poet

There is magic. I have never doubted it. When I
saw my first exorcism, I couldn't believe what I
was seeing. It really didn't appear possible to
be taken by a demon. Demons are not for real.

The other night, running through the close boughs
of the forest, the fingers picking at my clothing;
the bugs biting through skin and into vessels, I
caught sight of several iridescent beetles darting
several steps off the trail in a small bright
clearing.

I changed my course, away from the strong river,
and came upon wild mushrooms formed in a circle.

The bugs were gone and the trees were still. Even
the birds had decided to zip their mouths.

The green screen was hazy
from the grease upon my
brow when I sat there before
checking my awk file.

It kept on jamming up so
I tool a breather and sat down
to read some pages from a
fat book on UNIX.

her hair curls more during humid days. she leaves her hair down on these days. there is always a rope of curls in her eyes. down to her chin. sometimes she takes a blond end into her mouth. when she thinks. she begins to put her hair back with a silver metal barettes but she isn't because she loves the way her hair moves today. tomorrow it may be back in a ponytail, but not today.

not today as we wait for the blue line train to take us from capitol hill south to dupont. her hair stays down even after the transfer. the ceiling, honeycomb arches, painted nicely in only some stations. for the pleasure of the policy makers. for the concrete arches turn dark with age. grimy. the formed rock takes the soot from long days and rubs it deep. the pale grey paint is ghoulish. unnatural like whitewashed brick or brownstone. an afterthought. bad design. Impossible to sand blast or scrub.

i sit with her waiting for the train. after coffee. lattes.

(she sits with her leg folded under her. or a knee pulled tight into her chest. her limbs are slender, she takes up no room at all. but once, years ago, i thought she was quite tall. when she walks her back is straight, her back arched. she bounds in spite of heavy oxfords and rugged jeans. rough fabric like husk protecting tender flesh. her lips have natural color contrasting with her smooth pale skin. i noticed these things years before. old news except for the navel ring. that is new news. leather jacket. an easy of movement. wire rimmed glasses.)

the metro came after a short while. it passed us as we at, my legs sprawled, knees apart; she sitting with legs under her. we stood and watched as the short train, only several cars, pulled way past us and we needed to walk a long way.

it made my hung mind clearer to spend time with her. to spend time outside on a winter day of 65 degrees. warm in jeans and a button down. walking under balmy skies. through eastern market. my head is throbbing. my throat is tight and i want to vomit and never smoke, never drink again. purge the toxins from my soul. from my body.

a man sits together with a woman on the stone bench near the rails. his eyes stroke the curls she absolutely will not brush from her face. the dirty blond curls, more waves than curls. the tips of the curls are almost white, still bleached from the summer. this is winter, waiting together for the blue line in washington. the metro never takes very long. it hovers to rest with a spaceship electronic whine. the woman runs her finger through her hair and behind her ear, keeping all but one long strand from again falling into her eyes. the man is young, but older than the woman.

she wears a green cardigan over a cotton shirt, tucked into heavy jeans. she wears tan leather work shoes. chunky tomboy urban wear. she has always dressed like this, even when in the office. soft translucent skin, moist and white. hints of blush in the cheeks. rough denim and soft skin. golden hair and golden wires holding her glasses on. he is bigger than she. he is wider and much taller. bearded. ruddy. heavy. with curious eyes that look at her, then the train.

he moves slowly, carefully for his mass is dangerous to others if unchecked. unchecked movement, even friendly claps, may throw another against a wall. They sit so that their knees touch. not from love but from comfort. because they have known each other for so long and can speak or move with ease. because they are friends. he scratches his beard and runs a hand through his hair. its to his shoulders uncut and dark brown. black jeans. steel toed boot, scuffed and brown.