poem

purple irises
dying in a vase
shriveling to black
bowing over losing
petals onto the
black enameled table

sunflowers in a
vase on a black enamel

purple irises
dying in a vase
shriveling to black
bowing over losing
petals onto the
black enameled table

sunflowers in a
vase on a black enamel
table, nodding to the
shiny top, raining
yellow powder pollen
in semicircular spray.

roses turning purple
from red and moist
drying to sharper spines
leaves falling to swim
in the water in the vase
remove flowers, remove

rotting baby's breathe
tie a bit of twine at the
base of the stem and hang
them up alongside all the
red roses frozen in long
testimony of love lost
table, nodding to the
shiny top, raining
yellow powder pollen
in semicircular spray.

roses turning purple
from red and moist
drying to sharper spines
leaves falling to swim
in the water in the vase
remove flowers, remove

rotting baby's breathe
tie a bit of twine at the
base of the stem and hang
them up alongside all the
red roses frozen in long
testimony of love lost

A native dance,
Saved for those of
Divine lineage.
Succession of movements
Owing gratitude to
The oldest nation,
The first people.
Eight owing their lineage
To Africa:
Four men, four women.
Glistening bodies
Rippling torsos
Chiseled into slate.
Orange and blue full pant.
Adorned: shells and beads.
Nappy hair, braided hair
Whipping and arching.
Bandoleers of shells across
Broad chests, full breasts.
Drums.
Flailing, bounding
Jumping --
The pounding of drums,
Like an exaggerated
Heartbeat, a basic
Hypnotic pounding.
Dancing prancing
Arms flailing up,
Around, down.
Stepping hard with
Full thighs and
Tensed feet.
Gyration and pelvic thrusts.
Arms pitching,
Beat driving,
Sweat dripping.
Synchronized movement.
A dance of hot foot.
Bounding, thrashing,
Arms propelling in
Circles -- around,
As though the air
Would give flight.
Showing reverence to
The blood flowing within
Those honored and
Revered.

I sit hypnotized by the soft hiss and blow
Of my breath as I look past the pressure
Of my mask.

Man-eaters pass:
Larger, drabber, more oppressive
Than on the aerated surface.

Yet, the great column of water above
Places me in the snug warmth
Of a mother's womb.

Reassured in this salty bath
Of aquamarine and the fluttering silver
Of slender eyeless fish
and brown drab eels,
Foraging under great shelves
of cragged coral.

Neutral buoyancy.
Mastering the physics of the deep,
The breath of depth;
The most delicious air
Fills my lungs to saturation.
The seduction of the underworld
Glides in a reality unreal,
Disorienting to this surface-dweller:
An absence of gravity, a magnified
Presence.

Never wanting to come off
I take hit after hit;
The narcosis of this depth
Is frightening, addictive.
Bubbled mercury rises as I blow
Hard into my second stage.
I grip my jaw into the salty
Spongy rubber mouth-piece,
Shutting eyes tight,
Shaking off the numbing
Water.

The glowing face of a gauge
Announces that the end is coming.
I will rise soon, making sure
I can see the mirrored bubbles
Pass my ascent.

As I look up light glimmers through
The great water separating me
From the sky.

Pale lips flutter alight,
Mouthing phantom praise, saxophone coos.

she reclines by my side
under our sun, on her towel.
long limbs and nut brown skin.
hair like the mane of a lion.
in the sun buffeted by winds

winds the isles rarely see.
it is all anyone talks about,
these winds, the cold air,
their jackets and sweaters.

i press lotion into the skin
of her back. we laugh and speak
like blue bloods, jaws clenched,
reading from a book of fiction.
reading aloud for the sun, for
the wind, for each other, such
friends. such friendship to read
and sun, to bronze and feel
the cote d'azur on our flanks
in waikiki.

the book speaks french, the book
speaks english, and the words are
poetic, the words are absurd.
the novel calls itself surreal,

but it is self consciously erotic like
"the rose pulsates," "the skin is
nut brown," "the lover parts the
knees," "the smooth skin gives way
to fingers." out loud these words
are spoken and we laugh bright sunny
laughter.

Laughing at the absurdity of the erotic,
the protagonist taking many
lovers and weeping, always weeping,
for the sadness wells and pulsates
like her rose, like her chest, like
the surf lapping so near our
bare toes.

the air tastes especially
salty. i smell like a coconut.
she is so natural under the sun.

we laugh to ourselves that the
text is so hot we must swim.
we tip toe into the cold water
refreshed by the winds, these
uncommon winds, in hawaii.

slowly we enter. on tippy toes
en pointe like dancers. so slowly
making a quick dip agonizing, feeling
the sand give way to my feet. pulling
in tummies and wishing the winds to
cease and the water to turn bath like.

i am taller than she but she has the
leg advantage. water laps her hips.
stalemate. a count to three and away
to the bright orange windsock off shore.
swimming our heads bob, out further to
just before.

"this is where i stop, this is where
my fear of sharks begins. this is the
point past which i will be eaten alive."

we turn back, she sprints. i wallow
in the chop, having come from washington
days before. from the winter. her nut
brown skin, my pale white dough broiling.
i move my body through the saltiness, see
clarity when i open my eyes, feel my hair
wave like weeds across my forehead.

pulling myself from the water, i check
my bad washington knees -- they are strong
again. encore. il fait froid! mais non,
il fait beau -- it is always wonderful here.

this morning i made
a sacrifice to the gods
the discman to the tile
floors by my feet in the
john, and it might have
well broken for the hold
button that saves the batts
broke and now the discs
are always spinning
discs are moving, rumbling
through their little sambas
until the record stops whirring
and the music stops purring

the evening passed on my dry elbows, before a dead fire, next to a monitor playing reruns of the x-files. before the lcd playing the words of a former mistress, a milky little doll with a blunt bob, rosebud breasts, and a penchant for wearing dkny under the hawaiian sun. or showing off a tummy above hiphuggers and below a jogbra, black.

her words on the screen. x-sender. x-reply. x-header. she at work, me putting off the rower. the words. "how can you remember all of this?" she asks, "or a you making it up as you go along?"

easter. on the phone with m, and it was not great for her: tiles, barracks, linoleum, beer, bbq, schofield, military, comingling, easter is made for the east coast, even the mid-atlantic. i look at the picture of me in Paris when I was mid-twenty, 1990. even then i knew that for me, europe was hollow alone. i saw the sites like i was preparing my life as a tour guide for her, for she. for the partner who would like to travel with me, to allow me to show her the paris jewish ghetto, the little gay neighborhood, shakespeare & co. the evening light, the wine, the bastille and its opera house. people on the rue, on the walks, crowded in pens of cafe tables. le louvre. the centre george pompidou. even lyons, cherbourg, around and about. the buzzing enduros and our buzzing, our own humming. paris not as a romantic destination but as a place to be, as a place to enjoy to just enjoy each other. no real sight seeing for us! now, its all about being there together not sigh seeing, not walking our feet off, not climbing the radio tower just to see the grim tops of the low low old town-cum-city. no, instant intimites, with friends from Uni and the night clubs costing US$30 for the unsuspecting. the turn of her hip, the way paris invites a woman to walk, a woman to dance, the way she eats her strawberry or touches the silk scarf around her neck. the way she touches me, each other, kissing like school kids along the seine as the voyeuristic dinner show barges barrage us with spotlights, illuminating out expert hands. our knowing touches. this is the paris for which i was prepping, the paris exposed in trite editorials in the new yorker, the same paris eaten in gulps by hemingway. not the ruined paris -- we shall ignore her ripped tights and smudged lipstick -- but the youthful daring city, ripe and flush, breathing heavy with a bountiful chest and apple ass.

fallation brass axe shitake falling away into and running with the entire concept of the boy finally reaching sweet sixteen blowing oh so sweet woo woo cat melodies into the center of my head thick pressed paws thump beat honk of geese in the small floating room below the exit sign before the moving leaves and the red light the red burning eye. the. the. the. he bought me a drink but i was afraid to drink it, there might be something in it, might be something else but the boyman drinks from the brown glass condensed hoping. hopping. jiving grooving saying its me i am doing i do not i try not. i do not. buzz buzz. the strain and staring into the mirror for five under stalin red budsign loo loo skip to the loo loo loo skip to the loo my darling and the window to the soul the man with the cruel face the cruelty hidden hidden and the slash across the face, that which i knew before but without the beard even more cruel like sneer and dogs jowls rabid slather pores wide fixed and moving, eye/eyes/eye/eyes dark cruel sanitary tp tp wiping the water wiping the water mine eyes mine eyes leaking leaking -- watering. bad choice... all choices. exhilarated glide on wings to nest here dishrag making pruned paws clean pieces steel glass gyrating oregano, basil, hemlock.

The first rain brought all the leaves to the slick city streets. Halloween yellows and oranges, reds and the pavement's dark mirror.It is an Autumn smell I feel now in this city.The incongruous smells of this season in Washington, DC. Fireplaces alight, the smoke white piped into the thick creamy overcast.Woody smoke.Wet streets.Slap of tires along wet pavement. Drops of water tapping onto the tin of the A/C unit. The rainy Autumn captures every sound. Siting in a coffee shop, listening to recording studio stock smooth jazz, the grinding of th Burr grinder. The rich funk of the Jamaican Blue Mountain. Autumn is richness of smells. The cool kills the garbage in a city and replaces it with a nicer pot pourri. Feces, rotting garbage, urine -- these things are a City in Summer. Where things strive to self destruct and in their absence there is stink, there is stench. There are outdoor rats and yet the cold nip sends all indoors. The reactions are not allowed or slowed and the stink never comes. Or at least not in a quick oppressive breath. In the winter a man smells more fragrant. Can spend more time away from the shower. The pits cloud less with the body's odor. The layers of clothing protect and insulate. Insulation. The insulation of the Autumn. The snuggling of the fabric, the cloth, the skin, the fur again the inefficiency of the body's boiler. The ineffective heating or we have gotten soft from the movement of our body's towards merchant's store, towards the catwalk and the haute couture.