Suburban Mistress

Suburban
Mistress
Casually
Adept
At
Killing
Insects
Vicious
In her
Innocence
Calmly
Keeps
Her
Distance

Diamond Dust

You asked me my favorite color
    and I hesitate...
I envision the clear turquoise ocean crashing
on a beach strewn with silver driftwood,
it all reflects back the platinum sun and
a bleached blue sky,
so I tell you blue....
You ask me my favorite jewel
    and I hesitate...
for a glittering rock in a setting is nothing like
a sky sprinkled with diamond like stars twinkling.
The purples, blues, yellows, and greens
of river stones removed
from the rushing water would make
a less than spectacular necklace.
The blood of an ancient tree
is not complimented by facets.
The labors of a shellfish
come close in their iridescence,
but the whole shell of an abalone
is much more lovely;
but I tell you pearls,
or maybe that I like stones other than jewels,
I tell you that I love rocks.
I bring you a smooth bit of schist
as glitzy as a tiara
and turn it about in the sun,
comparing it to the Milky Way,
one of my most treasured of jewels,
which sparkles in a similar fashion
to the turquoise waves
tipped by platinum drops of sunshine.

Beach

In the troughs between

the ocean's relentless tide

are your eyes: hazel

and lit from behind

by white hot sunshine.

Beach sand smooth worn

to powder soft is

the skin of your shoulder and side:

speckled with seashell freckles

that beckon me to pause and inspect

while I stroll languidly

the expanse of your flesh.

Wafts of sea breeze lift the edges 

of my sense, tickling

soft around my contours, as your

eyelashes flutter on my

cheek, and neck.

The arc of powerful waves

fold over as the rise and fall of your hip

slips high and low beneath

the abandon of my eager finger tips.

Springfield

Not rhyme. No haiku.
No humorous convoluted
ballad of misfortune.
No romance. No grace.
Just blocks of heavy text,
thick and clunky
cinderblocks
of old man
standing on a corner
holding a brown bag
brown bottle lip peep show
poking you in the eye,
driving by
piles of rubble and bits of trash
overgrown by dead weeds,
a tangle of brush, tree limbs
fallen fencing
next to a woman
with pendulous breasts
who cups one to her chest
lumbering barefoot
across the gas station parking lot
heading toward
no door nor nowhere
as far as the eye can tell.
Between the light way, MLK Way
and the setting sun
nestles juvenile detention
East of Main Street:
broken concrete, mad bum pushing
shopping cart sculptures
wearing little in the radient heat.
A busy ballet of cop cars
tours hither and yon,
up and down the side streets,
back and forth on the the main streets
parked and patrolling the back streets
dizzying dance of keeping the peace
past derelict mansions
and sagging tree limbs.
A chicken bone, cigarette butt, toilet tissue:
front yard found objects
Northside treasure hunt
Lone shadow train track
passing lazy freight cars
stopping for hours,
slow to stop and to leave.
Depending on context, when
a woman smiles, boldly
at you as you drive past,
is she friendly or just working?
A bitter man stands on a street corner,
A man, with weight on his chest,
mumbling curses, obscenities,
a sermon to no one the eye can see,
(save God)
from his seat on a newsstand
in front of a drive through
liquor store.
Rims that cost more than cars do
Little girls don't walk alone
Pretty boys get followed home
A driver inches past, returns
slowly stalking by.
Great gouges in asphalt,
sticky tar scent accents
baking concrete.
Mama wants her little baby to be
big time and beautiful someday,
proud to see
what this garden can grow.

Dread and Dreams

Better a tall order than a skinny scenario
Build ambitions taller than pyramids
with rivers carving caverns beneath their
    mythic proportions.
Bought myself a case of beer with the last
    ten bucks i had,
Left alone, I will research pedantic punditry and inane leads
Gurus, artists, authors
Struggling to redefine reality
Which has no formula to include us.
Not unique, no snowflake melting as I touch ground
No lung or vessel pushed too hard by stimulants
No wavering false sense of self
I am a moth fanning flames, waiting for
    the right moment to plunge
Elevator speech, reduced to a soundbite,
    my feet itch to take flight
Through unknown corridors of corporate tombs
The living dead I dread myself to become
Marching in thick blocks, locust swarms
Unthinking, unfeeling,
Illiterate and totally insensate to all but
    pleasure and pain.
I'm not content to be a sand grain.

Layers of Life

Life will not be denied.
This is why
A baby cries
And a body dies
Gasping in pain.
Life is a struggle
To animate the cold bones
Made of dust and stone:
Ordinary comfort less molecules and elements
Bound together to comprise your body.
Life is a mischievous spirit
That takes up residence in
Otherwise orderly collections of atoms
Lawfully abiding the patterns
Established by the universe's dynamics.
Life moves in, takes up residence,
And will not let go without a fight.

Opal

My heart is an opal,
the light of life shining through
earthly vesicles of beaten stone
worn smoothe into granules:
interspersed with sentiment.

Try as I might,
nothing but artifice
hides the softness of my outside,
the days are gouges
undesired on my surface.

I do not long for youth,
and acknowledge the depths
and time it takes to bring my form
to its present spangles of
an imperfect spectrum.

But somedays I'd rather have
both beauty and hardness,
like a diamond.