giaportfolio

Fat flakes fondle
still Air

Capturing pockets
that spiral
d
     o
          w
                 n
to moist pavement.

It’s pretty for the time

But I like the dirt

the grit, the grime

The need to measure out our time
to an imperfectly perfect rhyme

With our all-consuming prance
Of life and love and chance

I guess this is what they call Romance.

I

sp

li

t

my sleeping time

Between my mother
my brother(s),
my lover

Anything to wake up
somewhere else.

To escape

Blank White Walls
of Lonliness.

The clean lines,
Glass
high ceilings
Glorious sunlight from the windows
Overpowering

Pristine floors

Surfaces
empty of purposes

When everything is in its place, what do you do?
Break something?

Make a mess…

Or run into someone else’s mess
to find comfort?

There was a time
50 poems,
a video game,
a  sense of home.

The lighthouse

After the night
on the private beach
After the drive
through  mountains and trees

The morning sun.
We were young

We were “adventurous.”

Waking naked covered in bug bites.
Walking, wrinkled clothing, by the marathoners.
Laughing atop the hill.
The Windmill.

Sunday in the Hamptons.

I thought I was in love with you.

But I was just
In love.

Warrior

Braids of strength
Warrior princess
Heart of stone

Eyes stare unwavering
Intimidating,
Frightening in their emptiness.

No dagger needed,
I’m the only weapon
Standing
between your life and death.

Before the devil got in me,

I spread my dreams through nature’s smile.

But now time runs like cold bath water.

Even the face of a familiar stranger

causes clawing night winds

to crack my young skin

letting the desert dryness lick through the privacy of my soul.

Jealousy breathes from my skeleton like perfume.

My eyes confess the guilt of lonely old men.

But even though bones dance in the parched sky,

I still hold my mystery like a poker hand.

2001