Dear Colette,
I want to write to you
about being a woman
for that is what you write to me.

I want to tell you how your face
enduring after thirty, forty, fifty. . .
hangs above my desk
like my own muse.

I want to tell you how your hands
reach out from your books
& seize my heart.

I want to tell you how your hair
electrifies my thoughts
like my own halo.

I want to tell you how your eyes
penetrate my fear
& make it melt.

I want to tell you
simply that I love you--
though you are "dead"
& I am still "alive."

Suicides & spinsters--
all our kind!

Even decorous Jane Austen
never marrying,
& Sappho leaping,
& Sylvia in the oven,
& Anna Wickham, Tsvetaeva, Sara Teasdale,
& pale Virginia floating like Ophelia,
& Emily alone, alone, alone. . . .

But you endure & marry,
go on writing,
lose a husband, gain a husband,
go on writing,
sing & tap dance
& you go on writing,
have a child & still
you go on writing,
love a woman, love a man
& go on writing.
You endure your writing
& your life.

Dear Colette,
I only want to thank you:

for your eyes ringed
with bluest paint like bruises,
for your hair gathering sparks
like brush fire,
for your hands which never willingly
let go,
for your years, your child, your lovers,
all your books. . . .

Dear Colette,
you hold me
to this life.

And he watched
as she drew her soul
into the empty paper
in front of her

freedom came through
the explosions of ink
that intricately depicted
the thoughts in her head

you could see them silently flowing
from somewhere deep inside
through her hands to the page
where they permanately
exposed her heart to the world

if only they could understand

The random movement
Feels scripted.

Blood red sky
in the morn
there's a flag
faded and torn
whipping fast
in the wind
rippling softly
like sweet sin
staring off
into the sky
pondering the reasons
for and why
stands a man
with wet brow
searching horizon
from the prow
ever looking
for the land
for which he left
it seems unplanned
from the sea
arose the shore
but is that what
he's looking for?

My skin is black.
But my black friends say I'm white
My white friends call me their black friend
My Spanish friends just don't know
My Asian friends think I'm smart.
But would take me more serious if I was white or Asian.
My boss doesn't see my potential
Society sees me as a statistic
The government sees me as a number.....
Why can't I just be a human?

Your absence has gone through me
Like thread through a needle.
Everything I do is stitched with its color.