Vermillion

I’ve been thinking in vermilion 

It colors my hair

Builds crystals underneath my teeth 

Permeates the brick under my feet

It fires the walls around me

Keeps me from traveling 

Shut my eyes and the sun is still setting 

Cross my legs and hope the pigment isn’t a hallucination

It dyed you from a soft white transition 

Feel the change as energy turns frantic against this palette 

Promise I won’t try kissing you

Regret that we’re now colorblind

Leaves me longing for something that lives simply in black and white

Not ready to open the door to see what other hues are fighting to bleed through

We were supposed to be the color of eternity 

Fortune Cookie

What an absurd prospect

Expecting you to give me any details

Leaping to the conclusion I’m a weaver of answers that could be pulled like a slip of paper tucked inside an eat-while-you-pay-your-bill afterthought treat

Feverishly leaning into me for insights shared only as confetti from punch-holed vintage magazines

Left to sift through blank pages stacked the breadth and width of canyons

Bouncing us back and forth in their echoing

Floating above the horoscopes

Swimming around the therapy

Still, you give me nothing

So my answers sound like forged portents 

Fortune cookie offerings

Both of us know your defiant stubbornness 

was never going to offer clarity 

Calico Dream

I was in Asia staying with newfound friends

It was the future – soft light warmed everything

Sounds and sites of vegetables simmering in pots were everywhere

I shaved part of my head making it easier to wear wigs and put on disguises

Wearing this bizarre 1970s motorcycle helmet, white with red racing stripes

The stress of being in these new surroundings was so exciting it made me vomit 

A cute calico befriended me, always looking like they were going to speak – they never did of course, just kept purring, following me, or were they guiding me?

I found you in a scrapped-out airstream -- told you I loved you being my best friend 

We cried a little, it wasn't sad

Just being there with each other was good – for the first time in a long while I felt like myself

It took a dream, waking from sleep on the couch in pain, being transported to feel like me, if even for a moment again. 

San Diego

Sitting on the balcony of our hotel room,

A still morning greets us, looking out over the water

Drinking French press Kona,

The oils from the freshly plunged coffee mingling with the smell of morning dew

Surrounded by sailboats and the view of Tijuana

You discovering the bliss of lox on an everything bagel

The day was crisp

Wrapped in cozy sweaters

Watching the gulls catch air, floating effortlessly by

One of my favorite memories

Captured in the amber of my mind

Fresh Legs

Stretch, feel skin cracking from beneath Winter’s permafrost.

Ache at the bones snapping into place after the yawn of cold morning shrinks in the Spring sun.

Pull off scratching socks that heated you through the night, cold toes be gone.

Smooth oil over this organ, this canvas that’s been painted black with the loudness of heartbreak and righteous discontent.

Robbed of the season’s stolen time.

Not a single bit of goodness fits through the strainer you’ve ripped gaping holes in.

There were things to celebrate.

Yet they shared the same room as the shattered pieces of heart.

Feeling like an awkward lanky teen yearning to burst from anxiety into their prime.

Selfish in these feelings.  In this push through, in the same house fighting through the awful and the sublime.

Spring arrived lacking anything that sniffs of newness.

Pull the curtains shut, put a sweater on, pull the hood over your head.

Lay down in the unmade bed.  Sheets needing to be washed that still smell like her.

Refuse, just one more day to rot in the love of stolen kisses.

Stuck in the ordeal of perpetual eventide.

Every single memory tied up in her hair, in her ashes.

A smooth red wooden box embellished with her name.

The urn, the lingering frankincense clinging to the drawstring silver bag.

Her hand pressed into clay for remembrance. 

Plant the rosemary, plant the wildflowers.

Hang the chime. 

Place a sleeping statue in her favorite napping sun.

Mourn her.

Celebrate her.

Move tomorrow, embrace Spring slowly with fresh legs.

Pixie Dust

Lick the pixie dust from your lips.

You’re laughing at the Unicorn’s warning to be careful, "that fairy’s not to be trifled with.”

But it’s your last night in Chicago and you want to revel in the magic, drink in the jazz, throw caution to the wind.

You’re not going to heed the warning, succumbing to the danger that you’re in. 

“Isn’t this fantastic?” You shout over the saxophone player while you’re sitting at the corner of the bar.

“Killer.” Whispers the pixie queen as you collapse into her arms.

Summer and the Clouds

Summer sits.  It sits with its head in its hands deciding what to do with this lightning that never seems to end.

Curious, the pregnant clouds also sit.  They’re at the same small table, drinking shit beer and smoking – nature is getting half-lit.

“Aren’t these bugs just stupid? I wish they didn’t bite as much but scratching your skin riddled with bumps is just part of summer.”

“You can’t be mad at it.  Well, you could, but your bitching just seems wasted – go make lemonade. Or cut up watermelon, that’s something better.  Grab a towel while you’re at it, I want to go for a swim.”

The Clouds are up from the table, obeying Summer’s whims.  Getting their picnic prepared.  Everything is ready now, skinny dipping in all this heat, the water feels just right.  It’s a nod to their childhood.

“Jump in without caring! God-damn it! I stepped on a bee!”

“That’s what you get for running through the clover barefoot, Summer.” The Clouds chuckled, getting back to their backstroke, smelling like coconut suntan oil.

“You’ve always been too lazy, you never learn.  Remember last year when you got stung running through the water blowing out from the garden hose?”

“But it was coming out so cold!” Summer never gave a shit about the flip flop recommendation – too busy laughing, hopping on one foot, throwing out lightning.

The Clouds, they can’t be bothered, floating around, eyes squinting, pruned up fingers pull the swimsuit from their cheeks while they towel off, wringing rain from their soggy waving hair.

“For the last time, put some got dang shoes on your feet, we’re leaving.”  Summer relents like a toddler, the last hurrah before packing up – summer is finally over.