Arigato/obrigado

It’s so cold and grey outside.

People seek refuge in the

heat of the teppan, but

no amount of sake can

warm the soul the way

a bossa nova lilting past the ears,

like a dream of palm trees

and turquoise water,

inhaled.

And the heart

grows rapid at the memories

of the heat and that

summer we spent

making love on the

beach in Salvador.

 

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Eyes Wide Shut

In the quest to blame and

vilify another for life’s

hardships and disappointments,

never must one discount

the real possibility that

they, themself, are to

blame because they are

likely an asshole or a

narcissist. But it’s easier

to look in the mirror

and see the beauty we’ve purchased

instead of the data,

the likelihood of which,

we are the common denominator

in our own misery.

Pussy-footing

A poem for my family at Thanksgiving: 

It’s the great white way

to traipse verbally around a

subject, avoiding any meaning

or complimenting freely

from the back of the hand

or the bottom of a martini.

 

And when one learns

the shortest distance from

a to be is a direct route,

a zipline of my words,

like a child who can walk,

it becomes a habit to speak

thus, in all situations.

 

But the delicate sensibilities

of the elite passive

aggressive and somewhat

intellectually dim, get

offended so easily by

crystal clear communication

and thoughtfulness

which has been fully formed.

 

It isn’t any wonder Thoreau ran

screaming to live alone in the woods.

I’m still searching for the place

where words can be understood

as a means of communication,

not offense, for people

who feign frustration but simply

are too obtuse

to actually comprehend their meaning,

much less their responsibility.

 

game over

Terrified all these years

to finally let go

and as soon as the wounds

healed from the coiled,

barbed grip on us,

It became apparent

that instead of falling

into my own darkness,

turning away from us

meant finally

soaring

to the light.

 

Get Thee To A Nunnery in Yosemite

The photographer’s narrative

stirs the soul,

and there is a deep connection

with the artist, and

the landscape: strewn with trees,

smooth boulders,

and the kinds of clouds which

look painted by an

immortal custodian, who also

wants the viewer to understand

why so many have boldly gone

and lost themselves in the forests.

Trees can’t say anything

stupid. A stream has never

uttered an ignorant comment.

Bugs are always trying to better

themselves. Not even once has a

leaf been passive aggressive.

The mountains are calling,

and they certainly must

have something more worthwhile

to say than hungover coworkers

or the lobotomized newscasters

on the network station.

Where is My Mind?

Some days it’s just too much

to live out these years in this

borrowed mom body,

saggy, aching, sleepy, grumpy

slumpy, rough, sometimes blind

and falling apart,

when it wants to spend countless hours

strolling through museums,

curled up on picnic blankets, reading Bronte

again and again, or simply talking

into the earliest hours about art and

good writing instead of sitting on these

bloody highways, making sure there are snacks

for sports practice, making meal plans

and dreaming of old boyfriends

Or maybe that quiet night at a jazz club

a million years ago.

Instead these wrinkles are worn like a

badge, proud earned.

Even the dreamiest recesses of the mind

know that these days of childhood

are fleeting.

They’ll end too soon.

And even though there might be time

to go and gym and put on makeup,

these carpool confessionals,

and midnight bedtime rituals,

are becoming much less plentiful.

So the dreams of the jazz club

and a restful evening

can wait.