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.

a simple beat begins
his body moves in time,
rolling and rocking,
he is a train pulling from the station.
her eyes find his,
her hands, his face.
the beat fills their bodies.
as it mingles with more music
their focus on reality subsides.
only they are left,
a dance floor full of two.
he moves his body close to her,
she responds in kind.
letting the beat be their guide,
their bodies undulate together.
a gentle touch between them,
clothing scraping clothing.
a thigh chastely touches a thigh.

the beat begins to quicken,
his hands encircle her waist,
her arms around his neck.
bodies grinding together,
the beat has found them,
infected them with movement.
moving with the music he
slowly sinks to his knees.
his hands on her waist, her hands
on his head, pressing it to her
stomach.
her cool, bared mid-riff.
the sweat of his brow mingles with
the sweat of her body, creating
a heady concoction.
he begins his ascent, trailing his
lower lip up her stomach, across her
navel.

The beat surrounds them now,
a dance mixed just for them.
holding each other it
pulses, it
builds, it
engulfs them.
this beat is for them,
a single beat in time.
it may be the only beat they ever share,
but they know what it means.
their bodies know what it means.
they share this beat openly
with each other.
no voice,
no sight,
no smell,
no taste,
just touch.

and touch is all they need to
share this beat between them.

I sit in my chair, my lofty perch
and conceive of plots to introduce
myself to her.

I continuously glance in her direction,
hoping that all I need to do is catch
her eye and smile.
And I think that if I can do that, she
will instently warm to me, see the charm
in my disarming smile.

The more I think about it, the more brazen
my plans become. I think that if I just introduce
myself, I will win her.
If I just walk up, sit down and beging talking
to her, she will see the follies of her lonely
ways and warm up to me.

I prepare grandiose speeches on the beauty of her eyes
The fluid motion of her body, the way she looks
in a certain angle of the light.
All of this mindless posteuring keeps me from
noticing that she has now taken her leave of this
place and me.

Life is meant for living,
as you and I well know.

It’s not meant for silly posteuring,
or furitave glances.
We shouldn’t be concerned with bottom-lines,
or making the grade.
Why do we need all this recognition, all this
self appreciation?

Yet every dday we are surrounded by all of this.
It encloses us like a dense fog.
A sickening cloud that that threatens to choke
each of us in turn.
Forcing itself down our throats and into
every pore of our bodies.

So let’s remove the shackles, the bonds
and let our hearts,
our bodies,
our eyes and ears soar.
But most importantly, let’s set our
souls free.

it sits in my stomach,
a cold, hard ball of… something.

Is it anger?
If it is, it is the anger of a two-year old
who feels left out.
A two year old who feels that the law of
averages is against him,
even though he has no idea what the law
of averages even is.
I think it’s one part anger

Or is it jealousy?
Could I be jealous that I am not the chosen one,
not the exhaulted one?
This timy sphere might be a manifestation of my need
to be picked first.
Am I looking to be worshiped like a god? The be-all, end-all?
I think it’s one part jealousy.

Or is it righteous indignation?
I know that I have proven myself over and over
again to no avail.
I have shown time and time again that I can
face the challenge.
I’ve been thrown the ball and stepped up, but
I get no recognition.
I think it’s three parts righteous indignation.

Or is it frustration?
It could be that I expend so much time and energy
for so little reward.
I can see every little wheel and gear, but the
machine refuses to move.
Or is it that my gear doesn’t fit the machine,
yet I try to force it?
I think it’s two parts frustration.

One part anger, one part jealousy,
three parts righteous indignation,
and two parts frustration
make up the white hot spinning ball
that is in the pit of my stomach waiting
to be flushed from my system.