Monday, February 4, 2013

The Roundtrip




The night-street became one flat shiny mass of asphalt.
Bus wheels, tricycles and bicycles balancing at eye-height.
 
What if time stopped? -  Passers-by wouldn't be passing by.
That vendor would have to bear with the iron on his shoulder.
Buses wouldn’t go past.
Fingers would be stuck inside vaginas, a nose, or an ear, forever.

Time never stops.

I know nothing more here,
on this muddy curb.  
My friend starts up her bike.
We drive through too many flickering streetlights,
eat through boulders of potatoes, fly with Buffalo-wings spread wide on a platter.
Margaritas feed the senses, voices amongst voices fill the air in an upside-down world,
where refugees recite poetry, to re-connect their breath with the breath of the motherland
for peace.

Children are being raped in remote villages finding refuge at schools.
They will tell their stories later.
  
Time will never stop.

The morning smells of roasted coffee beans.
The dusty roadside chases the monkeys on, and me-
wandering amongst random stones- I arch over a vision.
Ancient stone faces come alive, watching their new queen
at leisure from traffic and time, from bored eyes, from broken vows.

Dragonfly-looking butterflies chasing sunshine all the way
onto the tip of a paintbrush  held by someone who isn’t there.
There is, however, an artist by the walls of reality,
making the exact replica of  a postcard. 

I’m too flattered with my own old face.

It’s time.

Checking in on another flight.
Someone yawns loudly into the back of my neck.

It’s all in the air...







Thursday, January 31, 2013

The Nap



Music filled streets,
cloudy skies, chicken soup –
blended in a cup.

The night is approaching my eyelids
at mid-day.
Sovereign stars of the night
gather and swirl in my chest,
pulling my spine through an infinite space
where dreams are born,
and I pull them through the gateway
into this sodden world
where all dreams belong.





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Wednesday, January 30, 2013

Pour Homme

Describe.
The stillness ...
The coolish morning in the winter
smells like spring but
it's not quite here yet.

I dissolve into latte, and
don't wish to look back
under the night-sheets where
under raw flesh remains
the invisible woman.


Lavender breath, vanilla skin
marinated in Irish cream
and ... nuts.


Sometimes, I want to be a motorcycle -
polished and loved,
fixed and reassembled
down to the last screw ... but

I'm 
only 
a woman.



Published also by POETS' BASEMENT 





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