are they gay?

Of course they are gay!
Riding a tandem on a lovely night
Calling out to each other
the pilot advising on potholes
And ice cream shops, the stoker
Shouting out chocolate and
Cookies and cream, espresso
and movies, singers and poets,
oh what a gay couple, so happy
on a lovely night!

What would I do then

What would I do without a micrometeoroid in my pocket,a sprinkle of lunar dust across my notebook?
Where would I ride my bike but across the campus,
notebook bobbing in my basket to discuss how molecules
find their way between metal asperities meeting in the middle
of a delicious kiss on their way to Mars,
over what else can I obsess but how to smuggle illicit
chemicals onto linear reciprocating surfaces to discover
their tribological mysteries,
what would I do without those hours of occupation with
my friend, the launch profile, Miss Delta II
who resents being replaced by the Mr. Atlas V, the gossip
I would miss, what would I do then,
what would I do then.

flute sounds

a middle "c" for correct
and "e" for enormous
"d" for difficulty, "e,d" enormous difficulty
in playing the flute after so many years
"f" an expletive for how frustrating, a flat
note, a sharp rebuke for the fuzz coming out,
but the middle "c" sounds so pure I keep
going back to it, if only all notes could be
so sweet, and not so "e,d,and f".

Elle est mon amie

elle est mon amie et c'est son anniversaire...
alors, j'ai donne mon massage a 8h30 a mon fiance
et je n'ai pas fais mon promenade dans le foret ce soir,
en place j'ai colore mes cheveux, j'ai achete un gateaux
et j'ai parle avec ma fille sur la telephone pendant conduire
toute la route vers sa maison,
quelquechose je ne fais jamais!!
c'est son anniversaire et je serais la, n'importe quoi,
avec mon coeur dans ma main, pour partager une verre,
mettre les bougies dans les gateaux, prendre les photos,
parler jusqu'a notre heure de dormir,
une bonne soiree!  bonne anniversaire,
mon amie meilleure!

Read to Me

Read to me, mother, so that the demons in my dreams are
swooped up in angel's wings,
Read to me so I can remember Grandfather riding white stallions
that climb through the sky,
Read to me about rivers that run backwards on full moons back
to hidden sources bedecked in gold,
Read to me, daughter, about glaciers that crawl along canyons
carved out a millenia ago,
Read to me, grandson, about dump trucks and earthmovers, firemen
and ambulance drivers,
Read to me, save my life.

It's Official

no turning back now, too many glasses raised,
rings have settled into their grooves on our fingers,
it's official, the parents have come out for an event, heart shaped cookies
were consumed, much wine drunk, a gate has been built
to separate dog from flowers, from hands reaching for a throat,
gardeners know what this is about.
now evening, dishes are washed, a fan pulls fresh, clean air
through the upstairs cooling my feverish face.

Spanish Lessons with Stephen on the bed

he reads his newspaper
yo, hablo espanol y pregunto las palabras
to Stephen, who snores lightly whenever I send a question
adonde por que yo no se como responde a ese computador
his hand held computer has run out of batteries and
el es mas cansada porque ses parientes son aqui, ellos
are sleeping downstairs
con los perros, yo estoy muy contenta
to not have to listen to them pant and snore
cuando, en esos suenos, ellos
bark at unseen visitors.

The Piano Player

He leans over the keys
eyes closed like an old man
looking into a distant past
hunched baggy suit
his hands reaching towards
the unknown until the moment
they find their place on the keys
and
he sits up straight
a young man in the prime
of his life.

the news

I held my own hands
his were across the fence, our cheeks pressed against each
other against the news that no one wants to hear.
what to say against piles of cut wood and sawdust
that eventually melds with the pine needles that
fall interminably through the seasons.
my hands were warm on that afternoon
holding hope for both of us.

A Eulogy for Grey Poupon

how could you, Grey Poupon, resort to such poverty of ingredients

after decades of proudly flavoring vinaigrette for kings and queens,

for commoners, yuppies and foodies alike, we who can no longer find you

at the finest local Alfalfa's, your refined taste hides behind HFCS and Yellow 5,

such dastardly devils!

I adore you, Grey Poupon but when the email arrived listing your ingredients,

I sat down and sang a eulogy for you in my vinaigrette.  

Sour Grapes

how tedious to eat one grape at at time
how inefficient
how swiftly a raccoon strips the vine
how do they do it
we discover all too late the next morning.
how then do we do it except by imitation
dangling a cluster over our open mouths
our teeth gently puncture the skin
releasing such sweetness onto our tongues
how sour underneath!
how quickly we reach for another
how much better I understand the efficiency of the raccoon,
the search for sweetness is universal.

Learning to roll an R

drrrrat I can't roll an rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr
only can roll my eyes at him who
prrrances around the house rrrrrrrrrrrolling
his rrrrrrrrrrrs without so much as an effort
oh how did I once trrrrrrrrrrrrrill on my flute
in the second grade to the tenth
must be from so many years
of holding my tongue.

A Poetry Reading

she lost her house in the Four Mile Canyon fire and
wondered if she could find a new couch in the Inner Ring.
The bastard was having a heart attack beyond the phone cord
length, such a lack of technology in the Science Museum,
appalling that a pronoun knows not from whence it came
amazing how the ripple of a whale skin is so elusive
to the Navy, and that a small Jewish house should only
have a roof of grass over which Sir will spend his evenings
sprinkled along the flower bed while the pie sprinkled
herself with blueberries to dress herself up for the
Queen.

I tried to capture the wide range of themes addressed in the event Twenty Poets in Two Minutes.  I cannot do any of them justice, or even perhaps represent them accurately.

biking with shopping bags

he rode his bicycle
with the fluidity and grace of the Spanish language
rippling from his rear fenders
white plastic bags brimming
balanced as delicately as
double r's on both handlebars.

A Man Called Dag

his fingertips breeze over the keyboard
as he hums commands in synchronicity with electrons
and probably photons and gluons as I turn to look
at his eyebrows
half grey, half black
and his eyes
half blue half green
cigarettes and bad teeth that sing
to currents, bits and voltages, web parts
and permissions
if I had permission
I would kiss him.

anxiety: pick a poem part II

it'll be fine my head says, my stomach says no
actually it won't be fine with all your goofing off for
the last 1131 poems that  you never edit or look back
even once to the point of embarrassment
can you believe it my mouth says to my ears
that you didn't even recognize your own writing
and I was left asking whose poem it was,
then my cheeks piped up with protests at how red
and flushed they got and not because of drinking so
much either, everyone talking at once made my head
spin finally into agreement that maybe it won't
be fine unless I get my act together before
the reading.

Margaritas laced with HFCS

I prefer other drugs than HFCS
in my drinks, ones that spike my insulin
a bit more naturally how about a white powder
found in sugar bowls or a liquid pressed
from desert plants, a natural high
on top of a buzz, other drugs please
different from this one.

Ahh, a sad story when the picture you pull up from your files is you sucking down a Margarita in Mexico.  And off we go over Thanksgiving to drink some more, the real stuff, though, not the trash from the Rio.

picking a poem

pick a poem
to practice upon a podium
in front of a pack of poets,
oh panic, please prevent me
from fainting on the parquet,
paramedics are not generally
poets.

surprisingly, he's not the ultimate slacker

the therapist asked if I could say it in a
way a little less negative but I said it was
already super positive that he went shopping
and took out the compost and I was so pleased
after all I hate all housework and I'm bad
at it so he can pick up the slack and the
cooking, shopping, the recycling, sweeping,
making breakfast, but he does a terrible job
wiping the counter
it was all so positive that he's not the ultimate
slacker, how else would I say that instead
I am the slacker.

It's Too Cold

I like it between 79.5 and 85 plus or minus a couple degrees
depending on the height and direction of the sun, or lack thereof
when the rain is pouring from the sky, my raincoat feels chilly
and kind of gross against my skin below 79 degrees, oppressive
over 85 and so I'm always too hot in summer and too cold the
other months of the year like now as a breeze blows in from
a darkening afternoon, ominous clouds lingering above
even my sweatshirt is not enough to ward off the impending
sense of upcoming cold afternoons.

but do you like bacon?

we had not seen each other in years
during which divorce, break-ups, deaths, unemployment,
empty nests; they all happened as each day rolled
by, another meal, another recipe, maybe another disaster,
maybe a joy, we hoped to see each other again
over food, real food, not the Boulder no-bread,
no-cheese, non-gluten, but rather the do-I-like-bacon kind
of food over anything that works, over cabbage
where the bacon grease drips and soaks into it
roasting for an hour or so while we drink mint
mojitos and sautee potatoes and catch up.

the poem she doesn't remember

he read the poem out loud
and she listened carefully
wondering what this favorite poem was
of this person she didn't know all that well
the poem would reveal it
even though he read it for her
and she wrote it for him
to read to her

the dress on pearl street

a slit up to her
gaze can't keep off her
whether man or woman
as she stood by the bike
left hip out slit wide open
high platform heels
so all could see

Dental floss

dental floss and toothpicks,
toothpaste and mirrors,
how else would you know
when the hygienist and the dentist
gaze deep within you and
see if you have been good
or not at bedtime, in the morning,
after you eat lunch.
one would never dare eat corn
if dental floss did not exist,
what a shame for the caveman
and the beautiful French woman
who forgot hers.