We drank a cup of Oolong tea,
its forlorn fragrance wafts;
atmosphere awkward with silence-
ineloquent like writers first draft,
this tea taste of grievance.

Stumbling lips, we finally talk.
Woeful, you asked me why
I choose to leave and walk-
bidding you with heartless goodbyes.

My eyes fogged by tea’s heat;
tears form like dews of rain,
forehead furrows in sweat-
emotions rich in pain.

We drank a cup of Oolong tea,
This moment I’ve long dread!
Whirls of traumatic emotions
had left me angry red-
your actions were ghastly.

For many years we did not speak.
Bitterness brewed in tea,
memories of the past all bleak,
my self-esteem you’ve malign.

Oolong aftertaste so unkind-
our past painted with hurt!
Will my emotions blurt to
reveal repressed resentment?

We drank a cup of Oolong tea,
my mental assailant,
I shall not fear your chide.
The truth shall be revealed,
no longer my voice shall hide!

the sun was bright that day
leaving freckles in my skin
burning brown grains of sand
stepping a little too far inland
losing sight of the sea
looking for the snake's oolong tea

theft ain't bad if you're taking
from the thief
got nothing to lose, friend,
just like you
you know how it is

oh, hello
i'd never steal from you
just wanted to look around
admire the place
you've got a pretty good setup here
no, i'm not a kiss-***, i'm being for real

scraping my knees on the rocks near
the shoreline, digging sand into my skin
the reddening streaks on my legs
remind me of the sunset
pain is nothing, i tell myself
kneeling and praying to god
for mercy upon mine soul

but this doesn't get old
face flushed with relief
my pockets full of the snake's
very aromatic oolong tea

The mug stains leapfrog a linoleum asphalt countertop, sunbathing in the breakfast nook.
A magazine proofreads a hole in a bagel. Scanning for clues to the whereabouts
Of a Jewish heart. Beads of Oolong tea archipelago from a resting kettle
All the way to the 'good ' China. A cup on a pearl, laying flat… ear to the ground.
Listening to the stories only Formica can tell. Deciphering the steam
Rising from a steep. Curling whiskers into omens, embroidered upon a shaft of light
Heaven sent. Postage dew. Gilding quaint luxuries, tucked in a cozy roost
Smelling of oak musk and slow roasted dreams, evaporating before memory may lay claim
To the riddles of Morpheus. There’s an aire of Return.  
It molts in the bacon fats hovering in the strata unique to kitchen islands lousy with active volcanoes that shuffle in stocking feet and terry cloth bathrobes. Restless and foggy minded.
Looking for the keys. And...
Chewing a thumbnail. Staring out the window. Where there used to be a car in the driveway. But the officer flagged a taxi. Explains the migraine, like a Vulcan; stoically flipping switches in a fuse box wired to a vague recollection of a soiree.
All the while holding a pitchfork and today's horoscope.
For irony and street cred.

{ But out of cream cheese. }

Concurrently... This part of the house still has the rustic naivete of a celibate beatnik picking teeth with a signature pen presenting an Hawaiian girl with a vanishing skirt; blinking in and out of Vaud-villainy, like Erwin Schrödinger’s Cat. A kind of hole in a barge with an ornate cubby; loitering with sugar cubes and a bendy plastic fern.
Like the foyer to a room, still under construction.
      A busy little metaphor, lounging around the east wing of a humble abode… like news clippings in a mason jar… it’s superfluous handle threading a ceramic eye.
Like a stainless steel joke under a refrigerator magnet, pinned to a plate in your forehead. As any lamp-shade with ambition.  
      Playing to a rough Cloud, hung over an ashtray; that has seen Better Days - envy the baroque occlusion of monotony and routine, merging a hangover - into morning traffic. Replete with modest gains.
And Horizons that stab bleary eyes that would know a gypsy
By the weight of her purse…
     When the day begins, it gains a foothold by the spine of an overdue book, reclining adjacent runcible spoons and antique kitche. As a bathroom light squeaks between a door and a frame.
As ancillary and precise as a beacon for a blindfold.

Like turpentine palming a brick. And Wagner.

There's tea brewing in the kitchen
that may or may not be ready.
I haven't heard that proverbial whistle
yet.

You introduced me to Oolong tea
a few years ago at that cafe downtown.
You drew me a picture of a sad boy
in a collared shirt and unkempt hair.

You said it was me.

I drew you a picture of a butterfly
with a beautiful wing pattern

I said it was you.
You never noticed one of the wings were torn.

You never really knew why I did that,
didn't you?
Well, words are fleeting now, and-

Oh. My tea is ready.

She says she is lesbian
I fix a cup of Oolong tea
I just needed someone to talk to
She is looking straight through me
She says her heart is broken
I see the pieces all around
I just can't be alone now
Your the only one I've found

So the night made up a midnight
And the music made up songs
And she built up her castles
Before they came tumbling down
And she looked just like an angel
One without her feathered wings
And I wanted to kiss her
But she collected only Queens

The night turned into daylight
She said she had to go
But she wanted to thank me
Most people would've said no
And then she hugged me
like a big brother to me you are
Then in another second
She was driving off in her car

And she looked just like an angel
One without her feathered wings
Still she flew on without me
An angel without any rings
And my heart was breaking
Fool you can't be this way I say
Still she was an angel
Without a halo to display

The Mill sits comfortably among the sea of red.
Unwavering, unyielding, and thriving.

Cafe Espresso and oolong tea.

The booths are occupied with
reminiscence of the glory days,
contentment between mothers and daughters and sons and fathers,
appreciation of music and art and literature.

All the while sunlight illuminated
the scarf and the starfish
of the girl across from me

as our minds were slowly revealed to one another.

You make it in your mess-tin by the brazier's rosy gleam;
You watch it cloud, then settle amber clear;
You lift it with your bay'nit, and you sniff the fragrant steam;
The very breath of it is ripe with cheer.
You're awful cold and *****, and a-cursin' of your lot;
You scoff the blushin' 'alf of it, so rich and rippin' 'ot;
It bucks you up like anythink, just seems to touch the spot:
God bless the man that first discovered Tea!

Since I came out to fight in France, which ain't the other day,
I think I've drunk enough to float a barge;
All kinds of fancy foreign dope, from caffy and doo lay,
To *** they serves you out before a charge.
In back rooms of estaminays I've gurgled pints of cham;
I've swilled down mugs of cider till I've felt a bloomin' dam;
But 'struth! they all ain't in it with the vintage of Assam:
God bless the man that first invented Tea!

I think them lazy lumps o' gods wot kips on asphodel
Swigs nectar that's a flavour of Oolong;
I only wish them sons o' guns a-grillin' down in 'ell
Could 'ave their daily ration of Suchong.
Hurrah! I'm off to battle, which is 'ell and 'eaven too;
And if I don't give some poor bloke a sexton's job to do,
To-night, by Fritz's campfire, won't I 'ave a gorgeous brew
(For fightin' mustn't interfere with Tea).
To-night we'll all be tellin' of the Boches that we slew,
As we drink the giddy victory in Tea.

pour some words into my ear
make a nice stout aural darjeeling
no need to sweeten
i like mine hot and strong
in turn, i'll steep your cochlea
Senno Rikyu at your service
master of libidinous liquids
ceremonial titillated ears
then we'll make oolong to each other
i'll brew your longing leaves
ferment your black dragon lips
sip the liquor from your *****
write it up for the society page
tea today at four and Thea pours

the sun prowls around
its rocky master

and you
a shadow in its breath

your eyes closed
your hair blowing
like a brushfire
bleeding oolong

the brazen claps of
sunlight thunder
down upon your shoulders

a freckle appears

then another

then another

your sea of blank skin
now crushed
tiny islands
cooling you in
sun-drenched picture

The smell of oolong still speaks your name. In the tea and spice shop I drift among leaves and peppercorns, petals and sugar,  I want to fade into the muted tones of flavorful hulls, curl into the scent of cinnamon and cardamom. Pulling down the iron goddess of mercy, I realize the veneer of curled baroque leaves rest on a sandbag. Shadowed abundance, a pretty lie, hollow, futile. Too much like us. The Cheshire glimmers of what we could have been. What I always wanted you to be, and what you sometimes were. A small edge, tiny supply to fill my cup, flavor fading too quickly. Replacing the jar, I realize there must have been a last day I named you mine.  The last time I called you boyfriend, partner—by our last talk, it was already finished, the last note in a fading song, off tune. I cannot recall the shape of my lips, the weight of your name, the tenor of my voice, the bend of my tongue, much less the listener. I still hear you, through the broken measures of a desperate song. You say you still love me, but perhaps I never told you, dear, I prefer coffee to tea.

Anguished lavish
laureates has driven
me slightly mad

tangerine lemon rounds

Erudites of oolong parties
flying on the wreckages
of forgotten sideral castles

ice cubes crushed in the psychadelia

Nuances of never tomorrows,
slicky dew drops
glistening
jadded wells of deep thoughts
callin'
green algae lakes
emerging

Pale planes oozing
silvery Neptune forks
n'waves flyin'from above

witchery wands in love with wondrous comets

Thou sparkling dispersive
master machine mind
feedin' on
oak wooden spoons
tightly, tenderly
sippin'
magnified tinder
from thy glances

daemons of thy unconsciousness breathing

me *******
flow and ebb
thou chest ebb
and flows

bonvivants bountyful beams

The inflamable black
powder burnin'
to take off
like a swift rocket
like a swell day's
endless delight

The gold
The pink
The brave new horizons

Openin' grunges and volcanic
desires
pinnin' lovers, gluein' them to-
gether in a desperate gloom
of unforgiven erotica

And The Poems
who make you tremble
as a luscious cream on the top
of Thou Vicious Beauty

*fenderstrater jaguars silent roar

Brewing.
Steeping.
The leaves of the crunchy,
Dry,
Oolong tea.

He wanted the girl to love it.
As much as he did.
The chocolatey aroma.
Taste.
Smell.
All to be enjoyed by the girl.

He was excited for her to savor it.

Auburn orange.
Amber yellow.
How these colors swirl within the tea cup.

Dipping a spoon in to twirl it.
Left.
Right.
Counterclockwise.

At last, the tea was ready.
Cool.
Not too hot.
Not too cold.
Just right, like porridge.

Ready to be tasted by the girl.
He presented it to her.

She took the tea cup.
In her delicate hands.
Tipped it to her chapped lips.

The warm liquid
Glided.
Smoothly.
In her mouth.
Down her throat.

Her tongue, wanting more.
She smiled at the boy.
Before continuing to
Ravish her tea.

that
               --should you leave the world for a while
there are people who remember the smell
of your clothes
of your skin after being in the sun
your hair after the rain
that there are people who know your favorite color
your favorite author
who would bring you flowers
in mason jars
{irises and ivy and daffodils and gardenias and honeysuckle and sage}
to cheer you when spring rain
carries away your joy
that there are people who know your favorite sound
that there are people who remember what your eyes look like
in the sun
or care about mundane tales from your childhood
like how you got a scar on your palm
or why you’re afraid of to-go boxes and the wind
that there are people who would make you
rhubarb jam
or oolong or english breakfast in early morning hours
who would read your poetry
or make you earrings
or hold your hand when the wind blows too hard
and empty stomachs cry too loud

and sometimes it’s nice to have friends
who think you are pretty
and think of you when they smell lavender
instead of wondering

I like milk tea
like I like my men

Oolong—
deeply rooted in
his beliefs, strong,
slightly bitter— rarely
compromising

Milk and sugar—
delicate, able to bend
rules without losing
integrity, sweet yet
lasting, like the
aftertaste I’ve
grown to love

Cold—
ice cold, only to
complement the
warmth I’ve been
saving for a lone soul

Pearls—
sinkers to my tea,
unflavored yet unyielding.
the anchor of any man
willing to stay with me—
this I have yet to see.

Brewing.
Steeping.
The leaves of the crunchy,
Dry,
Oolong tea.

The chocolatey aroma…
So intoxicating
Like a psychedelic dream.

Auburn orange.
Amber yellow.
How these colors swirl within the tea cup.

Dipping a spoon in to twirl it.
Left.
Right.
Counterclockwise.

At last, the tea was ready.
Cool.
Not too hot.
Not too cold.
Just right, like porridge.

The girl was ready
To savor the
Lovely drink.

She took the tea cup.
In her delicate hands.
Tipped it to her chapped lips.

The warm liquid
Glided.
Smoothly.
In her mouth.
Down her throat.

Her tongue wanting more.
She smiled,
Before continuing to
Finish
Her ravishing tea.

The thermos stands like a torpedo
on its end.
A gift from my grandparents,
a reminder of family forgotten,
gathers dust.
It's still full of green tea.
Unwashed and ignored,
It's lost all it had to say.
But maybe I should wash
the stagnant thermos.
Fresh, iced Oolong is best
in the summer heat.

He smells like parchment
And dried, oolong tea.

He looks like a wolf.
But not really a wolf.

His smiling face,
Always smiling.

The Gods are his people.
He is in love with one.

Before him, is bright light.
He stares at it with much curiosity
And love.

His hands, cold.
After being exposed, all day long.

He never talks about his father,
But his grandmother lives far away.

He finds solace in sketching.
Adding many little details.

But what is his name?

i am the canary
in the binary
singing bars hard

distal phalanges
tap the app
till these trills mean something

the oolong tea leaves
in the bottom of the witch's teacup
told me doom and bloom

was nigh
as ****.

her words quavered
like dead grass clippings falling up
into the discerning violet scry

On Cassatt's easel
afternoon stretches out
its pink pastel faces
cool as the palms breeze
warm as the oolong tea

The short life of
Honey orchid oolong tea;
put to rest,
hot, on his tongue.
Boiling water and
bitter leaves
the color of his smiling eyes.
He’s drunk on red
and stuck between:
climbing Big Snow Mountain or,
a perfect day with
Her
beneath the sweet osmanthus tree.

Poetry means making
But what do we create?

Not like other words
Not like my mean mate

A bit like oolong tea
A bit like cedarsnow
A bit like Get Up, Stand Up
Yoko yo yo yo yo!

               On we go.