Relationship

Pronto? (Hello?)

Inspired by Robert Rossellini’s film L’Amore

Cold water on lips

Eating, sleeping, why?

Exotic hell in the mirror

Black phone on white pillow

Eyes broken listen

Expectantly

Disheveled hours of waiting

It rings

A storm on a trembling mouth

“I told you not to speak; I’d accept anything.”

“You sound distant, how strange.”

“Hearts and stars, I can see with my ears.”

Ruined Sonata

Back then
You’d be writing and humming
It was sort of beautiful
Now a stab in the heart

I’m not far from
Every night
Every door
Every light switch
Every staircase

Not far from despair

You always kept to yourself
Didn’t you?
Everyone could see it
Your defenseless confusion

But still I loved you
Would break for you
Which no one can explain such things
Can they?

The morning has left bags under my eyes

Just like that time in Paris
Where we took the lift to that apartment
With the cocktails and the music and the madness

You ripped my dress in the street afterwards
A drizzle of rain came down
I knew how coldness felt right then
A ruined sonata
And we just start again
Don’t we?

Hot blooded couple
Who smile
When it’s over
Lie about what really happened
When asked

When Angie Speaks

When Angie speaks

It’s not words I hear

It’s the clack of a pool ball mouth

When Angie speaks

It’s the burn of whiskey on a dry throat

It’s crushed cigarettes

Buried deep in the sand

On some Corpus Christi beach

When Angie speaks

I hear agony in Texas grit

Nightmares exploding in her mind

When Angie speaks

I hear her head bashed in

I hear her feet

Wildly trampling over the grass

When Angie speaks

With lowered eyes

I hear caskets shut

I hear the flowers cry

I hear Angie’s joy die

It’s not words I hear

When Angie speaks

For Jack Albee He could sling the funniest sarcastic observations, but he was never cruel. He called our mutual friend Steve Berman, The Maniacal Crayon, Steve, an artist, had his art doodles stuck all over the walls of his Hollywood apartment. And I mean, there wasn’t even any space left to stick on a wad of gum. Albee was a member of the Albee theater family. He was a mime, an artist, a prankster, and one of the most in-the-moment people I have ever known. Jack would come up from LA to see me in Northern California, and we would spend the day in Sausalito. Jack introduced me to the Renaissance Faire, where he used to perform in his younger years. Jack Albee, my friend, I dedicate this poem to you.

He’s a Troubled Maker

It’s time for Joyce

And Joyce is time

For Ireland

My own mind

Honesty-certainty

And Dubliners

Is doubling

Doppelt

Doble

Duppio

Double

It’s time for William’s will

Deliver

Liver

Ah it’s time for Bergman

And hypersensitivity

Hyper-viper

Flashback of Katrina’s

And then there’s Albee

Not Edward—not that one own

But he knew dirty Gertie

That’s what they called her

He’s a troubled maker

Breathe

Dedicated to the late JD Chandler

Grief and pain and grief and pain and grief and pain

And grief and pain and grief and death and pain

And grief and death and grief and pain and grief and death and pain and grief and death and you are coming through the sound system. Breathe, breathe baby breathe, breathe baby breathe

I hear your spirit through the acoustical tiles at the Houndstooth Pub on 8^th Ave.

I hear your message in the song

Breathe breathe

“breathe, baby breathe”

It weaves its way barely audible

Floating between conversations

And over

And above the TV

but I hear you

I hear you I hear you I hear you I hear you

And grief and death and pain

Where did you go?

I Want Out

It is the way I am and the way I was
And there we were
taking in our loud silence in our car
with the leaves of Rolling Stone on the floor mat
reading about the life of a contemporary voice

I am found sitting up by the stage
You were hoping for an encore
That I might push you out there and introduce you
But all I could think was what a prison I am in with you

The next morning when the sunlight closed
Behind the arboretum of trees
I couldn’t even breathe
I’m disappointed
That you can live
With the darkness beside the freeway

“Extinguished you mean?”
In every direction!
You laugh on asphalt
I would gladly go blind if I could not see you

Over the hot dessert
Upon something tiny and insignificant
When I forgot my name
I knew who I was

The LA sky forbidding change
Finally, and completely
Comprehended the end
Which fell on its knees
From nowhere in delightful joyous hope

“N” for November

Backstage

Very pink

Pink lights

like a flamingo

A poet lounges on a couch reading aloud

The static of the fluorescents buzz

A stripper with

Legs like a chain link fence

Long eyelashes flashing

True

Black

Comedy

Read something that’s not about a sad cold November

The soul is

Sad

Cold

November

I’m parked out back in section “N” The attendant said, “Go down to “N”—like November.” I think that is weird,

and all day after that, I can’t stop thinking of alternative words for November. “N” for neon, “N” for nothing, “N”

for nipples, “N” for needles, “N” for Neruda.

Have you

Ever been

Walking

Alone in Berlin?

She says to the poet

If you saw me would you come after me?

You’re like wallpaper made of clocks

You’re stuck on moments in time

She hears her cue

Oh, that’s me!

Magdalen

I was in the hippie hills
of Sonoma County
way beyond the days of dreams
But some were still living there
Sometimes I could see why
The casualness
The mantras
The tie dye
Other times I longed for LA
And couture

It was there I met Magdalen
A former prostitute turned healer
One Inanna cult worshipper
She made clay animals
She wore red leather gloves
She was at home in the woods
and with her young husband
20 years her junior

Between the days
I spent doing Reiki, Tai Chi and Authentic Dance
Between the trees by the creek
Where I fed the feral cats
(who taught me loyalty and patience)
I ate tomatoes with Magdalen

She told me about New Orleans
The dirt floor at the club
The gothic nights on Bourbon Street
She a bee
in the darkness of its flower
She the girl
in the champagne glass
Demonstrating her walk
I envied the way
she swayed her hips

She joined and left rabbinical school
Instead, swore allegiance to elixirs
and garlands and citron rings
Her eyes quiet forest moss
Her windswept hair twirling
Continued with tales
of mother’s shoes
of no returns
and gypsy myths
forever
Magdalen