Sun-faded

There's something about Southern California that
makes you feel as if you aren't missing anything.
But, I think that may be the problem,
that sometimes the palm trees and ocean breezes
function more as blindfolds than escapes.
In that case, ignorance is what it is, not bliss.

There are days when I wake up and the sun
leaks through my apartment window and I'm
not upset that it woke me up but instead I'm upset because
I want to be woken by the smell of rain on freshly mowed grass,
And watch the raindrops on the pane as they race each other,
Slipping down the condensated glass
and finally forming one puddle at the bottom.

Desert plants are hard, sharp, with pointy edges,
and deciduous plants are soft, fluffy and lush.
Sometimes I feel sun-faded here,
And my thirst can't be quenched by the saltwater
that is gorgeous but draining. Sometimes I want to taste
the water that falls from the sky and have an excuse to
wear rain-soaked clothes. Even though it's uncomfortable,
the relief of changing into fleece sweatpants after running
from the bus stop into my overpriced student housing
makes me feel something that I can't begin to really explain.

I want to wake up with the rain falling on a tin-roof
in a warm apartment, with the window open only ever-so-slightly
so that I can feel the crisp air and bursts during the
moments when the breeze picks up. I'll close my eyes and
breathe and understand better the feeling of making a home.

Baby Fat

I've always wanted a flat stomach
but today I learn to love the little flab
of skin above my womanhood that refuses
to be gotten rid of no matter how many
reverse crunches and mountain-climbers I complete.
This little flab is a reminder of my resilience
representing years of dinners that consisted of pasta
and homemade bolognese, not really knowing
at the time that this choice was subsistence and not
nutrition because the grocery bill totaled half as much
when my mother made this choice for our family.

No Captain

Synths slip and soothe my sleepy soul,
Seeing the soon-to-be stages,
Swaying side-to-side,
side-by-side,
Suddenly serene and surrounded by sound

We Flew to the Forest

I’ll always remember how it felt when we went.
There was never a need to take a photo,
The things we can remember from a simple scent.

Snug and burrowed, stuffed in sleeping bags, cozied up in a tent,
the diamonds danced on the ceiling, kissing good-night.
I’ll always remember how it felt when we went.

Smothered flames left smokey pungence to document
our marshmallow-covered lips in wholesome talks
The things we can remember from a simple scent.

We traipsed through the wood with unknown intent,
Lush grass, damp moss beneath bare feet...
I’ll always remember how it felt when we went.

The glacial water pounded my head ​— crisp, pure and hellbent.
We floated below, shivering but untroubled.
The things we can remember from a simple scent.

There will likely be few times when I will be feeling more content 
than when I escaped to the forest with my two favorite people. 
I’ll always remember how it felt when we went.
The things we can remember from a simple scent.

Welcome

Set free, engulfed by notes, opaque and blue,
They drift and flit about, unhinged and bold.
I’m small, alone, inclined to rest but there
Is more to night than sleep. I sway and twirl,
Consumed by thumping, BUM-bum, Wub-wub bass.
Closed eyes, I see the beat, the pulse, waving,
Fluorescent lines drawn by awareness to
Sonorous rhythm. Eyes sewn shut, I am
Absorbed in deep vibrations fashioned by 
A faceless one above the crowd. Champagne
Exhales and sour hazy breaths exhaust
The fleeting pain, inured by booze and bass. 

In a Café

It is a sunny, autumn afternoon,
Approaching the time when the sun paints the day
Faint shades of amber and gold.
The spouses’ shadows stretch on the faded wallpaper,
Darkness of the night is an impending doom
But it is seemingly present in their hearts.

She sits and stares, back pressed against the mahogany booth,
Still dressed in her Sunday Best,
Watching the afternoon crowds trickle out to return home.
The morning cocktail server greets his evening relief,
Rubbing away the condensation of the watered-down drinks
From the tacky bar that knows the weight of 
Tears, sweat, and blood.

She is particularly aware 
Of the itch of her corset beneath her fanciful blouse.
The feathers on her hat 
Generate a soft and blurry outline in her vision.
She watches the feathers dance in the draft and
The lofty ceilings allow the sun to cast light and warmth on her skin.
She is completely unaware of this.

The tip of her nose is hardly rosy on her colorless face.
Impossible to comprehend, her cheerless gaze holds mystery.
Most would assume that with the changing of the seasons,
The dust and pollen have irritated her system, causing this blush irritation.
But the fact is, she has been sobbing relentlessly,
Only comforted by the vast goblet,
Filled with a chartreuse solvent that will eventually
Drain the pain of her brain.

Absinthe: A libation for shattered hearts
Silence on repeat,
The only sounds that resound her gray cognizance
Are the drip-drip-drip of the faucet
A stream of suffering
The dam: another sip from the goblet

She does not know how, when, or why she will be returning home.
She knows very little.
But suddenly, she can hear the chirrups and coos of the sparrows on the patio,
Above the roars and honks of the buses on the street outside,
Over the clitter-clanking of silverware being polished in preparation for the evening rush,
Beyond the slurp of her husband’s fourth whiskey sour,
And just as the birds are done their song,
The pianist enters through the great glass door and the grand piano erupts,
A tune from a time before she knew the comfort of absinthe.

The Giggle

Purity and innocence is earned at birth,
The miracle of parturition - 
Wide-eyed and open-mouthed, 
A giggle forms on the infant’s bitty lips,
Swelling at the corners of the teeny mouth,
Slightly slimy but still clean and fresh,
A gleaming, perfectly round and wet bubble floats into the air,
And the tot can see his bulbous, fuzzy head
Still just as wide-eyed, a reflection staring back in wonder,
And the giggles begin, spitting dozens more bubbles into the nursery.
Instead of bursting as they bump the mobile hung from the ceiling,
Twirling and dangling in the spring breeze,
The perfect bubbles grow
And are swept out the window of the house atop a green hill in the countryside
Down to the valley, 
Embarking on a quest of adventure
Discovering the bountiful journey of life.

And although the joy that fills those bubbles
May dwindle through the dark forests and violent winds,
The bubbles will not burst
As long as the innocence remains inside them.