In Progress...Sorry for the confusion!
yesterday reminded me
of a sad french film we saw
once in paris. about a woman
and there was an ice storm that made
even the Champs Elisee look lonely
and cold and too tired to be angry.
the woman's hair was held by frozen fingers
and her sweater was like a chandelier
of water beads and ice shavings.
and she looked like a cliche
of a lost angel, and someone tried
to repent and someone tried to find her
and save her. and even though we
didn't have subtitles we knew
the woman was in pain and we knew
the ice wasn't going to melt,
because we could read the tea leaves
and besides, thats how all french films end.
and i remember how you held
my hand all the way out into the street,
and i huddled up next to you knowing
that soon i would be lost
and that soon it would start
snowing again.
At 19 I'm growing up
in a world where handshakes
replace decoder rings and
you will trade me a fiscal year
with baloney for an advertising
agency on rye. I'm supposed
to have issues with my father
and my childhood and my
sexuality, which can be picked
apart like the turkey at Christmas
dinner, (which, by the way, I don't
eat-I'm too politically correct to
munch meat, sleep only with the boys
or major in poli sci.) I call
the world my oyster and I say I've
found my pearl, but no one believes
me-they say I'm repressed. I
can't be 97% happy and not be
"on something". I sit around and
write poetry and color in picture books
to keep from going sane.
There's a jar full of bubble stuff on
my desk, next to my hard drive
and late at night when I think
no one's watching and
my paper was just lost
in a virtual/cyber-god-knows-what,
I sit back and blow
mutable spheres of ephemeral
glass into the dark space above my bed.
The moonlight and streetlight dance in the window like
a couple entering a ball,
drifting over your face like a black and white negative
of yourself
as you stand so surreal in front of me.
My body is innocent, absent of your touch and every time
you move nearer to me my body
jumps with excitement, a mexican fiesta that promises
free cervesa and dancing till dawn.
My breasts get hard and my defenses soft as your fingers
reach my skin,
every crevice becomes hot and moist like your lips,
my mind fondles you in the promise of this early morning.
I can't even think straight and you smile at my obvious
nervousness.
I'll wake in the morning to see you sleeping, softly,
close
to me and I will fall back into sleep and dream.