the accidental poet

Fogged glass is a brick wall,
impenetrable looking out,
impervious to the inside.
Tonight I am Casanova,
Cyrano, Romeo and Don Juan.
My senses are ablaze.
My eyes, lips and fingers are feasting,
touching.
Hard to believe I’m in a car
behind the airport with a girl named Marta.
I am not Casanova.
I’m not even that guy from American Pie.
“Suck me beautiful” indeed.
The roar from a plane overhead breaks our hypnotic,
heavily scented fugue-state.
We’re here because we’re young, insidious,
and want nothing more than to ruin our community
with our lustful ways.
I’d rather laugh with the sinners
than cry with the saints.
We are as sinful as seraphim.
My lips melt into hers,
her body liquefies with my touch.
There’s tension in the air, if not in our bodies
as if we’ve only got one chance at this.
Our only regret will be that we did what we had so longed to do.
J’reve les yeux ouverts. 1
Even dreaming, the planes dance overhead in the night.

1 French – I dream with my eyes open.

Small, gold band pierced with silver,
you have been close to me for only a few months.
Before me, you have known no other.
After me it will likely be the same.

Your counterpart in this lies many miles away,
reunited briefly at the end and beginning of each week.
As you lie next to your love, do you contemplate the fates
that brought you and her together as I do?

I twirl you on my finger.
It has been ages since I’ve worn anything like you.

The first I bought for myself,
a cherished trinket in the halls of high school.

The second was received in unadulterated friendship,
though my love at the time felt otherwise.

Your predecessor was given in love
over longing looks and half-eaten anniversary meals.

Finally, there is you.
You were given as an undiluted symbol of love.
Blessed once, given once, rarely out of sight.
You are the link that holds me to my love so far away.

A little but of olive oil and garlic in a pan
draws my wife from her scholarly pursuits.
She tip-toes up behind me at the stove
placing her arms around me she whispers,
“What’re you spoiling me with tonight?”

Such a basic ingredient in the dishes we love,
yet such a powerful little brother to the onion.
It does not mask itself in layers;
there is little complexity in the appearance of a clove.
Its complexity lies at an unseen level

What other herb can boast a restaurant named in its honor?
From garlic beer to garlic ice cream,
it seasons every dish they serve.
Chinese, Italian, Indian dishes
the building block of taste.

Slice it, smash it, dice it, crush it, or even leave it hole.
Use it as a cure, or to spice up your love life.
Plant it with your roses; I hear they tend to like it.
It can ward of mosquitoes or even vampires
if you eat enough to leak it out your pores.

This is the real domestic perfume.
The basis of so many meals of family togetherness.
Gentle enough that it doesn’t bring tears to your eyes.
If your friends think that you eat too much garlic,
the truth is, they eat too little.