escribblings

in the middle of the night sunday
i wake up and turn in
bed to hold you

only
it’s just a pillow
and i am alone

that morning my heart
throbbing
a kissy face emoji goes out
our first red heart

it is the conversation 
we can’t get enough of
sweet eye meets
gizzard grins
the touch

that morning my heart
sent a kissy face emoji
blew our first red heart

monday morning
no work on my mind
and instead i write you a purple poem
slide it in a bottle
and push it down the river Styx
for you to gather on
at the battery docks on
Manna-hata’s tip

you uncork that sunset’s sour vintage
where the taste is not
what the wine is not
what the sweet translucent flesh of grapes
had dripped - stickying our fingers
at day’s demise

for one day you did not reply

in bed i hear the whine of the mosquito
i know it will be a long night
still you have not replied
my phone buzzes
an associate, a friend

she bit me on the shoulder
she bit me on the face

that morning i wake up late
from a bunk bed dream
where the bay waters
had risen
and you can’t see the city from Oakland anymore

the mosquito is trapped:
buzzing around in a cup
with a cloth over it
beside my bed
and a butt full of my blood

i take her outside
on the fire escape
lift the cloth
and watch her 
erratic flight among brick and iron

...


later, you reply
it seems callous to me
three heart emojis
none of them red
and a chesnut

but as my tears clear
I see the fire peach and navy
the purple
and the olive pit

we enjoy a purple embrace
sun falls into hoboken
exploding silently
slow oranges
rippling against the hudson
an endless breathing dance
of fire peach and navy
fills our head kiss
summer eyes.
the olive pit you toss in the water
is the sand pattern slipping
through your fingers.
it sinks to
the seafloor
one dark seed under the hudson
joins ten million other human sins.
hellish fractal infinities
once danced on your palm in
these specks of sea-dust
blown from a distant star.
    
I will take you to
the purple planet
whose ocean island
laps at the banks of
your dream beach
where every grain of sand
was born between your hourglass fingers
and lychees dangle 
from the low grove.

“You want to eat you go to Chicken Cottage”

The man outside barks. It’s cash only, and an attempt is made to beg Brits for a couple pounds.

Luckily there's another, quieter Chicken Cottage, with nobody in it, and this one accepts cards. The fries taste like old grease. The nuggets are the nuggest - held delicately between thumb and fore. 

“Let’s find somewhere we can sit outside and eat this.”

The park entrance is at the dead end of a lane in South London. 

Tip the water bottle for a swig, pinky stuck in the air.

“We’re in London.”

A smile.

“Can I put my arm around you?”

The flat smells like moth balls. The second thing is the furniture - tasteful and warm. A large window covered by thick venetian slats. Beside it, the olive green chair: a curved danish number, elegant in its size, and with four polished wooden legs in a splay. It is overhung by a two-orb cantilever lamp in rosy metallic.

The ceiling fixture is an open ended cylinder: aurburn in extérieur, reflective copper within. A single Edison bulb within emits a scientific orange glow.

Four eyes examine the dresser - rich wood bisected artistically by veins of inlayed brass, whose thoughtful arrangement is uninterrupted by the breaks between drawers. 

The bedspread is a warm white decorated lightly by black embroidery - a band of lace forming a square that speaks of nuzzley sweet interiority. 

Two cross-legged people face one another. 

“What would that look like?”

A smile.

“That would be nice.”

…

A morning glance between the venetians affords vistas of lush spring foliage and a futuristic peek of London’s iconic “Shard” as cobalt surrenders to dayblue.