Before August 2003

Pink Jungle Stripes At the bow, she forgets the boat. The sun on the water is pink and morphing, and the brilliant reflection dazzles her eyes. She believes for a moment that she paints, slashes, the sunset into night with her lashes. She sees jungle stripes and big cats, and she blinks against the wind. 07.18.03 __________________________________________ A Dark Nature there is a dark nature to her expectation this blessing, as it were she leans, heavy solid damp dark skin onto his golden calm there felt is that nature, a subtle reluctance a blessed burden, it's thought when his dawn, brimming alive with the idea of creation his, has left or shines elsewhere, she leans her heavy damp alone, and sighs a deep thing this - colored inky, dark, disturbed she'll not voice this dark nature, her weary revulsion, but blessing's dawns will less brightly brim for her heavy solid leaning 06.25.03 __________________________________________ The Archer the archer's pose, the great strength of many in one he colored quivered and the arrow fell short striking, marring, scarring the ground disfiguring violets and the like and the archer fell short quivering over colored strength no longer posed a torn thing, he and the violets as well 06.04.03 __________________________________________ Violets Undressed she undressed violets and found them like the rest - insecure - vulnerable to the elements she undressed him and found him to be like the rest - wicked - worldly (but oddly enough a spark of hope reached deadened eyes. without petals� armor, without his defensive, profane story, his mind - sitting open and reluctant - was a thing to behold. a thing from nature not unlike a violet torn.) she undressed herself and found no strength no armor - for lies like acid rain dissolve petals, marr, scar, and the like she knows no nectar like that of violets full her's is empty dry and thirsting (his words spark things not unlike hope - but they still parch. somehow holding the idea of water - of satisfaction.) she undresses his words like flowers many but she used to find his flowers empty, when undressed now they seem full of elixer, this water and she wonders if perhaps (and she hopes not) she was blind before struck by the archer's arrow - a quiver full of her own projections he is wildflowers now and she battles dry petals and undresses them all june __________________________________________ International Rummy I looked over; glanced, really straight teeth, long too dark blonde hair to cover too true blue eyes A quirky smile; a vacant one, at that pursing his lips when trying to be funny I glance; look over, really his family simple, funny, satisfied and he is (too) too simple too vacant too silent too much nothing Then I think; dismiss, rather maybe I need some vacancy and perhaps (could be) that is the appeal But then I glance over; look, really and see straight nose fine arm lovely lower lip And know... I use him. Abuse his simplicity in wanting there to be more hiding beneath two too true blue eyes We played cards; I attempted, actually and my split mind spit him out of my future and my split heart spit out my ego and asked, "Do I buy?" They were real I am not They played cards I do not He holds my hand I hold his heart (or is this my presumption?) He needs to cut his hair, to speak his mind have one, at that He needs to like foreign films, Chinese food and me regardless of my internal betrayal I need to loosen up. june __________________________________________ To Swing Tired heavy-lidded and content beyond words eyes that ache, colors too damn vivid i want to dance, to paint, to write, to swing these hours of solitude go (too quickly for the tastes of the swinger) my house in empty, my mind is frantic my creativity in continual flux - they are all gone for two days and i have only been happier a few times before but there is dreadful expectation in this the time of my life surrounded- it's easy to long for lone nights as this to yearn for that release only found in my art, my self, my expression alone- it's hard to focus it's hard to it's hard it's this swinger is dancing to night's somnambulistic syncopation take that, satchmo and she loses her first night(her first fight) to sleep 2002 __________________________________________________