~
How did a dead man in Reno
come to be a field of ink
in the Martian salt flats-?

It only took a whisper

An addicted civilian
driving the metaphor machine
the last man to voluntarily fly
asleep and well hidden
writing about his life
without survival techniques

Autopsy report says
he slipped at the hand rail
blemishing his planet
in riding time's escalator
a longing to see the stars up close
and give them new names
it's the future grim repasts
of cullen shores
from a cancelled earth

That silently floating figure
was a human all along
~

Vintage Chanel lives rent free in my mind
the colors are deep, subtle and magical.
Over time, the originally soft textures,
become luscious, like a lover's caressing touch.

In college, you dress down,
you want to blend in, not stand out
gods forbid you flag entitlement
and draw envy's barbed compliments.

The simple styles bear the twin burdens
of camouflage and practicality.

In Paris, fashion can be capricious,
but elegance is a silent conversation,
with its own intricate vocabulary in drape,
line, fabric and in painstaking choice.

In places where fashion matters - Paris, Manhattan, the Hamptons,
it can signal position, the way uniforms signal authority everywhere.

A splash of fashion can not only have a fabulous effect
on how its wearer feels, it can tell important stories.

I’m told that, in back rooms, where fortunes are awarded or lost,
fashion can announce arrival, rank, and intent.
It can whisper new wealth, in upstart display
or a threadbare, silent duel with mounting debt
.
.
Songs for this:
The Way It Is by Bruce Hornsby & The Range
Read Between the Lines by The Bingtones

The one umbrella I give her
and get drenched in the rain.

My eyes are not dry
as rain bathes my eyelashes
makes me cry in joy.

I'm happy she's not wet
as it pours on pitter patter
pitter patter.

In the rain I find the might of love
and in the music of the pour
I hear my heart burning
in the light of sound.

Sometimes,  
Sometimes most of the time,  
I feel nothing.  
Nothing at all.

No joy or sorrow,  
No rise or fall,  
Just a quiet void,  
A distant, hollow call.

Emotions fade,  
Like shadows on a wall,  
Leaving only echoes,  
Of nothing at all.

I search within,  
For something to hold,  
But find only silence,  
A story untold.

Sometimes,  
Sometimes most of the time,  
I feel nothing,  
And let the stillness fall.

My boyfriend Peter’s like smoke, he’s elusive. He doesn’t always carry his phone.

There’s a crosswalk in Tokyo, it’s in all the movies. The light changes and hundreds of people walking in different directions meet - but they don’t collide - they make room for each other, flowing around each other like water.

Peter and I make room for each other. Then we come together and we make something. We’re of such different textures - we come from stark counterpoints but somehow, we mesh.

He’s the first person I go to with an idea because I trust him and I think he understands me. He’s my secret weapon. His advice is a coin I’m careful with.

He’s gone through the long slog and achieved a dream. And he did it poor. He fought a guerilla war with almost no resources. He lived in crowded spaces, existed on Ramen noodles and saltine crackers, taking any job to cover.

He’s practical, goal oriented and he can be unsympathetic. He’ll whisper, “Nutup up, tinkerbell - you’re such a baby,” but there's a supportive energy to it - and he’s usually right. He heralds a reality I’m not always used to.

Anyway, he was smoky tonight. I couldn’t reach him. Sometimes we go over a week without talking (I'm not always reachable either) and when we do, it feels intimate and victory-like.
.
.
Song for this:
Come in from the cold by Marc Broussard
One Two Three by Hooverphonic

How long do we get?
How many can we fit inside?
I reply like it's the first time
Gotta take pride

Have my ******* jokes
It makes them laugh
"Mind you're rowlocks" when you step inside lad's.
Watch out for the crocodiles, they escaped from the zoo.
Just over the side
If you need the loo.

Lookout for the terrapins
I can tell you think it's a joke
But it's true
Don't believe me?
I'll show a picture to you

Where did they come from?
During the winter, where do they go?
Never answer
"I don't know"

I've held many positions
From the bottom to the top
Some good
Some bad
They kept me a float
But never been happier
Helping people, inside a boat

~
Sun drips
on leaves

not the backyard variety
but the trembling kind

the kind
that weld night-time
intermissions to
the roof of the mouth

sonnet-filled
evaporation
reveals
the timely concealment of
a very, weary
inanimate object
at the brink

just enough hip
to be woman

just enough wild
to be frontier
~

With Highway One almost completely to myself
North of San Simeon
I find a pristine ocean on my left
Green covered hillsides on my right,
And a warm sun in a light blue sky above.
The stresses of the city and my topsy-turvy life
Begin to fall away as I relax and revel in it,
All alone here in my faithful Jetta.

When the night's moon is a quarter
She stands in breast deep water
The skylight beams on her wish
If comes her way a catch of fish.

She's the robust woman of night
And it's no fancy's flight
She gritfully spreads her net
Even when the river is in spate.

She knows well when the tides swell
The games are not easy to catch
Where the river meanders to a curve
She waits low tide holding her nerve.

When the silvery streaks struggle for breath
She looks not real but a myth
A mud princess with a golden heart
An apparition seen but can't be touched.

On a river with eons of length
She struggles with all her strength
I won't ever get even a chance
She's too focussed to give me a glance.