"tania" poems
Tania slurps her cheap beer and uncrosses her legs,
exposing fresh bruises from the soup factory.
She outlines them in marker and draws
a smiley face on one located on her right thigh.
*These bruises tell me that my life is composed
almost entirely of bad decisions*, she says,
replacing the cap on the marker. I ask how
a decision could form such a perfect,
purple circle. Between swallowing
beer and peering into the rain,
she burps. *I can't say, but--
I mean, do you want
to have *** Later on
I drive her to the
hospital and I visit
a therapist. For
a few months.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 3:47 AM UTC
New boy, old shoes,
but he seems to know how.
Girl studies, furrowed brow.
Would you show me?
He grins.
You bet.
Brown girl, white boy
share soccer tricks
(fakes, spin kicks)
like tango steps
on the grassy field.
Lips clenched, Tania pauses
to repair beaded braids.
Tight shorts, mighty thighs,
her body a dark diamond
centered in the hips.
Tony smiles lots, curly red hair,
his head a pumpkin
on a pale post.
Nimble feet
for the ball compete,
their only touch.
After one-on-one,
three laps they run
side by side, chatting, unaware
they are perfectly aligned
in rise and fall of
knee to knee,
right to right,
cleat to cleat,
left to left.
Walking to the street, Tony chats,
Tania listens cradling ball to her chest
as they wander in synchrony,
step to step,
breath to breath,
making a start
heart to heart.
May 29, 2017
May 29, 2017 at 4:02 PM UTC
Because it's a strange feeling waking up to a stranger every-time
a xenophobic aroma
unfamiliar nakedness
complicated traces of an unknown brand of hair shampoo
lying on the pillow.
Either pretending to be asleep
when she dresses up to go
or making a fake offer to make warm, lemon tea
only to have one last dated access to an otherwise sacred body.
Then the dull thud
the absence of the unknown
creating nauseating feelings of melancholia
that you will be forever alone
and will have to live for Friday nights
3 digit figures of conquests notwithstanding.
Often times, lying all day naked
staring outside for the point, reason of it all.
By the evening, paranoia is almost gone
creative surges phoenixizing the Henry Miller in me
For the Anais Nin's and Tania's of the night
once again.
© Nothing Personal. March 03 2012.
Mar 3, 2012
Mar 3, 2012 at 4:31 PM UTC
When we are together,
We draw stares
But we dismiss them without care.
I do not look like my mother.
We attract the queries of the passersby
Those who say we've caught their eye.
Adoption's not the reason why
I do not look like my mother.
I am my mother's, biologically.
They all say, "How can that possibly be?"
All that people take time to see is that
I do not look like my mother.
Sensitive yet self-assured,
With the world's driest sense of humor
You would swear, "That's Tania Junior."
I'm exactly like my mother.
Filled with pride and strong opinions,
Sweet, yet stubborn,
Always happiest when helping others,
I'm exactly like my mother.
The ultimate goal is always perfection.
Our brains seem to scatter
In the same general direction.
I'm exactly like my mother.
Oct 13, 2010
Oct 13, 2010 at 7:03 PM UTC
I swim in a sea of bullets
My curse allows me to be in a place like this
Each bullet has a name on them
Zoë
Zerilda
Clara
Suné
Matthew
Siya
Tim
Tania
Hanli
And each bullet is lethal
Each bullet represents the certain words that can **** the person
I find these bullets and carry them around with me
As they burn holes in my pocket my mind is filled with what I could do
One bullet could destroy each of them
And they better be happy that I will never shoot them
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 5:54 AM UTC