Back Door Tea Party

Mad, free writing

Pulling the curtains to cover her nude figure,
singing songs about candy cigarettes and cat naps,
she pirouettes and says, “sure looks like rain.”
I can’t stand the circus act, I’m unraveling,
canoeing through bobby pins and hair bows.
Clinching fists and twisting my fingers
in a wave of anxious frustration
like gnarled roots and candy stuck in hair.
I’m just short of kicking and screaming
and responding in all CAPS like a middle school drama queen.
She kisses like a dog, all over and unconditionally,
and I just want to pry off my fingernails.
I’m so in love that it makes me mad.  

Red Light

You are
a woman growin’ gardens,
who’s afraid of 18 wheelers
that can’t maintain their lane.

You speak
in the rhythm of a slow drippin’ faucet,
in the tone of a strong southern moonshine,
I come runnin’ like a dog to your voice.

Your traffic light eyes are blarin’ red,
I’ll pretend that I am colorblind.
There’s too much sin in my eyes,
I don’t know how to wash sin from my eyes.



 

Castillo De San Marco, 2010

The fort,
tourists flocking,
photographing, gawking, burning in the sun,
re-enactment cannons thundering,
like a much louder childhood sling-shot,
like black coffee, plain,
bruising the sea,
washing waves high above the sea wall,
the smell of grilled meat being carried from the hot dog vendor,
fake soldiers slightly more real than toys,
salt air thick enough to stick to your tongue,
a chartered fishing boat passing through the Bay,
gliding slowly, pushed breezily,
I felt bad I leaned to kiss you here,
but robotically, you turned your head away,
your skin, soft and glowing white,
you never know what you’ve got until it’s gone,
we counted fish at the water’s edge,
until a fog horn blew and sent them away,
we sat for awhile on the bony sea wall,
holding, sweating, hands in o,n,e,
underneath the swaying palms,
you were a firework,
as we celebrated Memorial Day,
your secrets started pouring wine red,
I know when I drink I tell too much too,
and like black coffee, plain,
your bruises showed like a map of Caribbean islands,
again I turn to brush your lips with mine,
exposed, you abandon the fight.

In Flight Revisions

It’s this word,
instead of that word,
these words are related,
brother and sister.

Her hair was flowers,
Her mind, a swarm of bees.

No, that sounds awkward,
it needs to flow better,
it doesn’t slide from my mind,
or glide from the reader’s tongue.

Her hair was honey,
Her brain, a swarm of bees.