As a kid
you used to watch
your mother

shucking peas
over the kitchen sink
and see the skill

her fingers
and thumb had
of clearing out

the peas into a bowl
with a single move
and you asked her

for one of the shucks
to chew
and she said

shucks?
you want a shuck?
yes please

you said
and she gave you one
from her hand

and you chewed
the juices out
and let it move

around your mouth
like that old tobacco
the cowboys had

in the black
and white films
your father

had taken you to see
and then you swallowed
and asked for more

and your mother obliged
with a raised brow
and a continued

moving out of peas
from the shuck
with nimble thumb

and fingers’ grip
as another green shuck
sat upon your lip

cowboy style
and your mother
with a shake of head

smiled and carried
on her work
of pushing out peas

from the pod
as you walked off
into the cowboy sunset

thinking of the Wild West
with no thought
of Boothill or God.

The way in which
my stomach stirs
is just as when
I touched your face
where you lay
while you slept
with your head
tilted back
and your eyes
closed-skyward--
where were you looking?
what did you see?
did you behold me?
Oh, something
has touched me--
reached inside
with fingertip
and touched the surface
of my waters;
they spin there,
stirring, stirring,
waking.  Oh,
what is happening?

The African
American
Guy sitting on

A bench in the
Laundromat gives
You the eye, the

Kind of I’ve been
Around awhile
Stare, not a bit

Unfriendly, but
Maybe bemused,
Wondering why

A white dame would
Want to look at
Him for and him

Alone in this
His kingdom of
Machines twirling,

Cleaning while they
Toss water and
Foam. Better than

Watching TV,
He drawls, all got
The same channel,

But different
Cycles, diverse
Clothes, all kinds of

Dirt and dullness
And sins to wash
Away. You were

Never good at
Small talk, but you
Try to say a

Few words and smile,
Putting yourself
At ease. Can’t wash

Your soul here though,
He says, showing
A bright gleam of

White teeth, just sit
Still and stare
And contemplate.

You unpack your
Bag of wash and
Sense his eyes fixed

On you, his mind
Ticking over,
As you place in

The clothes large and
Small. An old white
Guy comes in here

Everyday,
He says all of
A sudden, brings

His wash, sits and
Stares, mumbles to
The machine, while

Watching the same
Few items of
Clothing go round

And round. You nod
Your head and take
In his tee shirt,

Shorts and woollen
Hat, his socks and
Shoes and wonder

What your mother
Would have made of
Him had she been

Here. This place’s
A kind of dull
Purgatory,

Where souls wait for
Their time to come
To go to Hell

Or Paradise.
He laughs, moves his
Legs back and forth,

Pushes his hat
Further back on
His head. Maybe

We’re already
In Paradise,
Maybe this is

It. You and I,
Both sitting and
Staring at these

Washing machines,
But really in
Essence, we’re dead.

You turn your back
To watch your wash,
See the whites twirl

Like fond lovers
In the water
And sickly foam.

When you look back
Again he’s gone.
Maybe to Hell

Or Paradise
Or just back home.

Walking on egg shells
Quietly falling through
A woman who never tells
Of her melancholy blue

Ten years old again,
In a tree ten feet high again,
In scuffed shorts with tangled hair,
And with the boys I longed to be.

Sanctimonious girls in dresses and frills,
Boredom and constraint personified,
Stare up in incredulity
As I heave myself over mossy branches.

“Girls don’t climb trees.”
I do. I roll in mud, play racing games,
Never brush my hair.
“You’d be pretty if only you tried.”

You’d feel alive if only you tried.
The wind on my bare arms,
Dirt beneath fingernails,
Scrapes on my shins
Red and out of place
Like smudged lipstick
On children’s faces.

I’m not you. I’m me.
Boxes serve to keep us in,
Deliver us neatly packaged
To a society which cannot cope
With fluidity,
Individuality,
Uncertainty.
Boo!

She says those two misguided words:
“Make over”.
Impossible. One cannot start afresh.
This is the result of every waking moment,
Of every word heard and spoken,
Each memory joyous and painful,
A piece of art nineteen years in the making.
Not to be destroyed in one act of disguise.

Yet curiosity is my mistress.
She leads me to boundaries
I never knew existed.
Up goliath trees,
Into foreign beds,
To the brink of reality
In mind-bending worlds
Of parallels.

Like a mannequin, devoid of identity
I give my image to you
And you place yours jarringly
Onto my reticent body.

The obliging cheers
At my transformation
Into an eloquent femininity
Feel hollow and worthless.
I have done nothing of merit.

I totter like a toddler
Uncomfortable in my own skin.
I’m on stage, an act,
A project. Not a person.

How bizarre it feels
To wear a stranger’s façade
Of dresses and frills,
When you know you belong
To a different world
Of dirt, and treetops,
And freedom.

So fragile in its exquisite form
Crystalline and glorious
Transparent to those who wish to see
Tossed around by the unworthy
Dropped and shattered
Crushed under pounding foot
In the sun a billion pieces sparkle
By moonlight it looks like stars
How beautifully broken the heart can be

i fell in love with you
once
long ago
with my eyes closed
and the dream-screen drawn

we danced
like music notes across their barred landscape
we danced
the loveliest late-night lullaby

you became my hiding place
lilac and lace linens
stretched over a lumpy matress

my indiana jones
waiting patently and poetically
in a long-lost temple of slumber

you come back to me in waves
softly and subtly
while i'm half awake
you're kissing the broken down shorelines of an insomniacs holiday

i wish i could keep you
like an empty bottle in the window-sill
or a heart arrhythmia
this lonely romantics cardiovascular waltz

let me snag you up from my dream-dust
and stitch you to my sole like a lost boys shadow

let me find you in my reality
tip-toeing over an underlined paragraph
of a beer stained paper-back

i'll find you
someday
after a long-over-due nights sleep

perhaps in the guitar strings
or type-writer keys
or at the bottom of a bottle of whiskey in the ever-humming freezer

be mine
evasive valentine
i'll even let you hide in the curls of my hair
or under my fingernails
i'll keep you
if you'll let me

just don't forget me
come sun-up
when you gallup away
from my sub-conscious escape

take my heart-rate with you
tucked into your breast-pocket
like a floral handkercheif
or a photogaraph taped to the dash

come back
to the grey matter kingdom
tucked behind my eyelashes
i'll meet you in the idiosyncrasies of my synapses
writing love stories that never once happened

A lone island tranquil and still,
Her faint figure, hard to ignore,
Concealed in the shadow,
Men drawn in, the promise of more,
Ripples of the sea sparkle,
The setting sun ignites the waves,
Body outlined, beside the twilight,
Her poignant song travels to the pirates sails,
An oceans teardrop falls on her skin
No fairytale, shells, coins and gems,
Awake and alive, her smile enchanting,
He discovers her world, a surprising escape,
Lost in her eyes, reality crumbled,
And his dreams began to take shape.

you are walking the streets
you do not walk the boards anymore
your trousers are frayed, your shoes dusty
and the hard walkways have worn them out
you are not presented in the glorious costumes
and the stage crowns anymore
the illusion is gone, it’s reality
that’s permanent now
you’re the beggar, the recluse, the plain and shadow
you walk down to the shops
and your speech raises eyebrows
where’d he learn to speak like that?
they ask, in whispers, like conspirators on stage
your actions are too lofty, your manner too distant
it threatens them, they must crush you –
so that’s why you’ve learned to blend in as well as you can
those were the days
when they heard your words, and they felt it resonate
when they noted your pronouncements
and there was acknowledgement
but those were the days, a long time back when they
looked at you, and they knew you, and they looked in awe
now the children sneer at the old man,
and when it’s too cold, your nose runs
and you need to **** more often
and the women notice you hobble,
you leave the art of significance
and you learn the art of the indistinct
and you’ve learned
which practice is more difficult:
acting the prominent, or acting the anonymous

*Go, old man, old actor, every dog has its day;
the new breed eats the bones today

Little David loses mum
in the big shop
and he runs around
and between aisles
shouting for his mum
“Monica! Monica! Monica!”
he shouts for his mum
and finally mum appears
and  she admonishes her son:
“You know you shouldn’t call me Monica,
son – always call me mum”

“I know mum,” says respectful little David
*“but you can see the shop is full
of mums and mums!”