixir, but we dream on.

And in the dark of my dreams my footsteps make no noise,

and the yellow brick road rolls out a red carpet.

I am followed by my street light shadow,

these are train tracks and other metaphors.

I want to live in a big house with a porch

and a yard for my garden and animals and children,

and a barn so I can hang my half moon out on the eaves

and wind chimes from the rafters.

Maybe I will have some chickens,

and a goat, or a pig...

And I'll make pottery and beaded necklaces

in between pulling weeds and putting on plays with the neighborhood kids.

And in the dark before the dawn my footsteps make no noise,

and the path we walk is unmarked and winding.

I am followed by my street light shadow,

these are train tracks and other metaphors.

I have to write this down because I FORGET MYSELF (all the time....)

and then go throwing blame at every one around me.

Telling them they don't know who I am,

when really it's me, making a false idol of myself.

And at least we are all lost together,

you and me, and all of us, in our rowboats,

between here and the future, 

still updating on Facebook, to validate our existence.

And in the light of day my footsteps make no noise,

and the faces of strangers are all familiar to me.

I am followed by my street light shadow,

these are train tracks and other metaphors.

Conversation with Jesus

I saw Jesus walking up the hill,

He said, "Go on without me, I'll be here when you get back."

and then he climbed up on his cross, one limb at a time

and hung out, waiting for the return of the crowds.

And we all went back to college, 

to tiny apartments paid for by our middle-class parents,

where we hung posters of 60's icons up on our walls and

burned nag champa and drank grain alcohol til we threw-up on our tie-dyed tapestries.

Then we stayed up past our bedtimes around open refrigerators, 
letting the cold air escape, 

and discussed theories about foreign policy and oil and capitalism 

and other things we didn't understand,

and we passed the joint around until it was nothing but ash in our hands.

But me, I turned my radio up and rolled down my window

and shaved off all my hair, started calling myself Diane and

tried to go somewhere I wouldn't recognize myself for a little while.

I waved to Jesus on His cross and He said, "See ya soon."

In the fields under the Moon

trying to find myself amongst all those exploded little particles of light.

I thought I saw you in my reflection, out on the edge where the tall grasses whisper against the wind,

but you were just a trick of shadows and air.

I returned hot on your heels, like a blood hound on the trail 

and without missing a beat, ran face first into a brick wall of sorrows

with your name tagged all over it in suburban child spray paint.

With nothing but time on your hands, and me with never enough time on my side.

Jesus was still chilling, called down to me from His perch, 

"Why don't you try something different?" and I told Him 

I didn't know what I had, so I didn't know what I was missing.

He said to keep looking, and He'd let me know what happened while I was gone.

All the while the people were dancing in the square

banners flying, flowers in their hair, the band was playing brightly

and the hours wound down to nothing but fire and sparks and

me and Jesus, we were no where to be seen, but they were all still dancing in the streets.

And in the morning-after light, on our way to coffee grounds and 

The Grind, and the grim of the grin above the rim of our ugly mugs, 

We shuffle like ghosts in the mist, in the midst of what we missed and

who we miss the most. The Father, Son and Holy Rollers...

I rolled over, and pulled over, to pump my brakes and stay awake.

With a fist full of tears, I rest my weary gears.

Feels like we've been walking away for years and years at a time, 

never quite yours, and you were never quite mine.

"It was a gamble," said the thief at His side.

A couple of Dudes with nothing left to hide, I honk as I drive by.

Jesus waves at me from far away and I pull into the parking lot of my local Mom-and-Pop-Shop. 

Under the street lights, He tells me, tonight, it's alright.