Poetry in Progress

Untitled (for now)

He walks along the railroad tracks
and puts on his headphones
but thoughts submerged in music grow louder
and transform to vivid visions

white cotton sheet exposes one breast
jade studded lobe creeps out from black ringlets
merlot lips part slightly
dark lashes kiss apricot cheeks

He crosses small train bridge
concentrates on ties
on cratered surfaces of rocks
forces inflamed body to cool

Behind him, a dove-like coo:
"come back to me"
he smiles, stone eyes become diamonds
he removes headset, turns his head

blackbird vacates power line perch
Wal-Mart bag tumbleweeds away
tracks stretch toward morning sun
rocks sparkle
empty
stone eyes return
he continues alone

The tea-stained shirt

                                             tells tales of sleepless nights
of laugh-laced writing center study fests
complete with reading, writing, arithmetic
of physics, history, composition, French.
Some chocolate dipped espresso beans have marred
the shirt as well from those caffeine-fix nights
spent playing FreeCell.

                                           Paper's due next day,
but why write when I can win and win again?
FreeCell agitates yet captivates
and hypnotizes mind into addiction.
It's easier to order cards than thoughts,
to win or lose than to write.

                                       Writing hurts.
It complicates and tangles up ideas,
distorts the mind on ancient torture rack
then stimulates and clarifies and frees,
allows new thoughts to pool, congeal, and plop
around in ink onto a page.

                                                      Written word
endures as sleep brings fitful FreeCell dreams
and shirt lies stuffed in dirty-laundry bag.

hourglass

the movie's long over, yet i continue staring at blue screen which soothes the
restless mind-voices who ask, where will i live this summer? what will
i do? will i make money? will i enjoy myself?
or will i still not have lived when violet
crocus blooms fade and yellow dandelion
blossoms transform into fuzzy white clouds
floating in september breezes. the voices
nag until i break away from the blue fuzzy
screen, turn, and sit down in front of my
roommate's computer. i open netscape
and search yahoo for local newspaper
classified ads and fill my head with
apartment prices and no-skill
employment in
three cities.
voices
hush
for
a
few
hours
until,
"none of
this matters until
i know where i'm living, until
i know what i want, and have finished my
resume." the resume, a skeleton begging me
for flesh before it's too late, lies on the arm of
the old green hide-a-bed, corners fluttering in
breeze from the window jamb. strewn over the
pilled cushions is an application for foreign study
and corresponding notes, recommendations, and
waivers. i sigh looking at the ten dollar auction block
couch covered in my future. then gentle buzz catches my attention. i look
at the source, and the blue screen enchants me, and i let slip away what i value most.

Ode to my ex

I see his face in the cafe. He sits,
Innocent, angelic.
My lips burst into smile, but quit.
This instinct is but a relic.

We used to talk into the night
Laughing and complaining
Or we'd walk in pale lamp light
Not caring it was raining

He said I was sexiest in the morn
Eyes puffy and make-up-free
As fresh as if I'd just been born.
I laughed at him tenderly.

I used to tell him everything
He'd listen incessantly.
He believed I could do anything
Dismissed my weaknesses pleasantly.

I wish that he could hear my fears
Of changing my life course
I wish that he could wipe my tears
When changes bring remorse.