Locomotive Dream


Dinner on the Amtrak train
between Portland and Tacoma
is a microwaved burrito, but

at least it’s vegan. I gnaw
half-frozen beans and dream
of a different tableau: tables covered
with linen cloths, gilded platters,
elegant silverware. Fantasy meal

for two with a view of fields,
rolling its cartoon reels
between glamorous locales.

Instead, I lean against the wall
to peer through cracked windows,
while stunted lines of mini marts
sprout like mushrooms from

sidewalk cracks. In fifty minutes,
the train will deposit me
at Tacoma Dome Station, and
passengers will scatter like ants,
anonymous and frantic.

Outside, a boy plays solo
on the sidewalk. A stray dog wanders
across the street, looking for
something he lost that afternoon.

America in the twenty-first century:
how swiftly it runs without arriving.



Classical Performance

In the shadows of
a high school auditorium,
in a closet above the stage
during a Shakespeare play,

I experienced
“heavy petting”
for the first time.

I could hear the actors
reciting their lines
in stentorian tones.
My boyfriend groped

inside my shirt, as we
tongued each other like
melting ice cream cones.

“Your mood ring must
be changing into all
sorts of colors,” he said,

as he slid his hand down my pants.
After our finale,

we climbed down the ladder
to bow for the audience, but
they had already gone home.

Straight Talk

You should be here not me.
I’m just sleepwalking my days away.
If I’m gone someone else can
walk the dog. Water the plants.
And mow the lawn. 
I’m ready to go.  Punch my ticket.
Put me on a train to anywhere.
Just take me away from a place where
I feel like an overstayed visitor.
The hour’s late.
I’ve learned.
Loved.
And lost.
I’m tired.
It’s time to go home.

 
 
Music Makes the Spirit Go Round

Listening to Ice Machines from The National
and the introspective sad absurdity of it all.
Driving down the interstate when a bird flew
in and directly down at my windshield as
I barreled down the fast lane.  It suddenly
darted up at the last minute.
It wasn’t the first time birds have come
to visit me. 
Coincidences don’t usually happen twice.
Caught my attention.
The spirits are alive and talking.
Wanting to be seen.
Had to pull over to the shoulder for
a second.  Regroup and smile.
Write a short poem.
It feels good not to be alone.
We are all connected.
No matter what incarnation we
are placed in.

Image


There was no funeral
I don’t know the dead soul
It might read my thoughts
Better than my own mind

The body was silent, the image alive
No grave has ever been found
Many friends have been searching
Even strangers have joined in

Whoever drove by after that summer
Along the great boulevard
Always trampled on bloodstains
Never washed away through the rain

Dimming Fireflies:

You can talk to the dead
like you can the living—

neither listen.

Fireflies
drift
and dim
among the aspen
like carrion stars.

If you're quiet you'll hear
there's nothing to hear.

In the Dark

On a stormy Sunday night,
during evening mass,
a tree has fallen
onto the power line.

The electric candles have gone dark,
the electric organ has gone quiet,
the preacher’s microphone has gone out,
the sacred has gone
silent.

I stare ahead
waiting for my eyes to adjust,
hoping to see the believers,
straining my ears
for their faithful whispers.

But the priest has left us all
in the dark.
He busies himself
looking for the fusebox
in a vain attempt
to enlighten us all.



Traveling like the Bees

I move slow as honey
dripping from flowers
the buzzing all around me
in busses, in trains,
especially in the air.
All whirs and chatters,
I’m not used to this:
moving as the bird flies
a bee line toward home.

The clouds temps me,
their siren wail begging me to stay
but I cannot rest.
We’re too busy to ever slow
like a hummingbird in flight.

I travel with the bees
buzzing, chattering,
I don’t know
what they dance about.
I’ve never stopped to listen
except to drink their honey
my shaky legs covered in pollen.
I fly on,
flower to flower,
to home.

The “Old City,” 1987
   

We’d dress in our best black
and hit the Old City,
first to Ella Guru’s, where we 
saw Sun Ra and then onto
Annie’s, a hip jazz joint where
we’d imbibe vodka tonics 
and scotch and snicker at 
the yuppies looking at us
from the corners.

Are those people wearing
black lipstick and nail 
polish with mascara?

Why, yes, we were. Not 
new or shocking, newbies. 

After getting toasted, we’d then 
cross Jackson Avenue
to Manhattan’s and
slam down tequila shots
while Frank, the 
manager, stood glaring
and grinding his teeth,
anxious that we not drive 
away the pretty people.

Soon on to Planet Earth,
a goth/industrial club
that catered to us like
other bars catered to
their own devotees
and where we spent
most of our lives.
Popping pink
Magnum 357s, 
we’d writhe to the
sounds of Bauhaus,
Sisters of Mercy, Ministry 
and Skinny Puppy. Fights 
would erupt, people would 
get sick and pass out, Chuck-
The-Owner would throw a
cokehead out the second
floor window onto a parked
car below on the street and 
once we watched Melanie 
get fucked standing upright 
on the back third floor landing, 
wearing a wig to avoid recognition. 
(Didn’t help and not that such
an act was remotely rare or anything.)

By 4am, sweating and
mascara running, we’d
head for Vic & Bill’s
to nosh with the drag
queens and bikers before 
going to Amy’s to fall 
onto futons, then get up at 
noon and move on to
another Knoxpatch party.

 

     Afternoon Sauté

 
Large pan, deep, decades of sauce and sausage
have simmered in this old friend.
Starts with extra-virgin, sweet, sweetened more
with thinly sliced white onion and thinner sliced
garlic, seasoned slightly with salt, pepper, that
helps the essence of the onion melt in the oil.

The room takes on a mediterranean aroma.
You are watching from the living room with a
favorite Pinot in your favorite goblet.
Carrot, red, green pepper, sliced carefully
with cutlery that you just sharpened. Basil,
oregano - the peppers soften, add the porcinis.

As the mushrooms cook down, splash with balsamic,
The browned sausage, sweet and hot, has cooled,
half are crumbled into the vegetables.
Alexa plays Billy Joel - bottle of red, bottle of white,
the mushrooms are releasing their liquid.
I sneak in, kiss your neck, steal a sip of wine.

You tell me it smells great, ready for tomatoes,
paste first, adds a new texture to the ragu,
then San Marzano plums, crushed slightly,
they’ll sauté themselves into sauce. As it melds,
the rest of the sausage go back in to flavor
the process, the simmer, the rest of the afternoon.

Alexa switches to Dylan and James Taylor.
We open a second bottle, you come in like Eve
approaching the quince and wanting a taste.
Reminding you of the rule of don’t taste too early,
I slither over hip to hip, bring the spoon to your lips,
it is clear your horizon has opened to future defiance.

When I Say I Love You

I am speaking
to an audience
of Onan

REPTILE BLOOD

 

I do not understand things like
Money, or at least not well;
I save it, am careful
About managing my paychecks
So that I’m not broke.

But she was an expert
In such matters—
Her job required her to be.

And her excision of me,
Despite past declarations
Suggesting this an impossibility,
Was as cold
As a fleecing
Of hard cash.

It’s in the blood,
I think;
And people with
That blood
Have, and
Always will,
Run others,
Casually,
Into the ground.