The Log

Killing two Birds With One Stone

2008-05-02T08:11:00.000-07:00

A flash of finger down my neck
And the wren sings to the dove
Perhaps I am in a different body, or a different time
But no, there he is in his anger
The door slams, but I am too intoxicated
With my mistake

I can feel his breath on my lips
Is mine just as sweet
When a wren builds a nest
Will the eggs hatch a tuft of white, or a smothering of brown

The touch was too intimate
It spoke of knowledge that only he should share

As the lights draw dark
And my arms twine closely with the dove
I watch as his body breaks
And I have ruined everything.

What Goes Around Comes Around

2008-05-02T07:12:00.000-07:00

I was a creative child
a liar, manipulator, adult impersonator
There wasn’t anything that I couldn’t have
think, dream, take

I was the kind of child that parents forgot was a child
The kind of child left alone to take care of her self
The child in the corner of the playground holding court with her imaginary friends

Then one day I forgot about myself
And I remembered everybody else
they wanted honesty
asked me to sacrifice
I gave it to them and forgot how to take

But I still have one imaginary friend to speak to
Another child that may come tomorrow, next week, next year
That may have my eyes or my blonde braids

I tell her to take, and breathe, and create, and love only her self
And when I give birth I’ll give her a kiss good bye
As she creates her own life without me
I’ll be smiling and forget that she’s a child

Just Before I Sleep

2008-02-17T16:59:00.000-08:00

To rest my eyes
And bury my day in a pile of blankets
To turn my thoughts like god creating the Garden of Eden
As sleep whirls

Like a leaf
Turned around and around
With just a flick of the wind

There is a song in my head.

To fade into my self
A smile held back only with my teeth.

To turn into warmth
To be wrapped in warmth
To swim in the warmth

When the lights finally shut off
And the world crumbles away.
Like the moment before complete bliss overtakes my body
And I can’t help but cry out
In sheer joy.

This is death, and birth, and sleep
And I curl more into my mattress
As my body shivers and goose bumps cover my arms.

The Groom

2008-02-16T08:50:00.000-08:00

My neck turns
and in the corner of my eye his image flickers
like a gold coin
found in a bushel of reeds.
Do I pick it up?
Place it in my pocket for some bread?
Or perhaps a better use might be
for luck.
But alas, as I reach down
my fingers scrape the surface
and the gold turns to tarnish.

I will keep it anyway
for luck
for all gold fades
and it must have been luck to see it in its glory.

Perhaps

2008-02-16T08:46:00.000-08:00

Perhaps
the world can tilt
and I can converse in sensible tones
without the anxiety
as sweat pours down my legs
and the carpet trips my steps.
See how I impress?
The bangles clang on the slight arms
their eyes bloom as lotus
as mine wilt in the sun.
My mouth has begun to spew serpents, instead of diamonds
when the prince approaches the well.
But perhaps.
I can grow into my clam shell,
my Venus body will become inoffensive,
but their earings catch the sun
just as it hits the horizon
their bright colors burst open like flames.
Perhaps,
but not today.

The 1000 Year Old Temple

2008-02-16T08:43:00.000-08:00

When standing among rocks older than dirt
with carvings of gods you don't know
the sun beats on your back
and you wake up
anew, young
without the curse of time
until you spy the crumbling wall
and the modern trash can
and the world is just as it was
old, used and asleep

1.08

Ping

2006-06-27T09:04:00.000-07:00

He moved the fork between his
two fingers
before dropping it
to the plate
only to realize that
she had gone
and the
fork
was all he
had.

A Late Night Visitor

2005-09-20T16:54:00.000-07:00

My leg itched.
Domino dust was falling onto my skin.
It burned underneath the blanket.

Only with much effort did my sleep heavy eyes open.
I could hear the rain outside,
tapping my window, wanting to come in.
I was not alone.

I blinked.
I was in the shower, washing away the dust.
The burning stopped, but I wanted to stay longer, under the water.
I sat down, opened the shower door.

My fingers were beginning to prune.
The wrinkled landscape turned white with chill.
The constant churn of the water through the showerhead
drummed on the porcelain tub.

I saw the finger first.
The knuckle, large and blue, caught my eye.
A ring seemed to rest so precariously on the knuckle edge.
I wanted to push it back up to the palm of the hand,
as I often did to my own ring, when it had shifted with movement.
But there was no palm, just a gathering of fingers, curled.

A shape beamed from the dense steam,
hip bone, hem, elbow, a few toes.
Wisping in and out of clarity.
the beam of light and blue solidified part way.

This half person, headless, stood inches from my own dangling arm
Neither she nor I created a reflection in the mirror,
The fog, so thick, covered the walls.

That ring, it called like a beacon in violent waves.
A diamond wrapped in tiny circles, around and around
Silver and black.
I wished with all my being for my long ago wedding ring,
Buried somewhere deep, to find its way home this moment.
If I had a knife, I would have cut my finger off,
It screamed for companionship.

Her dress moved.
The fingers uncurled.
I could not longer lay still surrounded by water
but the leaden water pressed against my chest
like a train running over the tracks of my ribs.
My arm still dangled from the edge, limp.
My heart sang, a deep bellowing song of sorrow.
The ring, I must have it.
It would fit so perfectly on my cold wet skin
Its smooth silver wrapping my tender, soft skin.

The curled hand was soon upon me.
A loving hand to my cheek.
Such a comfort.
On my check, then through.
The ring, it was in my mouth.
I spit it out onto my fleshy belly.
Its shine, a dull rust.

There was no need for a towel when I stepped out of the shower.
I was just going to go back to bed,
and with the heat, a little air on my back felt good.
I was naked, but a small silver sliver around my finger.
I laid on the bed
Letting the night air smother me.

My toe began to wiggle
on its own.

She had followed me, wanting me to stay awake.

A Message in a Bottle

2005-08-18T15:29:00.000-07:00

The bottle opened.
inside, a small sea shell
white and worn, with small grooves from the sea.
my thumb moved along the edge
carving its name onto my print.

I threw it back in the ocean
with a swift flick of the wrist.
as tempting as it was to watch the speck of white
get smaller and smaller and smaller
as it swam across the tip of the ocean,
I did not.

I turned my head and faced the wind
letting it lift my skirt above my knees.

... August 2005

Unexpected

2005-08-17T10:33:00.000-07:00

Finding a person in your pocket
well, that's unexpected.
I go to a friend's party,
drive a stranger home,
and there it is
a person falling into my pocket.
I study him, like I study a penny,
to see if he should remain
tucked away next to my hip bone.
I leave him there
forgetting I was ever without.
I wear the same pants everyday
just so I don't have to empty my pockets.

...July 2003

My Kinda Man

2005-08-17T10:31:00.000-07:00

I travel down your 10 freeway
rolling the window down,
tracing the telephone wires.
Coasting along your deserted streets
your air spills through my hair
and your fingers spread across my back like wings.

My fingers carress your battle scars,
riot remnants.
You've seen the worst in people,
yet your starlit scars continue
stretching your arms as far as you can.

Your poker face won't work with me,
seeing the beauty of you.
Your landscapes is glowing
under a California sun.
Cruising along your arteries
I wish to hear your heart beat, my L.A.

...March 2003

Autumn

2005-08-17T10:05:00.000-07:00

That empty shell sitting on the table;
that exoskeleton shell of a bug
left on the table counter, waiting
for the wind to pick it up and throw it god knows where,
is me,
brown, brittle and crisp
like a fallen leaf on the ground
snapped underneath my feet as I cross the street.
One false move, or a snap of a butterfly's wing,
and I, the shell, am crused to dust
brushed off the formica with a sponge.

That beetle making its exit
across the kitchen floor
into the crack in the wall leading to freedom
filled with greener grass and white picket fences,
is you.

And I let you do it too.

That's a turn we never saw coming, the bettle and this skin;
the wanting to be a shell of a thing
hallow and delicate
beggin to tbe crushed.
But the trees all shed their leaves in the fall
and the leaf welcomes death
like an accepting mother letting her child into the world.
We rake them into piles
ignoring the grave suicide of nature.

That row of trees there,
growing side by side,
each shedding its summer weight for thinness of winter,
shaking every bit of excess,
is us.
Bare boned, barely breathing,
taking in slow breaths,
conserving energy through the cold
without mittens and scarves wrapped around our trunks
courageously baring the brunt of the world
naked.

...January 2003

Night in my Car

2005-08-17T10:03:00.000-07:00

The large white moon hangs low
in the navy blue thrities movie,
while Saturn bursts a crater,
ash and fire spit from its rings.
I fall back into his arms.

Driving in my car
I am in the passenger seat
and twice in the back
watching myself drive the stick shift
while he turns the wheel.

I find a book with twisted letters
while natural disasters outside cause death.
The letters fall off the page onto the carpet,
sentences, paragraphs, chapters all causalities.

the world turns to sand
while the stars become beach balls
floating over my head.
He picks up the book and tries to read
but I change my mind
and would rather drive myself and myself and myself around.

...April 2002

Reading "The Best Cigarette"

2005-08-17T09:59:00.000-07:00

I'm reading this poem about cigarettes
and it makes me want one
even though the few that I have had
have left me
unimpressed
but this author's smooth words
envelope me in a thin smoke,
making me want to hold something
between my fingers
and gently kiss the tips
of thin white lighted rolls.
His words speak through
the smoke rings
and mix together
when they meet at the ceiling.
And when that cigarette
becomes a train
leaving trails of smoke behind
as the poet works at his typewritter
I imagine myself a passenger
waving my hands
to an abandoned lover
waving back at me
with tears in his eyes
while I smile through mine.

...August 2003

Sound of Things

2005-08-17T09:45:00.000-07:00

Your words, palpable,
press on me
like a wet wash cloth
sinking into the shape of my face.

Conversation, a land mine,
just like they say
blows up, words
become ten times their normal size.

I am lost
wandering in my own thoughts.
I listen to the sound of you,
like warm milk,
dripping down my throat,
until I see daylight.

...June 2003

The Most Unusual Day

2005-08-12T16:25:00.000-07:00

I took off my hat today,
and instead of putting it on the coat rack,
like I always do,
I ate it.

It was tasty.

I then put on my shoes
and walked the dog

inside the house.

But my wife, oh the dear thing,
she did the craziest thing.

She kissed me hello.

...July 2003

My Brother, Age 14

2005-08-12T16:24:00.000-07:00

He carried the garbage can
out the door
with one hand.

He never spoke a word
or sighed
like I did when I was his age.

...August 2003

2:52am

2005-08-12T16:23:00.000-07:00

My best editing
arrives at
the afternoon of the evening.

I, the lone watchman
atop my lighthouse
keep watch over the white sea
guiding lost words to their rightful place.

...September 2003

The Gentle The

2005-08-01T16:27:00.000-07:00

A word
as simple as THE
consumes my mind.

THE.
T and H pulled together in a form so tangible
like silk
wrapped around my teeth.
E pushed out like air,
the breath,
the wind between the leaves like the breeze through my hair.

The article is the noun's companion,
the most compassionate of all,
the gentle lover, the peaceful singer,
the kiss on the neck that stays long into the night.

And yet I avoid THE, deny my muse
when I begin my lines.
Because, although the gentle giant can soothe me to sleep
he can be childish and unimaginative,
I am unworthy, with my fickle nature,
always wanting something new.

...July 2005

Waltzing Matilda

2005-07-28T09:48:00.000-07:00

Tonight, the stars dance on tiny white tables
to the music of a singing waiter moon.

And there she sat, in all her glory, perched upon her chair,
legs angled.

Like an ant, I march from her toe to her skirt hem,
counting the tiny dots, tracing my future.
The fan blows her skirt higher and higher and higher

I am a man of substance.
I am a rock, a boulder, an unmoved landmark,
crumbling like an ant under a heel.

When her star eyes dance to the music of that white moon
I am ashamed.

I will go outside, I will greet her with the words of great men.

Alas,
The carpet seems to be eating my laced up shoe.

...July 2005

The Strawberry

2005-07-19T10:16:00.000-07:00

The seam pulses over the rich sweet mesocarp
barely holding its seed buttons together. The strawberry
waits to be torn open. Beneath the splattered blanket of night
covered with white droplets, small hands exploring the fields for fruit
stain their small hands scarlet biting into the red jewels.
The same fruit's color slightly fades beneath the market's flourence,
its shape shrinking under each shopper's exploring hands.
But soon the strawberry, becoming just a prop in a love story,
will nourish hungry mouths starving for other lips. The berry's
own skin smeared with whipped cream and dipped in fine wine
is cut into with one bite, slowly dripping onto lips and chin.

...April 2003

The Proposal

2005-07-19T10:15:00.000-07:00

His hand pushed my hair behind my ear
and I just stood
trembling when he came near.
His hand pushed my hair behind my ear,
the words thickened with fear,
If only I could.
His hand pushed my hair behind my ear
and I just stood.

...May 2003

Reason for Art

2005-07-19T10:13:00.001-07:00

It seemed casual enough.
Just a small preference towards his side of the table,
A slight movement of elbows.

I hoped he hadn’t noticed.

A sane person would not act at all.
A stable person would stay staring at the salt shaker.
Instead, I, reached for the ketchup bottle
With a lump in my throat.

Tonight I will dream of boats
Beaching me on shore
Without the hope of returning to sea.
My arms will pull the sail as hard as I can
Until they ache,
And I will awake with salt in my mouth,
Dry eyes.

I should pull back from the table.
I should go home.

...June 2005

The Races

2005-07-19T10:13:00.000-07:00

My vocabulary
starch stiff as a board,
fluidly flat,
like a pancake without syrup,
ran out of words
here.

And then here too.

But then picked up with momentum
like a race horse at the very end of a race.
Jockey poking and proding and beating it to death
Ticket holders roaring with their five to ten odds
Move your bloody ass poem, move it for daddy

And then a pause of self reflection.

Withering down my will to keep things together,
or on the page,
or even the subject matter,
which I haven't come to yet
but will soon.

Like now -

Another blank -

I have an idea,
twirling inside me
like a ballerina in Swan Lake
or a bee inside of a soda bottle licking the sweet sugar
watching the people he could be stinging from inside the glass,
but I'm afraid.

I falter, I fail.

I lie awake at night beating the race horse.

...February 2003

Strangers in the Night, Glances

2005-07-19T10:12:00.000-07:00

When my breath collides between my lips
a small sound comes forth, a whimper
that when heard by a person standing
with his head beside my neck
it alerts an inner system of wires and hooks
that changes his skin to a thick leather,
tough and unnerved.

Our brains switch, and I receive the jello mold inside his head,
cold and wiggly.

The floating peices of fruit block me
from seeing what comes next
and the world becomes a blur
of firsts and lasts.

...June 2005