Every Morning

Every morning we drive to the same coffee shop,
On the same road, up that same hill--
Castaneda would be disappointed.
There's a girl who walks up that hill,
Presumably to class.
Every morning we see the girl with plum red hair,
And every morning I try not to look at her.

The sound of the milk being steamed,
While the coffee grinder grinds the espresso beans
(Just right, like the texture of sugar),
I am violently reminded of what I have not become
And what has become of us because.
It was not shooting-magic; it is not a curse.
There will be no witch doctor stalking me, I think;
Yet the sounds of every morning are like echoing incantations.

Every morning amounts to this,
Since she told me her awful secret.

Belly

My belly, edged and fleshy, carries my shame, is my shame.
I force it in when I pass by, pulling so hard
I can almost feel the muscles tear like cloth,
imagining that sound when it nearly rends apart with the effort.
I despise that I care what they think of my pouchy belly,
but I hate their contempt and dismissal more,
eyes sliding over me,
assessing me slickly,
disregarding me swiftly.
The loss of an interest I never should have wanted
gives tooth to the smooth wood of my ego,
roughens its veneer, hard fought, dearly won.
Combatively, I try and remember
caresses felt, a rough palm over this stretched,
ridged skin marked with scars of expansion,
my breath fluttering,
or a child's head burrowed deeply there,
arms thrown around my hips as I soothe his worry,
brushing the tangled hair away from his ear with a cool, sure hand.

Direction

Driving southwest
(like misguided geese),
we peer out into the 
gray December dusk.
The electronic highway sign
shouts, "6:34 p.m."
like a 21st century night watchman,
forgetting to comment
that all is well.
A sleek jet rushes overhead,
and I wish I were on it
(no matter where it's going).
I can't help thinking my life 
has become a slide show of some
Leave-It-to-Beaver world--
full of repetitive small talk
about the price of gas
while picking lint off an old, gray sweater.

Runaway

I saw the hubcap
by the side of the road
dull like life
round like the world

It must have spent a lifetime
coming and going
scrambling in circles
never getting away

Then somehow one day
at this busy crossroads
it beat the system
that gave it meaning

And now it lies
by the side of the road
and perhaps it's happier
to rest and rust

Untitled

n silent waves
in hushes and whispers
the sand dunes roll over
the ages
of nothingness
from under
the camel hair tent
rushed out the sounds
of familiar voices
sitting
cross-legged
in front of the blank screen
my fingers typed out her name
Gaia
Pierre would probably think
my search is vain . . .
we go through life the way
a kiss would fade
away
in slow motion

மி Poet

He reads Shakespeare, even in the early mornings
When I am serene in dreams
He is there by the window with the sunlight emblazoned on his face
He awakens me before dawn, by his soft voice
As he richly recites Hamlet, "To be or not to be . . ."
I cannot recall any more than that
Because as he finishes, I am already lost in him
He glances at me with those gentle orbs of light
Smiles reassuringly and I fall
So deeply into the mask of enigma that he provides
I am hidden behind the door of dimensions
And only he possesses the key
And knows the secret lingo that reveals the code
He speaks to me when I close my eyes
The words trailing off into a world beyond my grasp
He illiterates, initiates, illustrates, iterates
And I am left to contemplate
Over the facts that fuddle my frail form
He is so fascinatingly fickle
With his Shakespeare and those eyes that burn so intensely

22

I gave myself to him,
And took himself for pay.
The solemn contract of a life
Was ratified this way

The value might disappoint,
Myself a poorer prove
Than this my purchaser suspect,
The daily own of Love

Depreciates the sight;
But, 'til the merchant buy,
Still fabled, in the isles of spice
The subtle cargoes lie.

At least, 'tis mutual risk,—
Some found it mutual gain;
Sweet debt of Life,—each night to owe,
Insolvent, every noon