Junkie/ September 23, 2010

One of your lips got caught in the door,

It shuts smoothly now, not like before.

Begging to be noticed, pleading to be heard,

I am sick of the night’s excuses,

But I savor her last words,

Watching as they descend, isolating speech and thought,

If I had known, your exit line faltered and got caught,

I would have saved it, somehow.

It is a spacious house,

With curves like a woman,

Balconies and secrets,

Not so easy to come by.

I make a living, you wait

Rolling carpet after carpet,

Resting your numbed feet.

You have left out the cheese,

For the mice, or my ego,

In the dark the cubes align,

Like bricks for a wall,

I do not stall or have second thoughts,

I keep them safe from you.

I greet your wild eyes,

Tracing the arcs in your ruined face

Remembering our history,

Before the selfish tourists,

Who wanted only flashes ,

Of who we were .

Le Mouton Noir/ September 21, 2010

My father does not listen,

He passes and passes,

Swearing places look familiar,

I cannot throw him keys from the balcony,

His circles are useless they make me dizzy,

I would send him pigeons, a telegram

I have arrived it would read.

But his doubts always hang,

Prey in the jaws of a lion.

My mother does not cry,

There is a river in her heart, four faucets

Each at it’s own pace pouring and pouring

She has patience for them all

But no space, slowly her ankles disappear

She is drowning because she opened gates.

In her house, there is a light that invites,

Jealousy from the Mediterranean,

Silenced they watch her kindness,

Unable to apologize.

My sister does not sleep,

She worries and worries,

About the children with no shoes,

The neighbor’s car and newly painted walls,

She keeps lists and markers in her purse,

She knows better than to curse, or follow fires

Her sole desire is to fall into a crevice

Forgiving as her childhood, but with fewer flowers.

Le Mouton Noir grazes in the shade,

The grass he prefers is really tobacco,

Numbing his limbs and knotting his fleece,

He wanders and wanders,

Not belonging to a Sheppard or flock,

Onlookers believe him to be lost,

Mad with independence,

He passes over the pasture

A blemished cloud absent of logic,

But never forgotten.

Predator/ September 19, 2010

Your anger borrows many faces

Each night I wait for them,

With coffee , music, cigarettes

Running like the hands of the hour,

Menaced by you.

Tonight he is a father,

Distant and aloof,

Later you decide he’s a stranger on the roof.

With an unnerving smile,

Smoking brands you can’t find

Most nights you have trouble,

Making up your mind.

I dream of the death you have not met,

I’ve discussed it with a neighboring crow,

Who watches you starving to be touched.

His pity is a cognac I’m saving for the night

You think your age is an advantage

I should surrender to, and kneel,

I resist your neo-nazi sex appeal.

I am waiting for our eyes to lock,

The shock of the moquette will travel

Like an overdue revolution.

Liberating barefoot continents where patience has died,

Only then I’m afraid, will I be satisfied.

The crow needs a perching place, somewhere to be fed

I’ve offered him your head,

A makeshift bed

Free of all resentments.