A Dance

A Dance

A dance can mean the world.

The start of something succulent, sultry.

A dance can shock inspiration awake,

And its ever trailing companion, jealousy.

When I put my hand on your hip, the look of your eyes, the way you bite your lip, when we start to dance, flowing into each other, fluid, in sync.

A dance can be the greatest tease.

Your eyes stray for just a minute, but that’s all it takes.

As your voice, low, sweet, and laced with taunting, whispers in my ear halfway through the dance, “Stay here.”

You fall from my grasp, and you, with a slight grin, ask him to dance, his outstretched hand a sword, about to stab my heart as you take it.

A dance can be a storm.

As it starts, it speaks to me. It dares me to show you how I can dance.

It sweeps me up and the music devours my desire, steals my heart.

You look at me, wishing you were a part of this storm that is downing,

So I snatch your wrist, bringing you down under this sea of ecstasy and bliss.

A dance can be a denouement.

Your hips sway gently in my palms,

And a diamond sprouts from your icy eye.

Your feet don’t respond to my feet like they used to.

We both know it’s the end.

A dance can be a discovery.

A glance stolen from halfway across the floor,

We both gasp as our bodies respond to each other, no talking necessary.

The magnolia in your auburn hair, your maroon lips, full and twitched into a grin, your smooth face and fingers, I push a lock of hair from your face.

A dip, we stare at each other, overwhelmed by our proximity, and the spicy Latin beat.

A dance can be something new.

A dance can be something old.

A dance can revive, like spring rain to the crocus.

A dance can crack, sever, dissolve..

“Dance with me.”

Ode to the Mug

Ode to the Mug

Oh, Mug

You hug my morning tea,

Making sure he stays at

Just the right temperature.

Your rounded edges

Fit the contours of my

Palms perfectly, as I

Wrap them around you,

Feeling your warmth

On a frigid, snowy day.

A mug, so simple in design,

Yet it brings me happiness

That has no end. Seeing

Your magnificent body,

I can’t help but wonder

As to why I’m this fortunate.

This lucky to fill you with

Darjeeling, honey, and ice.

You make my mornings bearable,

My afternoons less tiring, and

My nights more rejuvenating.

Your brim, lipped and lined in

Ruby red paint, sparks memories

Of kisses, long and bittersweet,

As I sip. The exquisite flora’s creator,

A brush, gracefully glided along your

Skin, introducing orange to violet,

 scarlet to olive,

Sunshine to moonlight.

You bravely endure the

Merciless dishwasher for me,

To serve me, to continue

To hold my liquid energy.

And, once, when I dropped you,

Chipping a piece of white porcelain

From your fair, radiant shell,

Not a word of distain was thrown from

Your mouth, not a resentful stare was

Shot from your eyes.

Oh, mug, your

Glorious finger hold.

It sprouts from high on your build,

And expertly dances its way lower,

Twisting, and wrapping,

Dipping and rising.

At the end of this crimson

Wave, there is a ceramic flower

Painted in creamy yellow and powdery white

More elegant and full than any

Other to grace my gaze.

Oh, Mug.

Your days are endless,

Your beauty, boundless,

Your enduring, relentless.

Oh, Mug.

I’ll leave you here for now,

With the remnants of black tea

Staining your belly.

But when I come back,

The sun will be tired, as will I;

I’ll rinse you out, and restore

You to your throne,

Close the cabinet door,

And drift off into paradise. 

For Today, and Whatever He May Bring

To Today.
To blossoming sky blue morning glories, up with the crack of dawn.
To making a pot of coffee thrice, until its aroma dances toward you nose.
To giving a stranger your best smile.
To crying.
To hot, thick soup, whose steam paws at your nose and cheeks.
To making up with a friend.
To actually listening.
To spending five hundred dollars on the best dinner of your life.
To living.
To smiling.
To building some half finished building.
To writing poetry.
To knowing that someone is in pain.
To those tragedies that are never timely.
To playing the guitar, outside, in the rain.
To singing the same show tune that you've been singing in the shower for 20 years.
To ripping.
To turning off the bad news on television.
To Today, and whatever he brings.

How a Boy Becomes a Man

As his time nears her

She lures him in, promise of

bliss, serenity.

But her iron bars hold him

His brief childhood stolen.

Regret

Regret strolls slowly along the lakefront on a briskly frigid night, pondering what to do about her boyfriend. She has soft, velveteen blonde hair, which is cropped short. Regret works as a secretary for a company in South California, always wondering around the hallways, not doing what she should.
Regret hates baking, but bakes anyways. In fact, she mostly just stares at the cookies are they burn in the oven, not caring to rescue them. Why should they be rescued? Regret sometimes passes me by; she steps on my foot and mumbles some half-hearted apology. Regret lives in an old Victorian house on the top of a hill. She doesn't take care of it, though. There are cobwebs and cracked window panes.
Regret sometimes calls in sick, but instead of going out on the town or a spa, she just sits in her room. Regret falls asleep in the shower, and when she wakes up, she regrets letting herself do that. But, she'll do it again tomorrow, not having the will to break her own habits. Or the will to do much of anything.

Stairs

Stairs

Most people look at me

 Seeing what they want to

              But I have secrets too, like

                Unopened boxes, dusty. I

          Always stuff them down stairs, until I

                                 have the muscle to bring them up

                                                  Sometimes people get a peak into my

                                                Unspoken, undealt with guilt and shame

                                                                If they pass by as I’m closing the door, but for the

                                                                 Most part, I just smile, slipping the key behind me.

                                                                      Someday, I’ll open up the biggest box of all, and all of the dust

                                                                       Will explode in my face, asking me why it’s been here so long,

But for now, I can keep my unwanted boxes down here, holding parts of me that aren’t meant for others to see. For now, I can just close the basement door shut, sigh, and put that key back into its spot, where it is constantly reminding me of that, which I have put aside into darkness. Maybe one day, you or someone will descend into this darkness, seeing what a collection of cardboard boxes I have. I have boxes big and small, full and nearly empty. However, each contains a part of me. Something that it embarrassing, humiliating, hurtful, or shameful, but nonetheless, a part of me. Coming down here is not a small task for me. I hear the begging and pleading of each box, begging me to release its contents, which are so determined to sever the box, if they need to.  So, for now, I’ll bring up a box that has been down there a long time, waiting. It is a sizable box, full and heavy. I have gathered the courage to slice open the seam, and I’m prepared for whatever rushes out at me. 

Perpetuum Mobile

Perpetuum Mobile

It starts slowly, softly

Then, a musical phrase chimes in

It is steady, regular, and embodies a dream, before that dream has been spoiled by reality

And the music changes one

The rhythmic, steadfast tones inspired awe

They open one’s eyes so that one can see forward into the past

Melancholy nostalgia rises from the gut

And one gets lost in the music

It brings one back to summer days

To lemonade stands, when three dimes made one rich

 Getting up on Saturday with a bowl of sugary cereal and morning cartoons

To life

And it tells of all that is gone

But the memory lingers, like wine on a white tablecloth

Yet it’s perpetually moving

Never staying long enough

But the notes that one craves

The sounds one begs for

Come back to play

They are forever young

Years pass, smiles get lazy, tears fall

Who picks them up from their grave?

Not a savior, not a slave

A song, a melody, eternally poetic

It never satisfies, but one comes back for more

And each time, they leave feeling sore and broken

Filled with regrets,

Why does one come back?

The faster one’s fist closes, the faster it gets away

The more it leaves one standing, waiting

The closer to perfection it is, the harder it is to listen

It embodies what one hasn’t done, what one misses

And it leaves, not sorry it didn’t stay

There are children with innocent minds, willing to embrace its pace

And one stands there, jaw open, heart stabbed

It’s perpetual

 You are not.

Sankt Marx Friedhof

Sankt Marx Friedhof

Blink.

And a flash of hues, an explosion of passion, and multitudes of grief and sadness will pass you by.

And that is all he was.

And that is all you can ever hope to be.

And yet, millions have and will flock to this very spot

And you will try to gather the pieces of your shattered dreams

And you will try to pry open an eternally shut door

And you will try to extract meaning from a life that had minimal pertinence to yours.

And the cold, gray dust will unhinge your heart

And cerulean, olive, magenta, lavender, scarlet, indigo and violet will come gushing out.

And what are we really? An insignificant fly, scrounging for dinner, or the last ash left in the stone fireplace, cold and overdue.

And you will end up here one day, maybe tomorrow, maybe in 20 years.

And you refuse it!

And you pound your fists on the earth

And you scream until your voice cracks

And you understand that you can’t fool yourself any longer.

And you know, however consciously, that the less you accept your fate, the darker, the scarier this place becomes.

And you try your hardest not to blink.

And why him?

And you understand that he was a wrecked, beautiful ship that was ready to sink.

And a smile starts to peak out from behind your lips, ever so slightly.

And you comprehend that you're only human, that is all what the world is asking for.

And doubt creeps back, slowly.

And you wonder, what did he do?

And there is no answer.

And we all hope to have people remember our past greatness.

And we all hope that someone will commemorate it with a small flower bed, a half built column, a devastated angel, a few water logged candles, and a whole lot of tears.

And you will start to cry, perhaps out of happiness, for you realized that you have blinked.

The Bravest Person I Know

The Bravest Person I Know

Ring.

The bell sounds and the halls flood with kids

Rushing to get somewhere.

She keeps close the wall, always touching base in this shark tank.

Insults stitched across the back of her shirt by giggling girls

As she unknowingly has returned to the scene of the crime,

For reasons that are beyond me,

She is here and I admire her for just that.

Books on my hip, and a powerful friend on my shoulder,

I could easily corner her.

So small and vulnerable

And without a shield.

Then I come to the end of the hallway

And a cynical peer puts a sowing needle in my hand,

Instructing me to do the deed with piercing eyes.

Why do they despise her so?

Actually, she is the only person to survive

Being different here, in the shark tank;

I try with all my might to follow in that path,

To be righteous, to be unique.

But my peer hisses in my ear,

Telling me how easy it would be.

Just one simple sting of a needle

That she’ll forget before next period.

That’s a lie, we all know it

And the ones would acknowledge it,

Deal with it.

I set the needle down on the ground, step on it, turning it into metallic dust.

I have chosen that path before,

But I’ve regretted it even

Before the consequences have come.

I continue, thinking about how the

Right decision will cost me.

I find out later,

A few dirty looks and a snide remark, stitched into the back of my shirt.

It was worth it; I did it for her.

She is the bravest person I know, a Mino diving into a shark tank.

I glance backwards, seeing the remnants of the needle,

And I look forward, having the strength and integrity to walk onward.

Reverence

Reverence

Reverence works in accounting, in the low building on the street corner with cubicles and gray dividers. Reverence carries a worn backpack to work every day; the same one she’s used since Kindergarten. She knows everyone’s name, their spouse’s name, and how much they make, but no one, not even Bashful, who works next to her, knows her name. Reverence has pictures of faraway places on her cubicle wall, Brazil, China, Thailand, which only Fame and Arrogance get to experience. She has large, circular brown eyes, which are always brimmed with tears.

She walks with her head down, counting the ants, jealous of their inability to be emotionally hurt, or kicking the same stone; it goes ahead, but it waits for her to catch up, unlike the rest of the world. Reverence sits facing the corner in her apartment on sunny days with a cup of tea. She always looks up when speaking to someone, but no one speaks back to her.

Reverence loves lighting, gone in a second, but changing the world forever. She wants to be lighting. Friends are simply not a part of her life; they do not excite her. Now, changing which frozen dinner to have on Wednesdays, that is exciting; that is reliable. Reverence is pale. Reverence hums a tune her grandmother, Nurturing, taught her, as she wraps up her sprained ankle in a bandage. Then, Reverence closes her eyes in her impeccably cleaned white tiled bathroom, and she belts out the last note, totally off key. Reverence smiles, and she proceeds to bandage her bruised ankle, shaking her head in disbelief.

Disappointment

Disappointment

Disappointment is rude, that much is clear. He comes in the place of Jubilance, uninvited, after I’ve already lit my favorite candles, poured my favorite wine, and sprinkled crimson petals over the bed spread. Disappointment is a regular, but I look forward to the days were Gratification or Appreciation come in his place; I live for those days. Disappointment wears leather, and he punches me in the stomach almost every time I see him. And when he doesn’t, he shoves his face into mine attempting to intimidate me; I can only just avoid him. He links his arm with mine, laughing and shouting as we walk down the street; I, bashful of his presence. When I ask him, in a whisper, to stop yelling, he looks at me, grins, and throws daggers fashioned from words at my heart. Then he shows everyone what he did to me, like game he just killed.

Disappointment doesn’t have a job, and for that I pity him. However, when he comes to my doorstep, mumbling something about needing a place to stay; I have no choice. None of us want to host Disappointment. He is never late, never on time, always early. He is awkward. Some suspect that he killed Sanguine. I know he did; her sanguine blood still lines my basement walls, reminding me of something that I had, but can’t have.

Disappointment plays with his food, not knowing what to do with it, much to the chagrin of his mother, Misery. He’s brusque, that’s for sure, only stopping for a short time, but staying for a while. In fact, most of the time, we are taught to except him. But all of us hope to be the one that doesn’t have to house him. That’s why we keep living, keep trying. He sends little parts of himself, fingernails or hairs, in envelopes or through the phone.  Disappointment is a road end, telling you that either the main road is a ways down, or that you took a wrong turn. Disappointment likes Shakespeare, and he reads Shakespeare while wondering the streets, bellowing verses like everyone can hear, like anyone is listening. Sometimes, if the sun is in the right spot, and the wind blows in your direction, you can hear him sobbing, sipping bourbon, and asking “Why?” 

Loneliness

Loneliness

Loneliness rocks back and forth, to and fro, holding his knees into his chest. He works as a CEO; he’s important. But when all is said and done, the only thing Loneliness has is stacks of green paper, which can’t hold him, can’t give him a shoulder to cry on, can’t embrace his emaciated figure. Loneliness’ arms and legs are no more than skin and bone. His face, a canvas of sorrow, despair. Loneliness sits in his vast kitchen with a glass of champagne, staring into the distance. All of a sudden, a whoosh of air shoots out of his nostrils, into his drink. Then, he drinks the champagne, slowly, salty from tears.

But he has a good disguise. In fact, no one knows he is lonely. Sometimes he walks in the bad part of town, ruining his fancy shoes by stepping on a crack vial. Loneliness has it all, yet he has nothing, at all. The modern apartment, various hookers, and his chef, Creativity, are nothing. Loneliness creeps up, telling you that it would be better to just stay inside, telling you all your friends are busy, telling you people enjoy you best at home, alone. But as soon as you’ve submitted to Loneliness, you cry out, desperate. But his hand is already over your mouth, and his scorn for you is already palpable.

Loneliness likes to read, it makes him feel a part of something, even though that something is fake. He comes for a long time, Loneliness, and doesn’t bother leaving. Actually, Loneliness paints his name on your guest room door the second he walks in your house. But, who would you rather have as a perpetual guest, Loneliness or Denial? Loneliness spends a long time looking in the mirror, wondering what he would look like 5 pounds thinner. So, he buys a diet book, and starves himself for three days, only to gorge on cookies and cakes later. Loneliness gives lectures to the wall, hoping that someone will magically appear. He goes to bed late, not having the will to sleep, but instead of sleeping, Loneliness just stares at the door, hoping it will open, somehow, someday. 

Sanguine

Sanguine

Sanguine lives in the townhouse on the corner of Maple and Bur. She has a soft jaw line, and soft green eyes. Sanguine goes up to total strangers, Reverence, Disappointment, Anger, Depression, Sorrow, and she hugs them, kisses them, tells them what lies a ahead. Speaking of which, Sanguine is a psychic, and she wears Bohemian scarves and dresses. She loves to speak, to look upwards, to pause, to think, to smile.

She likes hide, but when Sanguine comes out, she starts to boiling, rising in you like a red flame. Sanguine always keeps candles lit and sometimes she’ll look at them for hours on end, wondering what they are and where they come from, mesmerized. Sometimes she sees her clients, Chagrin and Abusive, thinking she can help them. Sanguine loves to laugh, and has three kids with Enthusiasm that keep her in line, Optimism, Arrogance, and Longing.

Sanguine is a new soul on this earth, always exploring and discovering. She wakes up in the morning and twists her hand around her wrist, marveling at the extremity. Sanguine’s soul mate is Grateful, and they share coffee while talking about their lives in simpler times, when crayons and blocks outweighed bills and responsibilities. Sanguine can’t be bothered with such things; she finds them silly. If she’s only going to bat once, why not make it a home run, she asks about life. Sanguine wakes up in the morning not aggravated in the slightest that Enthusiasm accidentally woke her up, and witnesses the peach painted sunrise. She gasps. She blows it a kiss, knowing it will be a good day. Then, the amber toned leaf falls from the maple tree, without direction or pursue, just content to be. 

Solace

Solace

Solace is a writer and a climber, scaling the literary mountains, cliffs and peaks, seeking the summit or climax. She has grey hair and bright blue eyes, and Solace seems way too young for her age, in terms of her affect. Solace likes to ski, and she always laughs a hardy laugh when she falls, not minding the snow now in her panties. Solace’s arms encompass your whole body when she hugs you, and she rests her head on yours.

Solace has written books about her life, her future, and her past. No one reads them, but Solace couldn’t care less. She has so many stories of the old country, she just needed to get them out. Solace visits me on occasion, bringing with her a dandelion that she picked on the walk over. I’m tempted to toss it, but seeing that amazement in her eyes convinces me otherwise. Solace sings and dances and whistles, and her favorite song is Oh, Susanna! She wears yoga pants everywhere and not a drop of makeup. Solace can’t cook, for her life, but she enjoys trying, failing, and doing the dishes. She finds herself in doing the dishes. Solace has random knowledge about Cambodia, White Birch trees, and tabby cats.

Every now and again, Solace jumps out of my morning coffee and eggs, asking me how I slept. Solace carries at least five packs of gum with her at all times. She is afraid to point out something that I don’t do so well, so she changes the subject. Solace loves the color fuchsia, and no one knows why, not even her. Sometimes, when I’m desperate, I knock on her door, my hair studded with droplets of rain, and I ask to come inside, to be held. She smiles, opens the door, and I walk into the wooden house on the corner that I love so much.