Dimples

 
Her rhinestone coral boots were scuffed as a fighter’s eye,
she straddled a cast-iron chair, squinting through smoke
—how long will you wait to whisk me home? 

When you are old as I am, devotion is brief, simple, and infrequent,
and I realized she never took off her socks, or her brassiere
—but I’m looking for a contradiction to inhabit, for it to

twirl its black curls on my fingers, dip deep in her dimples,
nudge-off corners, angles rounded in regalia of who she was
—and she swallowed every corner of my mouth.

Oliveira walked out while I made tea in a silver samovar my mother
gifted with weathered, wispy copies of Nabokov’s Lolita and Mashenka
—the walls a color too cloudy-mauve for her, I should consider 

forest green, she said. Last week I saw her buying halibut on the dock, 
shouting orders. I fell for her and her chihuahua, the way that babies cry
—unabashedly for their mothers. It’s all I felt that day. I followed 

her home wishing to be that dog. We went for coffee. She dazzled
like mirrors at noon at the mention of her name.  Today
—she fizzles down into salt and tide: a dark twilight of starlight 

at the slightest hint of my interest, giving way to asphalt and silence.
Today I’m an ache hysterical. Sundial discarded, howling at this
—salty skin and hair crowding and crossing Polynesian archipelagos 

now—and her kiss?—winds to blow Arabian sands home.  
Pushpins to close the parts and hollows in the carpet 
—of a bedouin’s door.

love, like blushing

lilac & jasmine—

pale fingers reaching

from dark to soft light

of my moon;

now

there is only lust

& listless moments

like liquid leaking &

I wonder

when & where

I left

the pen

of my belief

in more.

old purple iris
peeks from overgrown garden
no apology

i am delicate

i didn’t learn this until i was taught

ten years with a woman

who only knows my struggles

and the triumphs i give her

the ones around me see something else

because that picture was created

by those who raised me

and said “you’re special,

smart, talented, better.”

so then what happens when reality

hits

there really is no such thing as special

because everything is special

so then by definition

nothing

is

i am sad but grateful

a dichotomy between worlds

of acceptance and hatred

and maybe someday

i’ll write a poem without the

pronoun i am

She woke up one Sunday morning
She said a prayer and asked for strength
She put her makeup on just perfect
And for the first time in a long time
The mirror showed her grace

She heard him stirring in the kitchen
Last nights whiskey in the air
She could hear him carrying on and cussin’
Then the woman in the mirror said
You gotta get out of here

Cause you’ve been
Broken down and kicked around
One too may times
You finally found the strength 
And he ain’t gonna break your faith

She said I might go back to school 
I know you take me for a fool
Despite what you say
Something occured to me today 
Guess what…

I am pretty

He took a drag off his cigarrette
With that patronizing look on his face
He said…awww here we go again
You got that little suitcase in your hand
Let me guess…you’re gonnna find your dreams today

She said, you know I just might
But either way I’m gonna get out..I’m gonna get out
of this god forsaken place

Cause I’ve been
Broken down and kicked around
One too may times
I finally found the strength 
And you ain’t gonna break my faith

She said I might go back to school 
I know you take me for a fool
Despite what you say
Something occured to me today 
Guess what…

I am pretty

You are my sunshine

Spins on a vinyl

The scratched record changes the singers voice

Words are skipped

Slurred

his voice now disorted

In my dreams

There is always music playing

Songs like this

Simple

Innocent

Childish

But yet they always warp 

Into my nightmares soundtrack

The record scratches as the music prepares to play again

a repeated occurrence

I know what song is being played

its always the same 

One Last Meaningless Conversation with Dad

The first (and last) time he picked me up at the jail, he gave me 
a cigarette, asked if I was ok, said I could use his shower. 
I said, “thank you,” and watched the wind wrestle the roadside cypresses 
lower. The window defrosting to a clarity I could not make out. Thanks-
giving rain charcoaled the highway’s overcast shush.

Later, showered, calmed, in civilian pants and a pair 
of clean white socks he tossed to me, I lit a second cigarette. Exhaled 
the tension of arrest and the congestion of D pod, 
contagious muscle ache of the county lock-up. Picked up a Nat Geo 
from the table to forget the nothing I knew I had to do. 

“You’re a fuck up,” he said. 

I shuddered. Stared at Europa, a cutaway diagram, an icy shell.  
The room recently mopped, Murphy’s oil after. A crime scene cover-up. 
My nostrils twitched with the scent of oven cleaner: his comment. Mercy. 
I remembered when I was younger 

mercy. 

His hands break a promise, fumble for flask, to wet unquenchable thirst.

Put on the goggles
Check out the scene
Take in all that surrounds you
And all in between
Bypass the safety notice
You’ve read it before
Click through disclaimers
Which you mostly ignore
Find a good game
Play a few minutes
Find a few others 
Who express interest

And now you’re immersed in the midst of the game
And now you’re thoroughly and highly entertained
And now you’re thrilled and totally engaged
And, somehow you’ve entered a whole different stage

Where you now get to fight for your life
Against your worst possible enemy
And now you’ve lost all your extra lives
Used up all your energy
And right in the face of 
This all-powerful entity
You muster up the courage and SWING

and

coincidentally

Accidentally shatter the screen on your LED TV
Because you didn’t pay attention to the boundaries
Clearly spelled out for you, but it’s now too late 

Here’s a reminder that you were told all of this
In this poem
In lines six 
Through eight