Pulse

The pulse of the Universe
has a louder beat than my heart.
The sound of believing is continuous,
I am the embodiment of hope, as always.
Continuous, perfect, precisely spaced amounts
of blood traveling through me and my systems.
Energy is a constant around me,
flexible, friendly, and lives forever.

When the energy between us is good,
(Oh, but I love you infinitely.)
When I am dancing with my eyes closed –
this is what I'm talking about.
That's the way things are with me.

I stand as close as possible to the sound
and let the pulse of the Universe
flow through me,
ocean current flow,
dancing with my eyes closed
in my perfect space.

When they energy is good between us,
you know I do, I love you infinitely.

The Saddest Room

The saddest room in the house is me.

The air is still, the light is fading,
the walls weigh down on me like night sweats,
my emotions are a crime,
my words are a prison.

I can type but I can’t eat.
I can answer the phone but I can’t move,
I can't dress myself.

The pillows are all soft,
I wish I were soft.
The colors are all vibrant,
I wish I were vibrant.
I know I’m not asleep
but I still wish I could wake up
and find everything back in place
right where I left off last.

The saddest room in the house is me.

I don’t have the edge of anger,
I don’t have the sleep of peace,
I don't have my lover’s faith in me.

The emptiest room in the house is me.

Some words make no sense once uttered.
They only sound right when unspoken.
They are hard to pronounce
and sound foreign or
like static noise or rush hour traffic.

I have spoken my heart but it is too late,
I seemed to have kept it a secret far too long.
I have spoken my heart but it is too soon,
I didn’t wait long enough.
I have spoken and my words played
a dirty trick on me.
They betrayed me,
they switched each other out
like a child's game or a puzzle to his ears.

I no longer have any words,
and words are like furniture for expression.
I will slowly become silent
until I have nothing left to say,
until we have completely decorated this house
with my silence, because right now
the emptiest room in the house is me.

Buster Napping, As Usual

A ball,
a large warm ball
vibrates into a purr,
a one-eyed, half-closed love pirate stare.

The ears move small movements,
very small movements,
big paws click on the hardwood floor
like a secretary's heels clicking down a hall.
Somebody very cute is rounding the corner.

This is one of my favorite sounds.
More favorite than the sound
of the forbidden pounce on the a.m. bed,
more favorite than the sound
of hunger for food
or love because
they typically sound the same.

A ball,
a large, warm, furry ball
at my feet or by my side
is love just the same
and never less.

On The Other Hand

The other hand itches.
My mother thinks it's money,
she is admittedly superstitious.
At least, I think it's the other hand
but I've never been very sure
which is which.

So, sure, I have convictions,
sure I have facts,
like my wedding ring is too tight
in the morning when I first wake,
but on the other hand,
I'm not so sure about this other hand.

My cats will love me until they die,
I will always love the smell of coffee,
I'm even a little bit vain at times,
but I'm not terribly certain about
this other hand.

I could die before my cats
and they could forget about me.
I could get pregnant and grow
to dislike coffee,
I could but I'd rather not.
The point is that I'm not so certain.
It seems like it ought be
of utmost importance to do so, but
is it really necessary to consider
what's on the other hand?

Because I'll tell you frankly,
there's nothing here. There's nothing
on the other hand.
There's no jewelry, there's no nail polish.
It may, in fact, be completely free
of scars and freckles and bumps
and no one is holding it tenderly anyway,
or leading the way.

The point is, the other hand is just
an excuse, or something that appeases
an awkward query in an uncomfortable
social situation.

So, maybe the other hand doesn't exist,
or maybe it does
and it's really shiny and smooth
and reflective just like a mirror.

Horrid This Happiness

How horrid this happiness
which should steal my words
rob me of contemplation
and hide all my pens
during moments of inspiration.

I don’t know.
sometimes, other times,
I do.

Carried away in the summer wind­
make no mistake, this is no breeze,
bown away with
the tiny blue and yellow spring flowers,
the fresh rain dirt scent of purity,
the sunny park day Frisbee dogs of joy,
pen-less.

I would rather not leave him without my wallet,
I would rather not forget my name,
I would rather not be pen-less
but I’ve been on fire kissing
my wounds away
and this I will not trade for words,
but I would not ask
my words to leave.

Shed

One step, shed.
The curtains undulate,
the pink sunset clouds
of the light reflected
illuminate my sky wall.
It’s dark. It’s Saturday afternoon.
One step, shed, kiss,
pull away.
I know it’s not force,
it doesn’t feel like force
I’m reacting like it might as well be
force.

One step, shed, peel,
pull away.
These layers seem endless.
I’m losing sight of my core
between sobbing fits.

The week before
I cried so much
I broke my nose ring.

One, two steps, shed,
peel, pull, raw.
Who, you and I, are,
two and three.

I’ve been sleeping
with my tongue pressed
against my teeth
and although I’m healing
and everything is going to be fine
I’m sleeping with my tongue
pressed against my teeth.

You help me undress
and, three step,
hold me through the nightmares,
and two step, tell me that
you love me and,
one step, I know
you are not going away.

Thousands Slipped Through Time

thousands slipped
through time.

Cascade of ashes
drizzled the color of death
in slow motion.
Thousands slipped
through time,
millions watched
in horror.

Slowly and easily,
the poison seeped,
we sat still through the drone
of news reports,
I sat still in shock.

Slow and and an easy
life, a commodity,
freedom, just in time,
as thousands slipped through
time as time
slipped through millions.

Coffee, Lover, Pen and Paper

Filtered fog light feeling
ok, more than that,
better than
ok, better than the average bear.

Lover, coffee, pen & paper feeling
calm, more than that,
he tickles my left sock-less foot
and turns the pages.

Swallowing coffee sound clock tick-toc sounds,
a sneeze in the green room feeling,
stretching body tingle, more than that,
feet curled under
I’m still aware of time,
I’m still aware of work clothes.

Where are the morning cats?
bastards, and even more than that,
my furry kids, I love them,
one usually sits between us
and spends most of his time shifting,
the other keeps suspicious eyes watching.

There, almost an hour of feeling
peace, more than that,
better than,
ok, happier than the average bear.

Bus Stop Woes

On the verge of tears
I don't know why
I seem to have lost my edge
but not my venom.

Two gay men are
sitting next to me
talking and both picking linto
off one’s jacket,
men friends,
and the girl crossing the street
doesn’t seem convinced
that the bus won't hit her.

I, too, have the eyes of someone
not yet convinced, not yet.
My mother warned me
about running with scissors,
she never mentioned
running with fears.

I try to dance with Madonna
in my mind but my chest is tight.
It could be the dampness
hanging halfway through the skyscrapers
with “v” shapes everywhere,
it could be this city,
It could be me.
I cling to my bag, my portable player,
my bus transfer,
and my breath.

We stop.

Somehow, in some fashion
which I have yet to understand,
I am walking and I start to feel it,
being alive, being happy,
being in love and I stand
accused of glowing
on only five hours of rest
and a pair of aching lungs.

Somehow,
in some fashion
which I have yet
to understand.

Bliss

Dogs
standing in doorways,
men too,
you.

When you touched me
you went through me.

Secret breath kiss,
envelop me.
You.

Night bed times
so close we melt,
so close
we melt and the room gets hot,
I can’t think, and I get thirsty.
The timber of your voice
through my bones
lulls me, I am cradled in bliss,
I purr.

We sculpt the only thing,
what we are about to
become, the only thing.
Perfect.

I am superstitious, I am
rebellious, I am neurotic,
I am falling and I am true.
This is the best idea,
this whole thing about me
and you.

When I am beautiful
I am a reflection of you.

When you touch me
you flow through me.

Chocolate Milk Summer

You won’t even know
all the stuff I don’t say,
all the stuff I keep inside,
all the ways that the words don’t come out.
all the ways that I savor you
like chocolate milk.

I want my mouth on you
I want to feel your breath near my lips
I want your hands around
my skinny muscular arms
I want to surrender to you
in the same way that I fight everything else.
I have a craving for you,
like chocolate milk.

When I read your letters
I get drunk on you
high on you
into you.
I drink you body and soul,
like chocolate milk.

It’s lonely here
the temperature seems fake,
I’m not used to it,
the window is wide open
and the ocean sounds of the highway cars
are not city sounds,
not country sounds,
nor anything like you.

The clock radio is lying about the time
and the songs are faint and I don’t know
any of them.
I’ve left my clothes in piles
everywhere,
cans of peas and corn and lima beans
everywhere.
I miss you, I miss being home,
I only use up a third of the bed when I sleep.
I went grocery shopping in a small town
and bought chocolate milk.