Orlando’s dead, I thought

As my little sister and I, crammed in the backseat

Got driven around by our parents

And a realtor named Ellie-

Who had white hair, dentures

And a sweet Southern smile.

 

Ellie passed away a year after we moved,

And Orlando is still as dead as she is-

Despite living there for a fourth of my twenty years.

My Californian heart misses winding roads,

Rolling hills, jammed highways,

And the diversity of beachdesertforestmountain.

 

But as dead as Orlando is, it pulls the intermittent Lazarus-

Rising to the occasion every night I spend

Piled in the back of three different cars-

A beat up Oldsmobile, a souped up Sunfire,

Or an air freshened Toyota. We drive off-

A cloud of smoke, rebellion, and youth.

 

My boys and I- we are necromancers-

We take the deceased Orlando and make it ours

On those eternal summer nights- when they

Smoke too much, I laugh too much,

When we revel too much in our

Own freedom and power.

 

Our kingdoms are those of the night-

Orlando’s a vampire. We own Meridian-

A hookah lounge that smells of summer

And fruit. We have the pier- a small boat dock

Populated by stars, alligators, and mosquitoes.

~But the last place we own~

 

~Is our driveways

They smoke, I laugh, they dance

He and I kiss~

 

We are the Necromancers of Orlando.

On The Matter of Christmas

A tree stands in the window

Fluffing out its branches

Like the jiggly cellulite arms

Of an over perfumed female relative.

Underneath, presents as colourful

As little girl's clothes

In a Goodwill.

Hanging close by, stockings

More pregnant 

Than any vice president hopeful's daughter.

On Having Food Poisoning

Shivers run up and down my spine

Like people in a marathon 

While shot puts

Get heaved across my stomach.

Javelins fly through my intestines

Like birds-

Determined to go south for the winter.

And you stand in my door way-

Apology smeared on your face-

Like that chicken had been smeared in disease.

Dear Bukowski-

You're an ass

But you're brilliant.

Your voice is a leathery wet paper bag-

Torn so easily

But so tethered.

You sound like a beer being opened

Like a cigarette being lit.

You speak like the smoke floating up

In the air

After one good smoke

After one good lay-

You linger in the air.

You're never frozen,

But always lukewarm.

Your face is a road map

Of heartbreak, but the best kind of such-

Heartbreak that doesn't care as much.

Heartbreak that knows it's how it's gonna go.

No, no, maybe,

We have everything,

And we have nothing,

You say.

And it's so...

You.

Bukowski.

You are so beautiful, he says to her With eyes made to make people weep. And indeed they are- Willows dance in your eyes Trees careen in your soul. You are the sun through the flowers The wind through the wheat. My fingers float through the dust, Scrambling for that last bit of earth, Trying to revive you, revive us. You are the Isabelle to his Columbus, The Izzy to his Col. We are all the tree, The fountain... Inspired by Daren Astovonsky's film, "The Fountain".

There was something gorgeous in the way

We lay on your bed

All three of us intertwined.

We kind of looked like a Renoir painting--

All of us connected.

The room light was golden

With laughter

Blushing

Giggling

And just enough tension to dance around the walls.

We traipsed outside under the young moon

So you both could smoke cigarettes

While I missed my human addiction--

We are all beautiful

In love

with life.

...when that one famous poet

wrote that particular famous poem--

the one about dying of lights--

i think his frantic brain

was on the shore

watching the sun set...

he must have-

with his metaphorical mind-

been regarding the sun

sink below the water...

how swift it happens-

he must have thought--

how quickly it all goes...

and by it- i mean-- of course--

not the sun

with its dying glow-

but life-

with its crying infants

turned old

in a wind blow...

so continue to rage against that death-

that death of ever circularity...

A bit morbid...

For Squid

You sat, making yourself beautiful by

Holding a wedding bouquet far too early

And your brown curls

Echo profound thoughts that

I'll never know completely

(Though we are strangely connected).

You'll always be the Charles Wallace to my Meg,

The Jane to my Lizzie.

You make everything make sense

In a world that spins crazy fast.