In my bubble I like to walk.
I like to run and dance,
All around the bubble.
It's small but I like it here.
My bubble is now water,
So I swim now.
It's much bigger than before.
As I grew, I got more curious.
Is there a Bottom?
What does it looks like?
I want to know.
I want to see.
With my arms I swam to the bottom,
As far as I can go.
I want to know.
As far as I can go,
The two are within a block of each other
near the northern edge of downtown.
Whether in cahoots or competition,
both stake a claim on their respective stages.
One, a conductor at her podium
who stands mid-intersection
directing nonexistent traffic.
What plays in her head is anyone’s guess.
The other, a fly fisherman
whipping shadow-cast figure eights
over the empty street; determined to find meaning
when there is always a catch before his release.
As cars arrive to nudge both experimental theaters,
a dance ensues to the tune of one long echoing symphonic honk.
Twirling, arms waving, she casts a spell
over her orchestra pit to silence the critics.
Three kids…
masks
just part of their play
My old enemy,
Grown his thick bushy red beard
In the five years since.
String of white tinsel,
Strung between two thin branches
Bowing to the breeze
Her naked bottom
Visible in a white flash
Gone to thunder now.
Electric fan blast
Cave-cold in my left armpit
DVD skipping.
I watch the traffic
Or, did, until tall condos
Replaced the yoga barn
How strange, to have come
Siren through the rain
high-pitched howl and soft spatter
gone, both, for morning
I kiss these red lips
and put them back in their box
wax plugs my nostrils
Teach an idiot
to write haiku; do you still
have an idiot?
A child’s persimmon
half eaten, half-sticky, slid
between two cushions
Huge green umbrella
swallows his slim form whole at
the Ave’s last pay phone
Splash–drench bicycle!
Three thin monks, southbound
pass a street hawker sporting
that same shade of orange.
Old man shakes his head
but does not move over,
his thumbnails, talons.
On her knees, she sings
at the church door, 10 pm;
is He still at home?
Heat on my left foot
toes crimped against the dresser,
enough for tonight.
“Live in the moment!”
…well, except for that clogged drain
back in my shower.
The madwoman!
Drops on bus window
why do some tarry, others
plunge headlong to ground?
Nearsighted, sensing
rain through library window–
a shiver in air.
Will you stop to count
how many short messages
written on your clothes?
After twenty years
I’m unfriended, for getting
David Bowie wrong.
Purple air mattress
outside Portland; too tired
to switch off the lights.
the dragon i was warned about as a child
wears big blue bows
with clean-cut nails
and lips dyed purple from constant lollipops
because sugar rots
i love the way fresh fruit fills the air with its sweetness,
makes the skin feel all sticky as it dribbles down your chin,
dances across your taste buds,
and slides oh so gently down your throat;
now every bite i take is stained by your words and
suddenly, maybe,
fruit isn't quite as sweet as i remember.
"Wait your turn!"
"Next time, I won't even tell you we bought any."
"Selfish."
"If you go first, you'll eat like a pig."
"It's all gone, it had to be you!"
"Greedy."
"How fat can you be?"
"Wow."
When I awoke one morning,
A snakecoiled on my head.
I asked, "What are you doing up there?"
It looked at me and said . . .
"What are you doing down there?"
I curtly replied, "I asked you first!"
The snake slithered down, unhappy with my reply, and covered my eyes.
So, I fell headfirst out of bed and it was the worst.
When I came to, the snake was gone.
My head felt angry, bathed in agony, from falling out of bed.
And so, when I awoke one morning,
a snake was coiled on my head.
Friend, there are certain sounds I love at night,
like the ongoing opera of the crickets,
the one-note sonata of an owl in a nearby tree,
or, should I be lying by the lake, the furious
but curiously calming encroachment and retreat
of the waves, or even the primal, contagious howls
of a thousand wild adolescents at Nelson Ledges,
shouting all night like lemurs,
their brains too stuffed with serotonin to sleep.
But the noises your lover makes with you
would not be welcome to my ears
were it noon in the middle of summer, let alone midnight,
then one-ten, two-thirty, three-fifteen and four.
It’s impossible to sleep when her piercing moans
nearly perforate my eardrum, so please let me know
The universe is liquid;
it fits any container.
The universe fits
in a field
and we play a pick-up
game of football.
The universe fits
in a blade of grass on a field,
drinking the dew that
forms on its shaded face.
The universe fits
in a football;
what joy it is to be
kicked around!
The universe fits
in the cells of a blade of grass,