Posts for June 18, 2018 (page 3)

About a year ago I was traveling
and in the airport bar I sat next to 
Two guys with U. S. Soccer embroidered on their matching polos
“Hey guys,” I said.  “Are we going to make the World Cup?”
“Sure,” they said confidently.  “There’s no way we’ll lose to both Costa Rica and 
Trinidad&Tobego.”

“Are you sure?” I said.  “Both Costa Rica and Trinidad look pretty good and our team looks pretty old….”
“No problem!” they said.  “All we have to do is play them both to a tie and we’re through.  Don’t worry.”
Well, I wish I could tell them to their faces “I tol’ ya so” but instead I’ll just say
¡Ve a México!

I always know
when poetry enters my soul.
I do not know it by sounds,
a sagging door,
the metal to metal squeak
that announces an entrance.

It the the sultry dance
words do, as they seek
me, tempt  me to write more,
having made their rounds
again, crawling across my soul,
my carpeted emotions, I always know.

those rhythms,
patterns,
the come to me
dance moves,
and their bump
and grind,
will win.
I will write.
I always do.

I write them
on impulsive lines,
for it is romance
they seek while I
celebrate love
for them
and their dance.

i escaped
to the woods 
for a while.
i needed
to recharge.
i’ve been back
less than a day
and you have 
already 
drained me.

I’m always surprised how it appears
bright and fresh on my fingertip.
It seems to spring from a secret
inner pool.  I imagine it flowing
through my body, an underground
stream.  At the doctor’s office, I look
away as they draw dark red tubes
from the plump vein in my right arm.
Once I fainted at the sight of a paper cut
and awoke with people standing around
observing me on the floor.
I knew I’d entered a new realm
with blood on my pants at 13.
Red reality like a matador’s cape.

Interlopers

one lone white daisy in 
to Bad Creek is a shine cave 
where a teenage girl bid the world 
of her fathers still,  far below the holy oak.

we follow bobolinks to some shade trees near 
the bank to listen to a kingfisher with some interest. 
you fancy the rivers reflections of far mountains.
a coyote lets us see her skirt tall grass where
turkeys also play.

we intuit we do not belong in this once Yuchi place.
we do not have the balls to bootleg, either,
but you hold my wrist still on your lap
where the current changes.

My bathing suit sticks to me 
like hot legs on leather seats.
My thighs rub at all their seams.
I can feel every curve and bump
and blemish on my body.
Exposed like Saran wrapped steak.
I am not lean meat anymore.
I am adjusting to my own price cut.
Clearance rack, 
thrown out,
And washed up.

all this madness                                                          
the thirst of many years                                             
the accumulated poison                                             
in an urge to possess                                                  
subtle sting                                                                 
of criminal silences                                                     
through millions of stone beings    
                            
what remains, are the transparent roots appearing    
a return in time to that other time                              
quietly, the grief. Loudly, the pain                            
the slightest hope                                                       
will form the exact language for                                
the thread and the hair                                                           
the fingers of the wind                                              
the caress of fabrics                                                   
the murmur of streams                                               
the one who captures color                                        
all the bells                                                                 
trembling in the ticking                                              
pulse of light  
                                                            
the same cloudy yellow sky                                      
above all, the magnificent                                          
the green-gold of your eyes                                      
I have never seen tenderness as great                        
a doorway open to                                                     
the violence of being                                                  
inky worlds                                                                
still full of sensations                                                 
where shall I turn my eyes?                                           

~ Cento of lines taken from Frida Kahlo’s Diary, translated by Barbara Crow de Toledo and Ricardo Pohlenz, p. 205, 206, 208, 209, 210, 213-216, 227, 229, 243, 249, 270, 273, 275

I’m too upset to write
fluidly,
those images of children
get to me,
fill me with heavy wordless sorrow,

Curled up tight

she couldn’t speak,
she couldn’t know,
Two months on the road
fleeing death,
in the arms of those
who would lose her,
for saving her.

According to my horoscope, “keep moving.
Don’t let laziness be the status quo. If you don’t
keep your promises, expect complaints.”

The romantic in me loves to play my heart out
but dislikes reminders about neglected plants.

I don’t want to stare at a monitor until I’m stiff
when a simple walk together will recharge my life.

Let’s take a trip downtown, out of town, any place
where I’m not running circles around you

and we participate equally in the adventure.

I do not vomit crystals
Or bleed sickly sweetened tea
I am simply an Earth woman
who likes to keep her clothes clean
Dark, smooth cacao and cayenne
suit me better
than the washed out South.
I’m done, please please
get me out.
I am surrounded.

Tears carving channels
through grit and glamour
Mean more than choking back,
let it fall away and FEEL.
I am simply an Earth woman
who wants to be raw, utterly real.