introvertabrate

Wondering one night at a coffeeshop how I can be a dazzling social butterfly, but only until I turn back into a pumpkin.




garrulous
tonight
for short shocks
of sullen,
sorryass
5 minute
bursts of conversation,
bumbling at the end of each
then leaving off
and going back, going back,
to put my face in a book.

Rod McKuen Was Not a Poetry Ho

Well, maybe he was, but it doesn't appear so from my perspective. He was one of the best-selling poets of all time, which does suggest he must have been a ho, but...well, I like a lot of his stuff because it's like the MacDonald's of subtlety and innuendo and meaning. If you want some smooth poetry in a hurry, pull up to the drive through and maybe order "ONE" from Listen to the Warm, stolen and posted below.






This is the way it was
while I was waiting for your eyes
to find me.

I was drifting
going no place.
Hypnotized by sunshine
maybe,
barking back at seals along the beach.
Skipping flat stones on the water,
but much too wise for sand castles.
My castles were across the sea
or still within my mind.

There were the beach bars
and the other beach people
sometimes little bedrooms were my beach,
but I was drifting.

I must have thought the night could save me
as I went down into pillows
looked up through dirty windows
smiled back from broken mattresses
turned in Thunderbirds
and kissed in elevators.

I cried too sometimes.
For me.

I loved every face I thought looked pretty
and every kindred eye I caught in crowds.
But I was drifting
before you.

chapbook sneak peak -- "breathing out"

he flew into the bus shelter,
blinded
by his passion for flight,

crashed into the glass,
hit the ground
and hopped, flapped,
stunned.

he offered no resistance
as I lifted him into my palm,
and changed plans
so I could take him
to the Nature Center
on the #26.

he just sat there,
warm and pulsing,
yielding.

the bus driver,
when he saw him cradled in my hand,
shooed me away,

but that was alright;
I laid him on the ground
near a sprite little tree
on a breezy, park foliage-island nearby
and walked away.

She Heals with a Word -- my second chapbook

I will be creating a new chapbook soon, filled mostly with what I call my more "pretty" or "healing" poems. They will be twenty pages at five dollars and proceeds may be going to a mission for orphans in Kenya. If you'd like a chapbook, please contact me at jazzcoffeefreak@yahoo.com as I am only creating about 50 and will make more if need demands.

when I am difficult

I actually don't feel this way more than 25% of the time.



Indifferent,
I turn away
from the levers
that control the Heavens.

One pull,
one crank,
and you could thank me
for making your life better.

Yet I refuse
to put myself in the mood
that contorts my face
into a warm smile,
that lightens my limbs
to the point where
they raise of themselves
to reach those levers.

I am indifferent, but I am not selfish.
I am simply sluggish with melancholy,
lacking vision to see any
hope
in any venture ventured today,
in any attempt at the supernal,
whether lost or gained.

"donkey" and "tantric healing" (two haiku)

first, it's the carrot,
then, Friend, the whip: Dear Donkey,
find your true longing



I wanted you to
heal my heart through tantric love.
You did, you said, "No."

What She Knew

Bless Mark Hopkins soul for wanting to publish this in the Cleveland Reader, while his dratted foil (okay, Nick's a cool guy too) passed it over. I remember things like this to the minutest detail. I can tell you how it felt to be there. this happened circa -- 29 years ago, written four years ago.





The kid had skipped out of practice
and had just arrived, halfway through, out of uniform.
But with one sentence to coach Terrengo,
all was forgotten.

“There’s a girl choking by the lower field.”

We had never seen coach T. run,
let alone run so fast.
He was a huge guy, in height weight and muscle.
He just flew down that hill
and the other coaches managed to keep us up there
until everything was alright.

We followed down then
to find her on a bench,
turning back from blue to peach,
coach T. standing next to her.
The story was that he’d
Heimliched a piece of gum from her throat.

The next day,
I looked over at her a couple of times
in Spanish class.
She sat there in a grey sweatshirt,
and I remember noticing how frail
and, for the first time,
how pretty she looked.

The drone of Ms. Coffey’s voice
hovered over the room,
odd and dull,
while Ginny gave off this aura of humility,
real and palpable,
as if she knew something
it would take years and years
for any of us
to understand.