Some Poems (?)
I am not a poet these are just somethings I have jotted down that do not have a home.
Autumn:
I feel swallowed in the white light and white heat of autumn in California. It is when grasses tans fade and the blades become blonde; the natural way, the sunburnt and dehydrated endless summer way. It is a warm lack of color that suggests yellow while maintaining an effortless California cool.
Summer starts when propeller planes tow advertisements above a sea of umbrellas staked in the sand. Summer ends when fall begins. That time when the sun bows too soon, turning off the lights before we are tired.
The sky this time of year never looks more marin [of the sea]. The horizon exposes the curvature that is the Earth, making California all the more edgy. Jagged, crumbling, and unsettled. Often sandy and definitely blonde, sun drenched sepia toned and sandy.
1/1:
Sometimes the yearn for the invisible is stronger than any magnetic field surrounding you and me
For Brautigan:
I have run far and west away from saying things like “I am almost Irish” and not knowing what it even means.
I almost was a has been.
I almost did not do a lot of things.
But the bankman gave me back my bikini, and all I could think about was what you did with my yellow bra?
I am almost Irish in the way a Palm Tree offers shade.
I am almost a lot of things. Not quite a girl and not quite a woman.
It is the end of July and I am waiting for October.
Let me go and maybe I will finally get there (arrive at being Irish).
Twenty Something Girl:
As fate and alcohol and late nights would have it,
My head hurt the next day and my lips were chapped
And I thought about you.
The petals drop and the flower dies.
“Loves me, loves me not.”
Passed Tense:
If anything were to go, it will become something that went.
If the sun goes up, it must go down, (gravity has a real gravitas)
I guess twenty four hours is not that arbitrary.
Even numbers are made to be split.
Every pair is just two halves like the sun and the moon.
Proceed With Caution:
Because when all is said and sunned and overdone,
Sometimes the drony hums of horns that guard secret salty water passageways
Need to belt out their abandon in the fog.
September Sunshine:
The sun was falling at a rate of 6:15 pm on a September Tuesday casting a honey dayglow on the commuter frenzy that is Fulton and Masonic. The bus was kneeling and sighing as it traded passengers for other passengers. I was caught in the rush of the second string wanna be passengers, when he got subbed out.
Squinting and feeling unfortunate that I did not have any sunglasses, his over six feet tall frame caught my eye. He did his handsome Cary Grant kind of grin smirk thing that is innate to men over six feet tall with brown hair.
Our eyes locked and our front bodies began to orbit towards each other, while the passengers with things in their hands and places to be late to, moved like a river flow elbowing around rocks adjusting to our 180 degree detour/speed bump.
The sun poured on my back and fell on his face.
He looked so handsome, like a man, like the kind of person you say “excuse me sir” to and mean it.
He was wearing an outfit he told me about once before because he gave me a head tilt and a shoulder shrug sometime ago in May.
In September on the sidewalk we exchanged the pleasantries of hellos and how are yous that camouflaged this new light we found each other in— the September sunshine that envelopes everything in a destructive leave no shadow kind of way.
