Friday, November 19, 2010


I missed the apple season
You missed the Giant’s winning the world series-
the leaves beginning to change and cars on fire.
You missed voting for Prop 19 and a weekend disaster for Dems. I missed that too.
You went missing in the crowd when I missed your calls that day,
I had fun but I missed you.
I missed the other one and you missed that.
You missed me being a drag while dragging a boy in drag-
a cloud and a myth with grapes on his head. I missed what he said.
We missed four exits driving back to my house after you missed the last metro
And your last night, you missed three trains, two buses and one free ride home.
On my last day, I missed my flight home because I missed you too much
And, perhaps, you missed me too much too,
because maybe
I just missed it.

Tuesday, October 26, 2010


The heavy, red curtains that the landlord left at your house block all light from the street and also block the fresh air. So I'm awake, lying on top of the covers, listening to people fight in the apartment complex across the street. My mom would tell me to call the police.  She'd also hate these drapes.

The screaming gets louder. A door slams. I pull back the cloth and take a breath of cold air. A man stocks down concrete stairs. He paces on the street and stocks back up. The front door opens and slams and opens and slams. He sweeps up and down the stairs but I don't make any calls.

I remember this morning. My parents and sister left our Best Western hotel room before I got up. I slept on my side,  in the bed near the bathroom,  and he slept in the bed near the door, flat on his stomach -- like babies do. 

 I called my sister when I woke up. She came up from breakfast and gently drew open the curtains. The sun streamed in and poured over his face. He scrunched and yawned. She lay next to him and he opened his eyes. He babbled and flopped onto her.

She swung him up by the waist into her arms and cooed---her face as relaxed and soft as I had ever seen it.

In the thick air of your bedroom, I curl out of your bed and brush your legs. You tug at my hand.

I didn't make this to share it.

They have a new album coming out this week and I'm very glad.

Friday, April 2, 2010

Between the palm the basket

Old men lounged in the sunny park chairs like cats and chirped to each other like birds.

This morning was that kind of spring morning.

Between the higher and the pleasant.

On the good and before the rising.

Wednesday, January 13, 2010

as it swept before us

islands of washed-out plane rides and calico-ed corners
our friends embraced on the front doorstep behind the blankets of fresh snow and
speedy dinners.

we thought this would never end.