Secrets and Confessions

A simple pair of tennis shoes . . . size seven
ubiquitous modern day sabots a dirty shade of white
scuffed and frayed . . . to the untrained eye
leather footwear streaked with dirt and creased with age,
canvas paled and rubber sole worn thin
mere shoes . . . podiacal objects retired to my closet
wrapped in tissue.

A pair of magic slippers laced and tied,
which have walked and climbed . . . step by step
the steep slope up Montgomery and Vallejo, Telegraph Hill,
Filbert steps and Coit Tower . . .
traveled on cable car, trolly, subway rail and Muni Transist
exploring every inch and mile of concrete slab,
every path of natural  earth and rough hewn stone
amid the streets and byways of a place I call home
here in San Francisco.

Together we have marched across the Golden Gate Bridge
to witness the poetry of steel wrapped in fog,
enjoyed the simple pleasure of being part of a crowd
on Union street . . .defined by chic boutiques, antique shops
book stores and fashionable restaurants,
or dancing every sunday night till dawn . . . like a maniac
at the Trocadero Transfer tea dance
high on pure adrenaline.

A litany of names and places, of monuments and faces
wandering out and about in Golden Gate Park, Ghirardelli Square
Pacific Heights . . . remembering pale shades of colour
in the warm glow of the evening sunset . . .
a trace of ginger and curry in the air, fresh baked bread
warm Italian coffee . . . a mosaic of images captured
on Polk and California, Castro and 18th, Haight/Ashbury
Stanyan street, Alamo Square, Lafayette Park, Market and Montgomery
my shoe prints stamped daily
on every city block, art museum, escalator, library steps
music store and coffee shop . . .

Strolling down to the edge of the sea . . .I linger,
for an hour or so . . . content to feel the soft crush
of sand beneath my shoes . . . clothed in solitude I absorb,
the quiet murmur of restless ocean waves
the tang of salt sea air . . . to find the damp scent
of eucalyptus trees and summer fog a soothing balm
amid the cool and wooded trails at Lands End.


June 1985

I can see the weakness
in my own words- their
weary Translucence,

even as I
wind my euphemisms and parry
weed
snip the comma off,

attempt to catch my thoughts
before venom leaks out
of my em-dash.

but I can't.
Won't.
take back any
noun I flung

And So.

as you
walk down the hall

I see my adjectives
Just-
dripping off your
neck
rolling down the corridor

fat, black
and innocuous

and somehow feel
that I have
completely failed

at English.

I dreamt that I'd tell you,
  I dreamt I'd convince you.
I dreamt you would love me
and I too would love you.
I dreamt of perfection,
a dream so romantic.
I dreamt you would smile
and carefully panic.
I dreamt you would hug me.
  I dreamt we would both see,
together we're better -
  I dreamt you weren't choosy.
I dreamt up the ways
of how I could tell you.
I dreamt up bouquets
and a time and place too.
I dreamt that I told you.
  I dreamt that I could do.
I dreamt that it happened.
  I dreamt of a breakthrough.

instead i told you
at 3am   drunk   on facebook
and i took it back the next morning

there are rose hips
swirled in
with the peace
of your womb,

they made their way in
through your nerve endings
and they crashed in
with the tide,
bringing newfound calm
to the child
who rests there

underneath
the cigarette slick
of your lungs,
the dripping hot flesh
of your stomach,
the stiffness
in your bones --

she swims
in decay
and swallows it
like a fog, she
simmers pink
with tender arms
and clouded eye,

she waits
for you
to notice her

I want to be haunted by you.

Want you to...

Sit down beside me, 'til I feel your presence in the air.
Watch me remember you, So you can see I still care.
Caress me in passing, leaving chills on my spine.
Visit my dreams, make me believe that you're still mine.

     Haunt me daily, and keep this loneliness at bay.
     Haunt me nightly, until my desire goes away.

I want to be haunted by you, so I can ignore the pain
Haunt me please, so I can pretend that nothing has changed.



© Tina Thompson

I'm staring at this clock
     Wishing I could turn back time.
To...Let's say...the summer
     Of Nineteen Eighty Nine.

I just remembered something
     I frankly failed to do.
And should have done at the time
     I first thought to Kiss you.

What could have, that simple kiss become?
That simple kiss, that went left undone
A simple kiss from me to you
Just a simple kiss... or... two.

I am staring at the hands on this clock
     Dreaming of how life could have been.
If only I garnered the courage
     To Kiss you back then.


© Tina Thompson

The words try to jump from my lips
I grit my teeth, bite the soft inside of my mouth
and whisper into my drink
I’ll be damned if I say it first
You looked at me and said
that shouldn’t have happened to you
I know I know I know
I have exhausted all thought on the matter
The past won’t come knocking, as long as you are here
All I want to do is wrap myself in your prison arms
and forget
I’ll be damned if I say it first
So I sing it when you’re gone
In the echoes of my house the neighbors hear
Those stupid fucking words

We're standing outside in the cold blistered wind
for a quick pull of smoke and the chemicals within.
A quick rush of joy, a euphoric train wreck,
a plant made illegal for a chemist's blank cheque.
Plant matter burning, charring my lungs
an irritated throat and a cough soon to come.
Pass it to a friend and beg them to be quick
so I can burn my lungs again and let my blood run thick.
Serotonin's blocked and forced to make me feel good,
a non-addictive substance, apt misunderstood.
Less harmful than tobacco, alcohol's the worst.
A sadly brainwashed nation, impression's been rehearsed;

Generations plagued with misguided cries.
They say it makes you stupid, another heartless lie.
We'll strap a gas mask to a monkey, and feed it THC.
We wont give it oxygen, I wonder what we'll see?
It seems their brain cells died; it has to be the drug.
And so we made a discovery? Let us not be smug...

But back to my friend, and I in the cold,
forced to be hidden from long outdated scold.
Celebrating beauties in the world that were forgotten
we're told it's overrated, like fine Egyptian cotton?
We know from experience that this has to be divine:
it could not exist if the sun could not shine.
Our most socially acceptable addictive stimulant?
Coffee it's called, forgive my ambivalence.
The wind has stopped blowing, the rain takes it's place,
to feel divine beauty of a liquid touching face.
It's something not natural yet it comes from within,
wow, I'm still standing in a cold blistered wind...

hey, sorry
I think I ended on the wrong
note- (supposed to be a C but anyways)

I didn't mean to cry, honest
sat there in the car after you had left just
replaying all the time we've spent out here
and how we probably won't be back
ever (what a powerful word that is) or
at least for a considerable while

it overwhelmed me a bit, that and
our candle selves burning to ashes while
they set your pants on fire (I will find you
some new ones tomorrow, I promise)

only I can never free the words from my heart
(they want) so (badly to be heard by you)

please hold me and tell me you'll miss me, even
if that's (stretching the truth a little)

because I'm fizzling like a
flame under tears
and smiling at the same time, so
happy to know you for
who you are