I met a girl with red dreadlocks
and Robin Hood eyes.

I never would have guessed
she was Spanish from her pale freckles.

Her accent reminded me of Las Ramblas,
La Sagrada Familia.

Unstuck my frozen memories of
fragrance peace, war protests,

battered bed sheets over balconies
and 'American-style' donuts

served without judgment. The happy ache
left behind in Gerona.

She makes photocopies. I stalk a map
desperate to pinpoint where I once

walked, slept, spoke the language.
God, I want to impress her.

But I'm caught behind a desk in America
And too quickly, she is gone.

early on a heathen mourning

ghost of laundromat
queen puffs at the window
likes her work, gets to talk. was
in the navy. got out. covering
hickeys her specialty. two
kids hence, she puffs, folds and
wonders "what if." speaks of
allergies, where they'll be
stationed and vacation with
folks in california. today
 
is different. fresh meat
enters, middle-aged, wishy
washy. wide eyes and dreamy
smiles greet jerry springer-esque
 
i settle in, then the pigs. buckets
of wet, never looking up, taking
over tables, carts, air. their bitter
lives dragging huge behinds.
 
i don't look up, eyes burn my
backside. a cauldron of the
needy, wanting, bitter, and
lonely. daytime TV starts early
 
if you know where to look.
today is fathers day. talk of
sitting home alone
and the weather and car payments and
 
hoping for a drop off. men only
drop-off or pick up, never stay.
just like at home. here the bitter
you, my love.

We encircled her
that February day.
Amid sustaining whir
she lay.

Had I known
ill emptiness to come,
I'd be there, still
hearing the hum.

Her feet were cold.
I tried to warm them.
She lay so still.
Mine own sweet gem.

Her brain, they said,
beyond all function.
The friar led the
extreme unction.

Oh, damn that day
with its bright big sun.
We loved the snow.
Now look what it's done.

My mother brings my father's god to him
in a small leather bag every Sunday morning.
God travels the road snagged in her pocket
smuggled past betting shop & doctor's office.

He travels through streets holy incognito
freshly cooked, dreaming of tasty souls
grace wriggling amongst her shopping.
A last meal served by a mother to some
other mother's son, a-ring-a-roses of Pietas.

God undressed, a white poppy rolled in flour
is eaten unseasoned by snaked tongues, power
and glory, going going gone! She turns the sack
inside out in case a piece of Jesus has hung back,
then tucks god's carrion bag in her top drawer along
with her sympathy cards and the comfort of crumbs.

Influenced by Langston Hughes, God to Hungry Child

Cry those tears, why won't ya
Lick those wounds, cos brother
you ain't got time for some Saturday morning cartoons

Aw'ight you dirty dogfaces, wipe clean those once youthful funny faces
Tie up those shoeless shoelaces, cos I'm bout t' take you to a worse place,
called your birthplace. Sorry, you won't be able to read about this in some
dusty governmental bookcase

So disregard those hunger pains, cos that ain't my rain, raining down
So stand up straight, and listen to what God hafta say

I didn't make this world for you
I made it for the rich
I made it for those over-achievers, who've achieved what it means to be me
I made if for those who enslaved, raped and murdered in my name

Nothing's changed
Hurry up and learn the game
Which game?
The game you couldn't tame
My bad, guess I gotta explain

Do you own stock in this world wide game?
Do you pay taxes for no reasonable gain?
Can you show a real profit for your work and strain?
Can you rap, sing, or perform sexual acts for the normally disdained?
Do you own oil, gold, and salt without any historical fault?

You, the children of war
Can't you see
I didn't make this world for thee

The moon has seen it all before in dreams:
the lovers' kiss, the midnight masquerade,
the child squalling in a humble cradle.
Remembers too, though distant, time's revenges
which, like the turning tides, leave on the shore
the husks of meaning that composed our lives
as so much flotsam for scavengers to pick.

The knowing moon shines on, and will outlast
small stars in earthly galaxies, and if
her presence is a pale foretelling of the sun
she has seen half our history, and often
our darker purposes. The betrayer
took the bread, although his heart had turned,
then took himself outside. And it was night.

I found this poem
on the bus
on the vacant seat
the beautiful stranger having gone

And I found this poem
in Starbucks
at the empty table

I found this poem
wide awake
at three in the morning

And I found this poem
half asleep
daydreaming
in the middle of the afternoon

I found this poem
difficult
like a teenager

And I found this poem
tender
and afraid

I found this poem
full of hope
and the fragilest words
(like hope and fragilest)

please look after this poem

Wedding Day

First sunlight falls
on a crisp, white gown,
then over my face
as I stir to recognition:
eyes open,
breathing faster,
I sit up in silence
to watch the
wind whisper through
a floor-length veil,
and my heart rejoices.

Inside a small stone chapel,
we light the inner candle
but don't extinguish the outer two,
for in marriage, the minister says,
you must find the capacity to merge
without losing your individual selves.
"Two flames, one light,"
we say in unison,
and my heart rejoices.

Up the aisle
as man and wife;
tiny bubbles tickle
my bare shoulders;
his hand squeezes mine;
the organ plays a blissful tune.

Walking along the canal,
I stop to smell
my rose bouquet:
Hepericum berries and greens-
All those pines climbed
as a child-
and my heart rejoices.

At our celebration:
cognac kisses,
his warm lips on mine-
the August sun beats down
but the lake breeze cools my skin
and dances with my veil
like clean sheets on a clothesline.
Our piper's song
meanders across the marina
as the wine fills our glasses
and the tears fill our eyes.

Later, we escape to the big dock,
as sounds become distant:
muffled chatter,
giggles between kisses,
my feet making rings
in the water-
and our hearts,
rejoicing.

Matachin

Red green plumes on your head
dance, dance, Matachin
Grinning men in black glass Dodge Rams
see you dancing, hear your drum banging
for a peso in the downtown traffic
 
Play your flute, Matachin
to the rhythm of snakehide drums
cut out hearts with obsidian blades
sacrifice drugged victims
splash hot arterial blood
in syringes given out by grinning men
in black glass Dodge Rams.
 
Push in the obsidian blade
push in the rusty sword
Push in the needle
watch AIDs and brother heroin
smallpox and Cortes
Huitzilopotchtli and you:
come with heart, veins, soul.
 
Red green plumes on your head
dance, dance, Matachin
do you know the Jaguar Rain Dance?
Will you dance it for a peso
in temples where Nahua eyes stare?