Pubic hair dialogue

He says: Your hair all grows in one direction, it's like communists. You have communist hair.
She says nothing.
He says: Look at my hair, they grow in all directions, they are Americans, individualistic.
Still, she says nothing.

I wrote

a terrible poem.
That's a bad poem. It is.

Strange nature of a strange thing called love

Can't say that I understand you--in fact not at all
When I was fifteen, they asked me once
I fumbled for an answer with empty innocence
and came up with a blank paper
I could fold paper hearts then
I've forgotten how
old bus tickets became fragile hearts
If the numbers were lucky I knew I would be loved
You were that simple
You were origami decked onto numerology
if I could get the folds right and the digits
But now
here I am
there you are
I say your name easily enough
a simple three syllable
but your meaning
I can't excavate
every night as I walk home in the lashing cold
I think that I can grow you
that you are the reward at the end of patience
that you are worth waiting for
and I walk in the dark. I walk.

Lee

Sitting next to me in the theatre
snorting, arm over arm
you are a mess
I found
that you are not something to clean up
so slowly,
I learnt to embrace

Anonymous

You, it's always you
when a car drives by
or I see an overcoat.
Lee calls you poison,
I call you
the fog, the night, the sea.

Linseed oil

This world, is made up of things, things:
like that robot fish on you tube
silver knobs twisting
movement as real as anything at sea, and
fingers pressed against aquarium glass--
a little girl--
who'll grow up remembering a jeweled fish
swimming lopsided
because
things are real, no matter how much people tell her it was an illusion.
Sylvia Plath lied
when she said: you,
can't put toothbrushes in poems
Linseed oil, for example, has memory,
they will always remember their first contact with light
If
that is true, how different are we?

The toothbrush is real,
it is this poem
that is not

I was never a very good poet anyway

Dusk, after work,
the tiger-striped sky
royal blue
gold like the eye of cats
and shredded clouds
made
the Golden Gate look ravaged
Always, at this hour
I feel
that I can forgive myself all my sins
I don't need no God. No.
This world, the yellow traffic light, the off-key singing of the kids on the bus,
they are all enough
I don't need love, torment, philosophy.
No paradise lost or inferno. No.
This,
is enough for me.

Love

It steals in
so gently
fingers of light
through thin curtains
unwarily, already on your skin
you wonder--
when did it happen
how
did you miss it
how did it touch you through
that wall
how did it
light up that corner of your heart

it is like opening your eyes
already, it is morning.

Yosemite--a journal in sentences

Houses peering over the hill, their hidden faces, eager like children.

That white in the distance above the peak--is that the clouds or snow?

The graveyard next to the vineyard--clean rows of tombs facing neat rows of trees.

A chorus of screams--there's a bear.

Rust-grey barks, black twisted trunks--signs of last summer's fire.

A still pool of water littered with brown leaves--what's that--a fish.

The night sky is a dew covered celestial web.

They saw shooting stars; I only spotted an aeroplane.

Campfire with strangers, full of awkward silences and firesmoke.

Bacon juices make the fire sizzle, sputter and fizz.

After the long climb, the cool creek is tempting, even with the undercurrent.

Late afternoon sun scorched patches of black soil gold.

Early morning--an owl hoots so sad in the dark.

At the peak, trees look so small, I feel like I can eat them.

The stream is a swirl of colors--rust, jade, coal and sparks of sunlight.

I found names of people I know carved out on trees, rocks and moss.

Tents are so thin, our dreams thread together in occasional sleeptalks overheard.

Morning, my jacket still smells of campfire smoke.

This city

Taking the 6.40am down nineteenth
sped down the city
sun barely a rose
the world, an orange edge
houses facing the sun like first flowers
the air laced
with cold
my skin, prickled with the renewal of morning
squeezing this new life under my pores.
I kept the window open
feeling of morning as strong as at six
as I waited for sunrise cycling around and around the living room
past an ambulance's red and silver lights outside
an opened door
a darkened room
Perhaps someone died
I'll never know
speeding down nineteenth thinking of morning, and peace and life.
This city never gives
under that thin layer of morning fog
it is
oblivious
to the bums coming out of hiding from wild bushes.
The Golden Gate and the shrouded hills
looks on proudly, rising up over the gleaming bay
keeping its parts and people--
wrapped up in the silence and
this new light.
I wondered, about life, stories, and mystery
but this city never gives.

old things

I am someone who can't let go of the past
old name tags I hang on to
Back home there's a suitcase of memorbilias
hand-made cards with my name misspelled
crinkled letters of highschool crushes
I hold on to every one of them
even those signed by names no longer with faces
And then
there's you
sometimes,
I'll find you
nose a little alternated
smile a little crooked
the way you are folded up like old letters
always along the same folds
familiar like origami crane
I tuck you away in a suitcase in my mind
opening to peek when the mood strikes
the moon's too bright or the night too warm
then I look at you
your changing face
and I know this sad truth about myself
I am someone who can't let go of the past.

On being tamed

I know what Carlos means when he says--
"Next time we'll come back, without the girl."
He thinks
that I have tamed you
what he doesn't know is that
I have opened up the shells around my heart
for the gulls to peck on
and feel it trembling
so tender, easily bruised
that old anger
is gone
What you don't know
and I never told you
whether it's for your life or your camera lens
when Carlos pointed at that overhang where the grass grew
your legs trembled
and I
felt such indescribable joy.

One night

Do you know? There was once I prayed for you
walking that maze outside Grace cathedral
that you may
find love
I hope you did
and are happy

Mapping the terrains of the heart

Mapping the terrains of the heart
is a difficult thing.
Like untamed wild
you conquer it inch by inch
a foot at a time
a step, then another
with nothing
but a flashlight in hand,
its thin beam
quivering in the dark
to the calls of Coyote
as the grounds beneath you--shift--
like shadows,
you stumble,
praying--Oh God--
please
don't let that battery die

Maybe.

Spotting cabs
eucalyptus peeling red
grey clouds
blue mountains
black mush roadside tree
you say "it's eucalyptus"
"a cab" I say
whistling trails
"would you like to live here"
I tell you Hong Kong typhoons trembling metal shacks
sunlight pulling in
your camera bag jagged on my knee
can we do this again? You smile maybe.

Baker's beach

Old men. Scattered on the black sand
like
beached whales (that's it)
old prunes, BBQ pork
red, greasy.
white foam
tossed by the sea
the wind, beyond the damp line
Me.
pretending to read
that man! with the thong up the crack of his ass
that young guy with the nice body
oh man.
Men.
scattered on the beach

Stutterer

but. She said. I am not. but.

Still Life

Still
still
still
still thinking
of a smile,
a smell
a backview.

Never

Never
believed
in monsters under my bed
or Santa Clause
coming down the chimney
or mermaids or fairies
or easter bunnies
boogey man was a joke
so were threats of menacing police kidnapping naughty kids
there was nothing
that ever scared me
except
ghosts
that still linger in the corridors
everytime the elevator door closes
holding chains, strings, bound with hair
whispering
never, never, never

Bed Mates

little bleeder buggers
(come out come out to play)
your jelly white eggs
your speely spiny short legs
your greedy sucker teeth

when I sleep
dreaming of white sand and faraway land
you will join me
crawling up so slowly
softly, smoothly
skin breathing with slumber
will feel your pincher
as we wake feeling like we've had a good stinger
swelling up a little red hill
oh yes, I think I will enjoy the kill

watching the white fog descend
your short happy life coming to an unexpected end
good bye little bleeders
farewell, farewell.
Tonight, I will sleep well.
Finally. Hooray