poetry

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?"