Ballerina

The finest glycogen chain circles her

- neck- waist –dress-

like ropes of purest pearls

it adorns her.

With each footfall

of her relevé dance

a bead is dropped.

Each bend in her body

lessens the chain,

loosens her chains.

As the sweet thing falls away

its’ memory

is traced in the tracks of her sweat.

She leaves nothing in reserve

and with her final soufflé fall

she is finished. 

Speaking Russian

I’ve thought about the way

you knew Napoleon’s trail to Tilsit.

As if I could pull the amber of your eyes

from the Baltic,

but those saltwater shores

have hold on my double helix,

not yours.

Your origins are

deep winter,

fur hats, and tired physicists.

God, if I could,

I’d know you.

There’s something about the day

you were late for me.

And something about the way

your suits hit just the end of your shoulders,

that’s something.

Your skinny hips

and seemly lips

murmur secrets.

Only, I can’t hear.

Pheromones

She’s the red dress

with no sleeves

and no guesses

left.

The curve of her

lips, hips,

thighs, and eyes

draws his attention,

but there's more

than just details.

In nearing her,

lavender, citrus,

and something stronger

overwhelm him

Just like champagne

tumbling down

a pyramid of crystal glasses,

each cell whispers to the next

to straighten it’s back

and hold its breath.

With each synapse fire

he is

electrified.

With an awkward step forward,

he clears his throat.

River Pains and Judgments

Ezekiel 12:17-28

O rebellious house,

see how her waters climb

and ripen with their passing?

Drink your water with trembling.

For who knows, what things

of humanity’s foolish disruption

she has consumed?

Mortal, eat you bread with quaking,

while colonies of E-coli dance,

prance, and prattle, on

her slowly sinking swell.

The land shall become a desolation.

As Platte flows to flat,

she is the rotting answer,

of fevered prayers for rain.

The days are prolonged,

and every vision comes to nothing,

but the word that I speak

will be fulfilled.

Survivors Guilt

I don’t know what it is to be Tutsi or Hutu,

or collect machetes, engraved with the names of my neighbors.

 I’ve never been a “peace-keeper”

installed in NATO’s imagined attempts,

traced by the tears of General Dallaire.

I never took The Great Leap Forward,

and skittered through rice fields that were once my fathers’.

My voice, in the name of learning, was never lacerated

by The Hundred Flowers that stripped song from millions.

My lips never needed countering by calloused hands,

and harvest didn’t hold the heart of the empty-handed.

My high school had more than twelve survivors,

and Khmer Rouge sounded like nothing more than cheap makeup.

The blood and body of my brothers and brethren,

do not whisper as dust across an Ottoman desert.

Black Sea burials, Typhoid inoculation, and Tehcir Law,

have not stung my soul for decades.

My murder did not inspire Hitler. 

Stomach Cancer

Wind blows up mixed dust

as feet crunch the known road.

The old sorrel mare knickers

and draws close.

She knows what this halter means.

We trundle through tall weeds

and fields that don’t belong to us

until sunflowers scratch her shoulders

and tangle her swishing tail.

The saddle now straddles a fallen cottonwood,

and she’s left free to roll and lounge.

The new grass is her bed,

and she’s content.

Hours later, we’re back to the barn

where my father stands with full syringe.

He weeps.

I weep.

She falls.

Cobweb of Carbon

The inconvenience of soggy skin

is wearing thin

whatever patience I had left.

Prom night blue dances on filters

of the most perfectly meshed glass

that will never find Cinderella.

Last week, between tiny tornadoes

and overly large gloved hands

we built her pumpkin-orange.

But within those porphyrin stacks

lies a heartbeat,

based on every blood bound creature.

It’s iron relentlessly beating

for an escape from the cobweb of carbon

that sings its new life. 

Highlighter Pink

There she perched with pen poised.

Its bright pink a defiance

against her own vulnerability.

Her vibrance standing out

like ruffled feathers

daring any predator.

Gray

You were slipping all along.

I just didn’t see that

the feet that held you

were shaky.

As the fallen one

you called me angel

and trusted

with eyes that hadn’t learned to see broken.

I did not break you, no,

but you hadn’t noticed yet,

that every heart limps,

to the same four steps.

You see the break now,

see the mutilation of our kind.

We are but a broken people,

with not a clue where to start.

We go to the rumored beauty,

and find her drunk, sullen and uncaring.

She has faded.

All is fading.

They disappeared one by one,

until blue and green,

and red and orange

were meaningless.

But sometimes,

I remember them.

I hope you can too. 

Gone

Do you know what it’s like,

missing you?

Do you know?

It’s like plucking out hairs attached to the deepest portion of my being.

One by one, your lack ricochets through my every nerve.

I want to melt into you like butter on toast,

meld with you into something

better than bronze,

and not be left

wishing that souls could touch.

I want to swirl into you like colors,

harmonize with your tones,

learn your melody

and sing your song back to you.

You haunt me.

The rustle of sound as your hand sweeps my hair past my ear,

Your lips on my collarbone,

The amber of your iris reminding me of what sunlight can do,

The goose bumps that cast ten-mile shadows…

Darling…

I can’t breath.

House high and horizontal

You’re a stone. I’m a stone.

I guess that’s just how sinking works.

Are we just artists

with pockets full of us

trying to destruct in the most

creative way?

Am I the stone? Are you the stone?

A thousand miles and a day,

and I though India wasn’t far.

Your kisses are my India now.

God what choice!

Who’s the sinker? Who doesn’t want to float?

She’s wearing the pink better.

You’ve met all the right people

in all the right places.

I’ve met them too. 

Diamonds are deceitful.

Let me tell you what love is;

It’s the slowest chemical reaction,

that binds together lovers atoms,

electron pair at a time,

to form the slowest setting,

longest lasting,

hardest,

toughest ,

most concrete thing,

that you could ever imagine.

Love is a substance.

Too Young

But, I was excited on the kitchen couch,

And we drank peach punch like it was water.

You told me I could tell my fortunes in lead.

You told me that it had been there since 14.

I clung to your arms with more need than I have ever known.

I remember fingers, fake nails, and pink.

You told me that it was ok to make little lies.

You told me you loved him since 14.

And right there, in front of the Reichstag, over the bridge, you crumbled.

I’ve never held a human so tight.

You’ve never loved a son so much.

You told the world we were yours.

The Doenner meat was bacon,

and I swear you were yellow.

Your daughters knew what family meant.

You showed them that they were yours.

And now what?

I guess we get to see what little lies can do.

I wish I could hold you through this. 

The Potters Pots

Warm clay wrapped around chilled flesh,

to take the fear, to mold,

to mold the way that souls do.

They immerse.

They surround.

They warm.

Hair,

long hair

wraps around clay,

wraps around warmth.

God!

That I could pull you past clay!

That I could move you closer than close,

closer than words,

closer than thought,

as close as God.

Love. 

Adore

Making love out of music

Making talk out of taste

Making skin out of Teflon

Leave nothing to waste.

Waste.