The first one happened in the dark,
On an awkward bed in too much haste;
It was not really what I wanted,
Not a meal but just a taste.
The second and third were foggy at best,
A handsome face or long, blond hair,
The connections, sweat and smooth chest,
But the memories are still fair.
The fourth one kept hailing me
And I almost saw him there,
But his pursuit was like a drug
Too flattering sweet to miss;
Unknowing pain dispelled with a winter kiss.

Other trysts would follow:
In an empty room, on a stripped-down bed,
In a forest that covered a hill,
Inside a corner room,
With nights in white
Cotton and you missing still,
While floating snow fell.
I saw your face out in the storm.
No one there to keep you warm.

A summer lad was tall and fair,
His arrogance disguised as a dare,
Flaunting traits you wish weren’t there,
But a bacchanal makes up for OCD.
Until his obsession is directed at me.
Imagine Apollo in a haze of J.D.!

He took me home (unsuspecting) in his car,
Across the Valley, but it wasn’t far
Enough for me to endure his howls
About my lack of even temper
When he inspected other girls.
I stopped his rant and smashed a car door.
Yet he called the next morning,
Insanely wanting more.
And I told him that:
If a ten ton truck had crashed
Into his tin VW and we were mashed,
I couldn’t think of a worse way to die,
Than to be pinned there by his side!

So to you and all the others I bemoan:
Don’t take me back to your home.
I have no use for your romance,
I don’t need your wants,
And you don’t want what I need.
There’s a bed of my own where I prefer to sleep
And in the sunrise I will keep
A sweet liaison with coffee and birdsong,
Of synthesized music all morning long.
With a new gold dream beside me.
And summertime inside me.
There is a light and it never goes out;
Those who don’t see it have been shown out.

Budding with excitement and seemingly pointless fear,
but I held a new life in my hands shown through a *** of all my savings.
My eyes dart wildly in awe of all the different cars,
big ones, small ones, new ones, and foreign ones.
Everyone smiled at us - the dealers and the other buyers who walked out with
shiny, new vessels as if it were nothing.
Nobody knew this was our fifth dealership, even we pretended to lose count
maybe this time we’ll leave with something.
I know they can see how badly I yearn for a car of my very own
that I can say is mine,
that I worked for it,
that I can watch age through the years.

I start to back into a spot,
Then they drive in front or behind, rushing
Somewhere; those people are the worst.

Ever since you left
I’ve been wondering
what it’d be like if we
were just parallel lines
never destined to meet
instead of two rusted cars
with broken brakes at a
crossroad without signage.

Everyones chillin’
Groovy tunes rollin’
Lowriders cruisin’
Then your loud *** comes along
Takin’ up space
Yours and mine
Wreckin’ smooth
Pushin’ your own groove
"Donk in charge"
No votes necessary
Everythin’ sighs
Bubble on the mic
Doin’ your business
All over the room
Box store cut-*** mule
Nothin’ but unwoke noise
Blow Bull Horn


© 2019 MJL

On long car rides late at night,
You finally exit the freeway'
And the car slows to a gentle stop.
The lost momentum stirs you and your eyes open
Just enough to see the car's insides bathed in red light.
Your eyes are more comfortable when they're closed,
And the warm air whispering from the vents invites you
To slip under completely.

The early morning, when you still have an hour or two of sleep.
You turn to get more comfortable,
Feeling the warm spot where you used to be.
You sigh deeply and,
For a moment,
You think you catch the scent of your own home.
You pull your sheets higher and feel your body relax.

The teacher is lecturing.
You feel your legs grow heavy.
Your blinks become longer until
It's more work to open them than you're willing to put forth.
The fluorescents buzz a lullaby just for you.
You hear, but you can't listen.
A sharp jolt.
Your head bobs.
You are awake.

You're seconds away from falling asleep.
A dull flash lights your eyelids, and
Though your breathing stays the same,
Your heart rumbles with the distant thunder.
You are made aware,
Once more,
Of the steady patter of rain on your window.

This January, fog slips thick fingers through the hair of the trees,
wrapping them in blankets against the cold and against the sun.
Streetlamps and headlights make halos
of red, yellow, green, white,
carving slices into the air,
the same at three as they are at six as they are at nine as they are at--

And something whispers to me that elsewhere there is snow.
It’s only getting warmer.
It’s only getting warmer.