A Boy at a Wedding

He did his best to keep his distance from her dress
Blue, with lace on the hem
Her shoulders tan and soft
Warm from the candlelight
Flickering from the votives

He followed her past the guests
Moonshine over the field
Where she began to dance because no one could see
Her bare feet in the grass
He took his shoes off so he could understand

The beauty in the distance
Her hair unpinned at last
Running wild in Central Park

Hushed Affection

Love is after midnight
Inconvenient and covered in rain
Moments that fall beside quiet clocks
On patch-work quilts that were sewn before you were born

Delirious, drunk with opportunity and fear
A new chance
A new touch
Joni Mitchell on the radio

This is how your father felt about your mother
Very long ago
Fingers chasing silhouettes
Pillows that smell like skin

A lover in a friend
Holding you in the dark

Portobello

Pushing pulling prodding praying
Bruising, biting
I can never be alone
A light in the window, a street lamp smeared by rain
Portobello Road has old world wares and witching houses

I sat on his knee on the couch in the living room
I complimented his mother’s mosaic mirror
And the brilliant colors that it reflected in the light

Alcohol poisoned with licorice and peppermint
The sweets of a child
I was a child
I almost caught myself

Clouds over the moon, shadows on the storefronts
The empty silence, punctured by his needles in my thighs
Pressing against a wall

He leaned close and licked his fingers
Pressing them tight against the yarn in the candle
Extinguishing the flame
I thought that he hissed
But it was the wick, reacting to fire and spit

I imagined piano keys plunking Clair de Lune
And I tried to discover
I tried to find something to discover
I could only recall Jacob’s daughter Dinah
And how God let man be

We were in the dark
He decimated cotton that clung to skin
And bit beneath the surface
Playing inside where he trespassed
Quiet, he soothed, quiet now
This will all be over soon

The colors from the mosaics
Bleed into the wall
Where the oils of my skin seeped

YOU
MAKE
ME

A Morning Scene

The morning brought clouds over the moon
Grey mist on the water
Dawn songs from birds dipped in morning dew
Shadows on the storefronts, waiting for release
A few quiet walkers
Early morning explorers
Watching in awe
At street lamps smeared by rain
At green awnings flapping in the wind

The Adventure

We’re cruising on the burnt black road in John Steinbeck’s California. The road is sloping, bending, turning, squealing against the wind at five, six, seven in the afternoon. The sun is slipping, dropping into the sea – crashing into the rocks a thousand feet below. Our windows are down, we’ve been driving forever, and air is spicy with salty foam that rises up from the depths of the sand. My hair is knotted, these tiny, perfect knots that bring forth curls and splendor. And I think “I’ve wanted to do this for years.” I melt into the leather, it’s supple and warm. There are mix tapes on the ground, hundreds of compilations of moods and songbirds with acoustic guitars. The cassettes swim with notebooks and photographs, all that we have ever needed.

Tonight there is no story, and no one will know. I hum “America” and he sings the words but I don’t know his name. We walked off to look for America. There are thousands, literally thousands, of Polaroid pictures organized in clear plastic sandwich bags, sliding along the back seat as we glide. At our diner stops I’ve photographed the miss-matched diner lamps. I’ve found that diner lamps have nearly always been miss-matched with one another, bright plastic reds with gold trimmed greens that have engraved leaves, a cornucopia of textiles and American Colonial china. I can retrace our entrances and exits, our revolutionary road from the Post Road Diner in Connecticut to Skippy’s in Wisconsin, all the way back home to The Griddle. It’s my intent to publish them, to redefine this country with wonder and a new way to trail blaze West. I have to share this love.

It’s been a long time, so we pull over and watch the sun. We don’t want to come home yet so we turn back towards San Francisco – another night in the city. We work our way back up the state, claiming the afternoon, seizing the night. No one will ever believe what we have become. We link together, and run with the 101. A white Honda is our carriage, ushering our dreams into the night. Near Redwoods there’s this pulse – we felt it the first time too – boom, boom, whoosh – there’s a life in the trees. We suck it up, I pulse faster and breath like its all going to disappear forever by the next time I swallow. The road means that there’s this unbelievable new way to touch and speak. In the woods, like the wheat in Oklahoma, the air is sweet but dry in a dying nation. We’re crying to be resuscitated; I understand why the dew in the grass tastes like the tears of a child. I understand the intensity of adolescent ignorance. There are no lights but we’re flying in space. And then we’re slipping through, breaking in – our eyes are open, our eyes are open, our eyes are open.

The economy hasn’t gone bust; our mother’s haven’t left us to find our own bread. We have been forgiven. Time is this foreign construct of structure and reality and ticking. Tick, tick, ticking – we’re tripping. This is all far away now. Our hearts are beating. We’re on this impossible trip where we can go anywhere, anywhere in any direction. Yesterday we picked up a hitchhiker because we could. He had long grey hair and six punk rock pins on his leather jacket. He gave us two apples and an ear for a rainy stretch. We’re starving but it’s life, we’ve got life. We’re singing; we’re doubled over in the brilliance of our outstretched fingers and the light that drops from the trees, the mountains, the reflection of the sea. I threw my mobile over the cliffs in a rush to escape – and I’ve never – we’ve never…

Look at the moon. The beams form a cross in the sky but I don’t believe in Jesus. I still find comfort in the beams. Look at the moon. I’m on the moon, looking back on the sea. I’ve never seen it this way. Tonight is the end of the world, but we’re all going to be fine. We’ll stick together as we fade and we won’t miss the morning. Not any of us. We’re speeding on the jagged edges of a road that’s been cracked out of a mountain before we’re off, sailing, shooting into the black as we explode with all of the rest in this saturation of peace and beauty that I’d always hoped would befall our last moment. And I think to myself, “I’ve wanted to do this for years”.

Effervescence

The fuzz in his eyes is the same bleary look in the horse’s eye
The horse that lives on the carousel, in a black and white moment
Pinned to the wall

There are twinkling lights in the dark, pale skin in the light
A small tiptoe walk, a gliding, and haughty strut – he changes
He kisses fingertips, sometimes I watch
Sometimes I wish it were me

How does it feel, he asks, how does it feel
How does the sky feel when its orange on your skin?
When the leaves fall but they’re soggy and dank?
I could fall in love with anything at all

Burning pictures in a dark room
Chemical smell and red light
Quiet, focus –
Quiet, he’s focused

Tell me about your Mom, I say
What’s she like?
I don’t understand where he comes from –
I can’t imagine him a child tying a shoe –
A boy kissing in the dark –

He has a spark and he loves the Titanic
Did I know that now they think it was the rivets that made it sink?
No, I didn’t
He’s excited, I haven’t seen this for a while and to witness it feels like a gift
My mother must have felt this when I finally came home

Breathing up and down
Sighing tempos, cadences, codas
I never could write a song so I settled
He curls up tight, in blue plaid sheets

Tell me about your Dad, I say
What’s he like?
I understand where he comes from –
I see him small and hiding, watching Daddy and his cigar

He twinkles
He twinkles
He twinkles