birthday limerick

there once was a man
      called "z"
who was freaked out
      about turning thirty--
so he donned a pink
      crown,
rode his bicycle all
      over town,
and cried, "Who's the
     pretty, pretty princess?
     It's me!"

8.16.08

grand marais

the delicate slicing of
warm, hard-boiled eggs.

the quiver of the egg's
membrane as my brother and I
peel off the thin shell.

the liberal dolling out
of barbecue sauce on
pink, fleshy chicken.

the sloppy glopping
thoughtful forkfuls of tangy
miracle whip mixed
with celery chunks
and egg yolks.

I am careful in my
first time making
deviled eggs.

I am no longer a
deviled virgin.

the tap tap tap of
mathematical sprinkles
of paprika

...

these things remind
me of lois

...

her classy, polished
fingernails, the same
color as her leathery skin

her matching shoes and purse--
red leather.

her neat, manicured hands
holding a tray of
perfect deviled eggs

just paprika, no parsley

6.12.07

for me...

can you scratch a diamond?
you just might be hard enough
       for me.

can you creep up behind me
       and kiss me on the
       back of my neck, to
       surprise me in the kitchen?
you just might be soft enough
       for me.

can you grasp the bull by
      the horns and rip
      them out, then hold
      them over your mouth,
      letting the blood drip?
you just might be strong enough
     for me.

can you rock an infant to sleep,
     holding her
     head in your palm
     like a juicy grapefruit
     that rests upon your shoulder?
you just might be gentle enough for me.

1.11.06

in the harbor

each pebble pops
like a firecracker

the waves
pulling
each stone
away from the
shore

just a tease before
the crashing blanket
pushes them back

the calming
call and answer
of the harbor

9.1.05

cat-puppy

walking on artist's point,
       grand marais.
"I should have known not to
       wear my clogs,"
I say, to no one in particular,
       as I shiver from the brisk breeze.
The gust separates my
       shirt from my back--
goose pimples.

"prime people watching,"
       I fake-whisper to mom.
we watch--without staring--
      another family as they stumble
      over the rocks
Their big black lab
      barks incessantly at the passersby,
      eliciting a fearful whimper
      from a red-capped toddler.

The dog's owner
     guffaws a bit too loudly
     for the tastes and styles
     of northern Minnesota.

"He must have brought that
     truck with the Texas plates,"
     I fake-whisper to mom.

"Haw, looks like ye brought
yer cat-puppy," snorts
       the Texan.
The red-capped boy attempts
      to hide behind his
      little terrier,
      finding his mother's legs
     make a better haven
      to peek through.
The cat-puppy whimpered
      more than the boy--

being predictably
       non-confrontational,
the midwestern family
        picked up their
       cat-puppy and
        made their way to the
       parking lot.
The Texans snorted and
      even the black lab seemed
       to swagger more than before,
even amidst the scowls and furrowed
      brows of the passersby.

9.1.05

seagulls

the seagulls screech their agreement
as they peek at the
rocks along the shore.

the sunlight glints off of
the loud one,
blinding me from its neck.

9.1.05

crack

my breath catches
a tight cracking cough,
a wheeze
too many cigarettes, I think--
I smile into the mirror
(I'm told it releases endorphins)
it almost hurts.
comfort is the black bored
face of stone
so much work, I think--
falseness feels like bile
rising in my throat.
the cold breeze reaches me
up under my skirt.
my stubble stands at attention.
I look up for one moment
from my incessant highlighting,
and I think I can see the wind moving--
no, not moving the bold leaves of autumn or
the loose papers on the coffee table.
but the wind itself--
that elusive and powerful element
Homer's wind.

10.18.04

Intoxicated

the smoke curls up from
         my cigarette
coyly perched in its spot
on the glass arby's ashtray--
         the only real ashtray
in the whole house--
glass kissing the perfectly
         mechanically formed
         ikea green ceramic mug--
the cheap folgers coffee
         steaming upward,
flirting and dancing with the
          smoke--the essence of my addiction.

11.3.04

bushes

bush brothers
brushing arms,
conversing
talking to each other
with their leaf-hands.
yellow, orange and green,
as the 9:15am
shy sun
peeks through the meek
branches.

23.10.04

untitled

the streets are wet and black
       like my pupils when
       I am one pint over the line
goes along with the shiny
       saxophone music from
       the television

8.15.04

country

the earth resonates
pride for my country
a love, a fraternity
heard with the pulse of the grasshopper
and the cricket.
rushing like blades of grass
in an echo of the rhythm of the wind
the occasional song of a loon,
a bullfrog
interjects on this refrain
of the country, this country,
my country.

8.3.04

sutil

eres una luz muy sutil
       en mi vida
a la vez ese luz me da
       alusion
       esperanza
y puedo respirar
       con facilidad
y estar comodo

para relajarme
       y reir
no me di cuenta
      que fuera
      tan raro

el comportamiento de
      una cambia
      dia a dia

la manera de mirar a la
       gente en la calle
       con ojos guardados,
       abajo,
casi sin mirar.

cuando empeze evitar
       los ojos de la gente
       no lo se.

tienes una carinosidad,
       una inocencia y novedad,
       sin la importancia de
       lo que piensan las damas--

eres una brisa sutil que
       entra por la ventana
       mi biblioteca estirada.

7.6.04

coraje

miro arriba
y veo
con ojos brillantes y ciegos
el cielo celeste
y las caras de las dioses
griegos
aparecen en los nubes

athena--
dame tu corazon
tan fuerte y duro

como perdi mi coraje
no lo se.

20.3.04

Untitled

quiero recontar mis huellas
no quiero olvidar donde he puesto
mi mismo
los paises
las personas
las palabras
soy egoista de mi vida

20.2.04

howard roark

I do these things for myself,
        and no one else.
the smoke and steam rise together,
        dance into my right hand.
words are my boulders of granite,
       my journal is my stone quarry.
the stork perches on its nest
      at the top of the cathedral belltower
as the sun warms my hands
     wrapped around the steaming cup of coffee
the bells ring the hour as I leave
     my own perch.

17.2.04

stability

the clouds look stable against the blue
behind the moving billboard,
the roadside attraction of
leafless branches

the day after christmas.

what sort of stability am I seeking,
such a jet setter
jetting as the sun is setting
along the horizontal sky?

passing cataract elementary school
on the right,

this black hole in my heart
devours itself
hungry and hot
from the prednizone

faces swim in my head
too much to care about,
too much to love.

always too sentimental for my own
goddamn good.

distance is this cleaving in my chest
this watering in my jaw
this dry air at the back of my throat

and this absence of a photograph
in my hand.

12.26.03

time

measured out in
      cups of coffee
time fleets but needs to be
      captured
a sapphire in the palm of my
       hand.
the motions of every day
      go unnoticed
but a decade later
       are the photos of your
life
       in another era

8.11.03

cancion de vina

my eyes burn, light through the lids
the sun weighs down on them, pressing
half-dreaming
I hear the hymn of Vina.
"aguita helado chirimoya
crema pina a dos..."
the breeze carries the
song through the mist
grazing over my
stomach and chest
sinks in like the rays

8.11.03

Untitled

dark green mountainous hills

rise out of

low-grazing clouds

that creep along

lago petrohue

a layered fog

that wraps its limbs

around the hilltops,

touching down

to the humble country homes

limbs reaching toward the distant

punte acudo

wispy white fading into the rainy sky

as our faces become wet with currents of rainwater,

our necks crane at the high hills.

the wind blows the hoods of our ponchos back,

but we don't care

this is the real

"magia del sur."

we cross small rivers up to our knees

shoes, pants and all

we are not cold, or sore.

we trudge in paths of mud

up to our ankles

we are not dirty.

we are in awe.

21.9.03

Untitled

el volcon osorno mira, majestico
atras de las montanas
y los cerros verdes
arriba de las nubes
arriba del mar
arriba del campo tranquilo
con llamas, pudu, una puma

el parque nacional vicente perez rosales
mira al volcon punte agudo
mira con los aguas azules y claros
corriendo por las vocas negras, volcanicas
lagunas de azul, clara, con salmon
[sliding, slipping]
abajo de las cascadas rapidas

playas de la roca volcanica
negra, morada, roja, anaranja
beneath a halo of white-topped mountains
lago azul, cielo azul,
puro paz
a deserted paradise
our footsteps crunch in
the black volcanic sand

subimos por el bosque
por el rio seca
las piedras y arena
como las torres del paine
entramos la selva
verde, verde, verde
ferns surrounding,
moss underneath
rock, gray and silver.
smooth as polished glass
pours the water,
a pitcher,
onto the rocks below.

we beat through the bamboo
foliage think
as smog
footing determined and excited,
but not very sure
catch our breath
when we reach a plateau
turn around, breathless at the view
we sit down to rest,
pinch ourselves to wake up
from the dream.

20.9.03

castro

small faces smile,
hold candy and balloons
happiness, so simple for the young
a sea of people,
excited together for the day.
parade of uniforms and badges, silver-plated jackets
step in unison on the pavement,
keeping their official rhythm.
above the sea of people
I can see flashes of white hankerchiefs,
a twirl of a wrist,
a hop with the foot,
the distinctive signature
of Chile's dance,
the dance for today,
the cueca.
the small smiling faces run by
in their national costumes,
the traditional dress.
they are so excited,
so happy,
to be part of the celebration.

flags of red, white, and blue
flood the streets--
they show the abundant pride
the spirit of Chile--
cover the cars and the store signs
a blanket of flags over
the island.

18.9.03

castro

the rooster crows
echoes across the countryside
the breeze blows
my hair into my eyes,
I sweep it aside to see
the panoramic view
of castro
the hills with their
yellow flowers and thorns,
los palafitos,
the houses on their long, thin legs
like storks,
the water rising underneath.
the yellow tin church,
three tall steeples, the citadel of el pueblo
rolling clouds in the blue sky,
over rolling hills of green
the virgin overlooks
the ancient cemetery,
smiling down with open arms,
smiling at the tranquil town,
the peace of the island

19.9.03