Her metaphysical elephant
drips in blueberry-orange watercolors.

It watches us share a glorious
evening with star compadres
gabbing about healing thoughts & solutions,
as the rain gently whispers and drips outside.

This is our continued celebration of the summer solstice
dances and twirls like gyrating hips
humming Native American sounds
outside with the same Moonrise Star-children.
The previous morning began with a twisting journey
unto & into our golden selves,
vibrating hysterically in the foamy
fig beaches.

Days prior, on the solstice eve evening
we drank & spoke
in an intimate swamp faye bar
with a Neil Young cover band on hand
to embrace our cosmic gypsy heritage.

You fell in love with me.

I just hope you jumped.
Not slipped.

bend that bow till breaking
fire those arrows at will
I am an illusion
a draft of sorrows and heartache
too ephemeral
too misty to stay long in any sights
for the sake of argument.
gentiles and wit
karma and justice
its seems the only thing broken is your luck,
and the answer it seems is lost in the wind
while you're too busy thinking
by my mind you are already an ancient thought.
cast your strokes,
carve your name upon my will
a hard target for an uneasy ****
I've died before and lived again
My special healing power is
I never give a **** more than is necessary
and yes indeed this above all
makes me a most worthy adversary.

13 - My life was a diamond shining brightly in the sun
7- Till you came with your shadows
13 - I felt the cool shade but it was an ominous one
7-  Like rope hung over gallows
13- Took the shine in my eyes away and never looked back
7- all that's left is my sorrows.

(the first time I accepted a cigarette, he had rolled it
himself, smiling gap-toothed and weary eyed,
naked on the porch.)

tomorrow, a homeless man downtown will *** a smoke
from a lonely drunk fellow who burned his divorce papers
the night before.

(I didn’t want to cough
but it hit like history
biased and bruised.)

thirty years ago my grandfather sat at a typewriter
surrounded in blue vapor waving my young mother in
to ask her what life was like and how he hoped she
wasn’t smoking.

(We wanted to look like a 40’s black and white film, but
there’s nothing
romantic about burnt fingers)

the homeless man chuckles as the drunk fellow
tells his story of burnt agreements and
the way the smoke smelled like his wife’s perfume
on another man’s jacket.
they sing the smokey song
inhale, exhale, laugh. inhale, exhale, sigh.
they shake hands, part ways.

(he laughs when I need
a full cup of water
to rid the webs from my lungs)

mama leans back in her chair
pulls a pack from her pocket
one left.
her father breathes and then it’s time to
sing the smokey song.
inhale, exhale, laugh.  inhale, exhale, sigh.

(I walk to the kitchen
worrying about splinters, black tar
oblivious to passing cars, fathers, the future.
Reach for incense so mother won’t know I’ve been singing the
smoky song, the one where breath resembles
gray satin ribbons,
the one where I
inhale, exhale, laugh. inhale, exhale, sigh.)

There's a difference between looking and
seeing.

You can look at me,
but I wonder more
what you see.

Brown eyes,
brown hair,
barely more than
five feet tall;
my feet are small,
as are my hands;
my teeth are straight,
thanks to braces;
shoulders been broad
since I swam,
but my figure
is much less athletic
than it used to be.

I could look
at myself
and point out
a million flaws.
My forehead is much
too big for my liking,
my cheeks are too red,
my top lip is so
skinny it barely
exists,
and, if you ask me,
my waist line
could afford
to look a little more
like my upper lip.

My looks are far from perfect.
Not saying I'm hideous,
but I don't look
in the mirror
to find
America's Next Top Model,
or anything close,
at least not until
my face is perfectly painted,
flaws concealed under
a combination
of moderately priced makeup and
a rather crafty hand.

When I look,
physical imperfections
and inadequacies
stare back at me.
My overly expressive
light brown eyes
give me an
omnipotent glance,
and they beg me to
turn away,
to close them,
to put them to sleep
so that I can
see.

When I see,
it's like a whole new me.
I'm a human being
whose physical flaws
are diminished by
an overly giving, compassionate
heart,
a brain
filled of logic & curiosity,
a chest
swollen full of
endless giggles,
a throat
storing sarcastic words mixed in with
empathetic phrases;
down within me
I see
the woman
who still at times
looks and feels
more like the girl
whose heart has been broken
too many times to count
but still, despite her
womanly pessimism,
yearns optimistically
to love again.
Within me I see
a woman with confidence
and also insecurity,
ambition and fear,
tranquility and rage,
hope and despair;
I see dreams,
wishes,
prayers,
meditation;
I see a beautifully
complex soul
trapped in a world
that begs it for
simplicity and
conformity.

I guess when I look
I only get a glimpse
of the body
that feels the need
to be perfect,
to work out a little more,
to weigh a little less,
to fix her hair the right way,
and to dress in the right clothes.
The self-conscious me
who still fears being weird,
who cares what others think,
who worries if my parents are proud.

But when I see,
out comes the woman
who says
**** the status quo,
I can't be put in a box,
I'm beautiful the way I am,
and nothing stands
between
me
and achieving
my
dreams.

When I look,
I don't see,
but when I see,
I see me.

I feel the brim of my glasses graze my nose,
and I know,
even once I take 'em off,
my vision
is better
than ever.

I apologize for everything
Even when it's not my fault.

I guess it's because
No one ever apologizes to me.
And I don't want anyone feel that way.