the end of a very long journey

And, of course, when she wasn’t looking for it anymore, she found it in the most peculiar spot. It didn’t look anything like she had imagined, but she recognized it immediately.

So the the ever-questing seabird went home—for the first, and the last, time.

32. 224. 1.

I went out with the Russian guy,
he told me he was rich.
I went out with the bartender
but all he did was bitch.

I went out with the thespian,
his name was Thakery,
but he became a lesbian
and he looks better than me.

I dated the lonely poet, and
he promised he would pay
tomorrow if I could just stick
around for one more day.

I wish that Walter was well groomed,
and this I must confess,
I wish that Howard had more hair
and Lou a little less.

I had dinner with the dancer,
I had drinks with the drunk,
I stayed out all night with the smoker
and played music with the punk.

I’ve been diving with David
and snorkeling with Stan.
I play tennis with Timothy
and lose chess games to Chan.

Andy was an airline pilot,
Matt was a musician.
Justin was a big ol’ jerk and
Philip a physician.

So many lines that it would take
before my list was done.
So many lips I could mistake,
but I have loved just one.

change

I wish your burdens were coins
so you could empty them from
your pockets each day,
like your change.

Separate out the silver,
stack the quarters on the counter,
feel glad to have sufficient
laundry money
and think nothing more of them.

tengo miedo de amarte y no amarte

Corazón mío, tengo miedo de amarte
Y no amarte. No puedo dormir
En la oscuridad y solamente puedo
Dormir en la oscuridad.

Deseo llenar tu insomnio con
Mis cabellos de madreselva y
Mi fresca, piel de otoño. Quiero
Dar las sombras debajo de los ojos
Mis dos perfectos, senos blancos
De peonías para descansar en.

Respiraría para ti en la noche terrible,
Hasta que los pulmones se conviertan en
Las alas de la mariposa y vuelan lejos.

Por eso,
Tengo miedo de amarte y no amarte.
No puedo decir estas cosas y
Solamente puedo decir estas cosas.



My love, I am afraid of loving you
And of not loving you. I cannot sleep
In the dark and I can only
Sleep in the dark.

I wish to fill up your sleeplessness with
My honeysuckle hair and my
Cool, autumn skin. I want to
Give the shadows under your eyes
My two perfect, white
Peony breasts to rest upon.

I would breathe for you in the terrible night,
Until my lungs turn into
Butterfly wings and fly away.

For these reasons,
I am afraid of loving you and of not loving you.
I cannot say these things and I
Can only say these things.

have you ever re-rented a movie that you just paid a late fee for?

I am so busy that I am paying late fees for movies I don’t have time to watch or return. But more distressing is that I most recently rented a movie that I don’t even want to see, which I decided after I brought it home, so I refuse to see it and now it’s late. And even more distressing is that I did want to see it when it came to the theaters but then I saw Once two weeks ago and I’ve been so depressed since then that I can’t stand the idea of watching any movie that has anything to do with love, so that pretty much rules out movies all together. Especially Waitress, which is still on my desk, never seen, and three days late.

pull

The plaid woman picking oranges
smells like dinner for her husband.
I wonder if I smell like selfishness,
or mushrooms.
Nutmeg, parsley, paper towels, garlic press—
the plaid woman probably remembered her list.
She probably knows how to make biscuits from scratch,
and has more than one use for her almond extract.

This is the way, this is the way, this is the way
of wedded things. This is how we come to be
lasciviously eyeing the cheese graters. This is how
we come to be wrestling with plastic wrap,
trying to save the leftovers. This is how we become
eternities of Teflon queens, lovingly filling the ice trays.

smart girl

I have more wit
than I have tit.

I have more quip
than hip.

I have more crass
than I have ass,

and more blunt
than I have wunt
or need of.

penguin dreams

Because he wanted to fly, the little penguin fashioned himself some wings.

He gathered twigs, some downy moss, and string, and whatever else he saw that he thought might make a wing. That he had been cold for a very long time was enough to make him believe that a penguin could fly. He spent endless hours watching the way the wind moved the clouds across the sky and he thought, Why can’t I?

While the dawn was just beginning to loose fiery tendrils streaming through the air, the little penguin trekked up to the top of a snow peak, and stood there. He put his wings on, those made from the scantest of things, and he thought, I don’t’ know if they’ll work, but I’ll try.

Hope is the dream of a flightless bird whose only wish is to fly.