1. Face to Face

    * Another Poem about Marc from ‘08

    You said to me you preferred face to face contact.
    You kept my number in your phone for two weeks.
    It waited there with all the other numbers awkward
    and uncomfortable with a feeling like having to pee
    in a place with no bathroom.

    Then, our faces did meet, and even though my number had
    given up all hope and become the depressed outcast of your
    phone, you said let’s have dinner and you used my number
    the next day to set it up, and my number experienced a
    renewed sense of meaning in life.

    So, our faces sat across from each other over a meal at a
    Moroccan restaurant and had a very pleasant conversation
    and they walked back to my apartment and there
    continued to talk, and you said how you liked
    human interaction and tangible products and angry music

    all of which my face and my phone number approved of heartily
    and in fact, our faces liked each other so much that they were
    drawn toward one another at the end of the night and for one moment
    we couldn’t stop them from touching.

    It’s only the next day, but my face is thinking of yours, specifically my
    lips feel that there was some unfinished business, and they have
    stubbornly formed themselves into a semi-colon waiting for
    the second part of their sentence, creating another awkward
    feeling and forcing me to send you an email,

    even though I know you prefer to speak in person. I am much more
    articulate and secure in writing, and my message
    is pleading with you to read between the lines or
    rather to complete each sentence as you would in the SAT test
    The longer my email stays in your inbox, the more
    it begins to identify with my phone number,
    which still hasn’t completed enough therapy to really be
    over the trauma you caused it.

    I try to comfort my email, saying there is no reason to be so
    dramatic, email, you hardly even know this guy, so don’t
    invest too much hope or desire or longing in him, because
    it is a waste of emotion and you are probably just hormonal, email
    so stop nagging me all day with your wants.

    My email talks back, saying this is the first time in a long time
    it has any chance of getting something resembling what it might
    want, so it’s important not to let that go, and I have to agree
    with my email’s logic, because my email is, after all, a part of me
    and like me is floating in an in-between sort of world hoping
    to grab onto something.

     

    poetry relationships 

  2. Some Oldies but Goodies

    Marc and I are celebrating the four year anniversary of our first date this weekend, so I decided to resurrect some old but good poems from the beginning of our relationship. Here is the first:

    I am Picturing Myself as You Right Now

    I am picturing myself as you right now.
    The other night you said, no that’s alright
    I think I’m just going to head home when
    I offered you a chance to come in my apartment
    to use the bathroom or something. Of course
    it was out of genuine concern. After all, I had
    to go to the bathroom. You hadn’t used the bathroom
    the entire night, and I was just trying to be considerate.

    I hope you don’t think I was trying to be a slut and I
    wanted you to come in and grab me and kiss me
    and occupy the space next to me in my bed that night.
    No, that would never occur to me, it isn’t even
    occurring to me right now. So, you said goodbye
    and you hugged me. You made it a long and
    significant hug. I thought, is this hug trying to say
    something to me? Does this hug want to become
    something far greater than a hug?

    You pulled away, but kept talking. You were smiling
    but also kind of nervous, I think. And then you leaned in
    for another hug. Another hug? Surely, this hug had bigger
    ambitions, I thought, but maybe it was afraid to become what
    it surely was meant to be, so I decided to encourage it by
    making it a kiss on the cheek, but immediately before I could
    think that kiss on the cheek became a kiss on the lips, such a
    good little kiss that was just long enough.

    So I am picturing how you smiled, I think the same smile
    I gave you, a dumb and happy smile, but in a very dumb way.
    And how you said “take care” before you left. I would never
    say “take care”, but you would, so I’m picturing those words
    coming out of my mouth; “take care”, I say and I, as you,
    walk away in the direction of Grace Cathedral. There, I catch
    a cab. It is easy catching this cab. I don’t stand out on the curb
    waving and yelling “Taxi!”, because I don’t know how to whistle,
    which is what would happen to me, but not you.

    Apparently you have good luck with cabs, even though I never do,
    and you go home to your apartment and you live there alone, and
    you don’t have to say hello to anyone or make any phone calls.
    You are OK with that, and you play a lone and solitary game
    on your computer for a while before you go to bed,
    and I’m not sure whether you think at all
    about our kiss or toss in your bed, like I would, but you probably
    wouldn’t, because you’re that type of guy.

    I write you a letter the next day saying thank you thank you
    thank you for kissing me last night. Well, it didn’t say that, but the
    words if rearranged in a certain way would spell that out.
    You waited precisely 28 hours to reply. I think you have a rule about
    that. No answering emails less than 28 hours after they are sent
    or maybe you only check your email once a day. If I were you,
    which I am so far from being, I would check my email more
    often.

    I decided to follow suit and wait exactly 23 hours to send
    back another emails. OK, I got impatient, and I thought if I raised
    you and waited 32 hours, which would only be appropriate
    for a demure girl, then the time in between our emails would
    increase exponentially and we would never get in touch. When I did
    write out that email I thought of a lot of things to say.

    Hey you, I would say, did you know that I am very clever and pretty
    and wouldn’t you like to answer my emails more quickly? Wouldn’t
    you like to read my poems? Wouldn’t you like to read the poems that
    are inspiring me right now? Wouldn’t you like to read my yelp postings
    or my blog, because these would be good accoutrements to help you
    get to know me and how clever and pretty I am.

    I decided not to say that at all, I decided it would be best to say
    hey didn’t you mention that blog about building a boat and something
    regarding large and poisonous spiders? I want to read about those things.
    I have recently become interested in both boats and spiders. They are
    very interesting topics.

    Oh and, I am adding this last part very cleverly as an afterthought, of course, I
    didn’t think of it at all until I typed that thing about spiders, which reminded
    me that I hadn’t seen a film in quite a while. No, I would say it’s been quite a
    while since I’ve seen a film, and wouldn’t you like to be the one who
    goes with me to watch a film, especially since it will be so momentous
    being the first time in a long long time, since I saw a film.

    I am picturing myself as you, you haven’t gotten the email yet. It is sitting
    in your inbox like a little spider that might interest you and
    be written about in your blog, if you were going to continue on the topic
    of spiders. When you do open it, you will judge me for not calling
    you up and asking you in person, which you would much prefer
    and you will consider going with me, and you will probably think
    this is moving too fast, and I can’t respond within 24 hours anyway,
    so I won’t go.

    Or maybe you will say, actually yes, it’s been a while
    since I’ve been in a dark room, watching a film sitting next to a
    clever and pretty girl, so I will say yes. Would you say that?
    It would be so reassuring of my cleverness and prettiness
    if you would just say that. Wouldn’t you?

     

    dating poetry 

  3. The Seed

    Lately I’ve had these
    odd and incongruous
    dreams where I’m pregnant.

    In them I am so purely
    happy and glowing,
    just as one should.

    Last night I was carrying
    both a baby and a
    beautiful succulent
    plant.

    I was so proud and
    thrilled – I don’t think
    in real life I could ever
    be as absolutely elated
    as I was in the dream.

    You see, the fears and
    complications of life
    will always get at me
    during the day.

    Even five years from now
    married and happily settled
    in a house with trees,
    I will feel that familiar
    trepidation mixed with
    love and joy.

     

    poetry plants pregnancy 

  4. A Poem for Later

    I am dreaming of other loves
    again, but I don’t want to.
    This beautiful San Francisco day
    seems so small and so poignant
    all at once.

    We’re here in this tiny moment
    before you ask, before we’re
    sent tumbling in a hand-holding
    trajectory toward life or that is
    life.

    It is a small, small moment
    that feels so long. I’ve never
    been one to rush time. I thought I’d be
    17 forever.

    All the ghosts of my past
    are indecently throwing
    themselves at me like ocean
    waves.

    They rush me and crowd
    the space where patience
    lives in my brain.

    I have a feeling
    we have to do this
    before they pull me
    under.

    And for once, I feel ready –
    a new and wondrous
    and beautiful feeling.

     

    poetry love romance 

  5.  1

     

    Failing

    It is a good and a smart brain
    that I have.
    I forget that sometimes.
    Long ago, so long ago
    it did math – calculus even
    and it wrote poetry
    and it excelled in physics.
    It pontificated on literature.

    I must not waste it
    by drinking and
    watching television.
    It can understand budgets
    and marketing strategy
    and user experience.

    It is a good brain,
    that I have neglected for
    so long, it forgets how to
    think and even how to talk
    correctly.

    Poor brain, I must not waste it
    forget about it
    neglect it.

    It washes away
    like a stone
    on the edge of the sea,
    becoming smooth
    and smoother every day.

     

    Poetry brain thinking television 

  6. Screens

    I often think
    we lost our innocence
    as a culture
    somewhere in the 1980’s
    or maybe the 90’s.
    It isn’t a new thought,
    but one that troubles me
    nonetheless.

    There is something
    about the idea of
    going to work
    and never once
    looking at a screen
    that is so
    heartbreakingly
    beautiful,

    something so simple and
    clean about
    putting a pen to paper
    speaking to people
    face to face
    dialing a telephone
    with a rotary.

    It is painful
    knowing we can
    never go back
    to a time before
    pixilated light and
    instant messenger
    and texting.

    I guess they thought this
    about the phonograph
    and the electric light
    and the first
    television set.

    I keep thinking
    that was different
    but maybe it wasn’t
    so much.

     

    poetry technology culture 

  7. Growth

    As if to tell me
    that the world goes on
    life happens while I’m out,
    the lentils left in our
    sink catcher sprouted
    after two days of
    neglect.

    The curly little tails
    just waiting to give new life
    into the earth, not ready
    for the waste bin at all.

    My work plant is alive,
    I know – just like a deaf
    and blind old man. It seems
    each time I return from the
    weekend it has chosen
    the oddest place to reach out
    a wayward and phallic root
    grasping at the air, pointing
    toward my desk and searching
    for a place to plant itself.

    I couldn’t help it, I had
    to cut it off the other day,
    poor thing, I said, I hope
    that didn’t hurt.

     

    poetry plants 

  8. Cuauhtémoc

    When I was a young girl of 8 or 9
    I found out that
    a very pretty young boy
    named Cuauhtémoc had a crush on me.

    I processed this information, weighed
    my options, and decided the best
    course of action was to kick him
    relentlessly under our desks.

    You see, he sat across from me
    when we worked in groups of four,
    and, even then I knew how love
    could burn your skin if you tried
    to touch it and hold it in your hands.

    At first Cuauhtémoc seemed to find
    humor in this, he gave me a pained
    smile that was full of confusion and
    a bit of surprise. Wasn’t this his role?
    He was the little boy meant to push me
    in the dirt as a way of showing affection.

    And then one day, I knew it was over.
    His confusion turned to hurt and disgust,
    and we grew apart, the same way
    it would happen with many other men.
    .

     

    poetry 

  9.  1

     

    Poets don’t have to be English professors

    Poets don’t have to be English professors
    I swear,
    They don’t have to sit at café tables
    with leather-bound journals
    contemplating nature and
    emotions.

    William Carlos Williams was a doctor.
    Of course, the symmetry of his name
    doomed him.

    Poets can be construction workers
    and businessmen and
    bus drivers.

    A poet can be anyone who
    says anything beautiful and
    true, which is redundant.

    A poet can be anyone who
    feels anything strongly,
    who experiences the drama
    of life and speaks about it.

    A poet can be a girl
    who works in marketing
    and writes about luxury
    retail and restaurants and hotels.
    I swear.

    Poets don’t have to write down
    their poems – so many poems
    are dripping from lips
    right now.

    The rhythmic, urban languages
    of teenagers are poems,
    People talking about the weather
    is poetry.

    Poems are in the air
    I swear –
    ripe for the picking
    by any open hand.

     

    poetry marketing 

  10. Little Girl Demons

    When we were children
    you made up people -
    angels and demons,
    and I believed them.

    The angel was named Shari
    and she protected you.
    She knew you by the
    crystal you carried in your
    small and thin little hand.

    You would interpret for me
    all of the lovely things
    she said.

    And the demon, his name
    was the joker – after Batman,
    and he toyed with us,
    scared us by creating
    cold spots and whispering
    dark secrets in our ears.

    He was so frightening –
    so much fear and anger
    for a little girl, but we both
    had rage in us – even at that age.

    We both had been scarred
    and needed someone to
    personify evil, to fight
    and to win against.

    And so we did, we fought
    the joker, and then
    Shari would appear
    with her golden wings
    and warm, warm smile

    and she would save us
    almost every time.

     

    poetry demon