You are prickly, Frieda Rose.
A fiery, petulant, pugnacious, pouty soul.
Compliments have to be
massaged carefully
Like ointment
onto your fragile ego
Sweet nothings must be
delivered in drops
Like antibiotics
into sensitive ears
Caresses must be gingerly layered
like surgical gauze
over damaged emotion.
For you are prickly, Frieda Rose,
A barbed cactus
among soft-petaled dahlias.
Copyright 2018
She always had a fascination with Eve,
Master Gardener of Eden.
How could she not
be enamored of a self-assured rib?
Who converses with snakes
Snacks on forbidden fruit
Struts her naked stuff
In a dance of free will with God.
Copyright 2018
She lists important things on a portable Underwood
(Species of freshwater fish
All known shades of blue)
Using a non-serif font on ordinary bond paper
(Antonyms for apathy,
Feeding habits of manatees)
Bakes these lists into chocolate fortune cookies
(Average temperature in Tahiti,
Lyrics to “Free Man In Paris”
Packs them in brown paper bags labeled “Most Important Stuff”
(Names of all the moons of Neptune,
Every Inuit word for “ice”)
Leaves them on a bench, in the park by the river
(Best sake to drink in the moonlight,
How to apologize sincerely in Greek)
For the brave and the homeless
Who always need to know.
Copyright 2018
She hooks her conscience
On the ring of her key chain
The laminated “Get Out Of Jail” card
Handles the rest.
She just needs to know
Whenever she enters, exits,
Comes, goes,
She is answerable to no one
Not even herself.
Copyright 2018
His name is Hank, God’s Secret Service,
Protector of the pathetically unblessed
The tragically sad
Huge seraphim wings tucked awkwardly away
Inside a black baggy bowling shirt
Embroidered with a cross
He smells like jalapenos
Has a voice like two a.m.
Frieda always leaves the next bar stool empty
A glass of Dewars and holy water
Ready to unwind
Copyright 2018
She lives on a cement island, surrounded by freight trains
Instead of the sea.
Writes requests for salvation on the back
Of her imagination
Stuffs them inside empty beer bottles
Tossed into open box cars
All while secretly knowing
The only rescue she might find
Is a trip in the ambulance
Headed back to dry land.
Copyright 2018
She lives like a ghost
Fourth floor above him
Mute, invisible
Sleeps with the moon.
He lives like a poet
Personal hell below her
Driven, impossible
Drinks ink from the night.
Words float between them
Written, unspoken,
Abundance of imagery
Coating the walls.
He puts out recycling
She ransacks the bin
Creating a kimono of prose
Sashed with haiku.
Copyright 2018
He lives in her wallet, face out of focus,
Single frame sliced from a photo booth strip.
They met in a library book
OF LOVE AND OTHER DEMONS
Garcia-Marquez
page 126
Hair electrified by lightning
Eyes on fire from dreams of volcanoes
Mouth sweetened on untold lies.
Men have lusted after and loved her.
She forgets each and every one
Obsessively pulling out the lone photo
Searching for the unknown man
The only one that she wants.
Copyright 2018
The hair on her head has unpredictable temper
The body of Lazarus, dead than arisen.
The color confuses insects
arouses thunder
seduces wind chimes
And when she combs it?
Oh my.
Electricity strangles the moon.
Copyright 2018
She unearthed the box near the curb
Buried beneath white trash bags
An old seat cushion
Woolen, electric blue,
The color of secrets
The size of a mother’s heart.
She filled it with mystery
The size of a hummingbird’s egg
Stuffed it with wonder
Scented by Babylon
Placed it dead center
Under her lonely platform bed
Voyaging on nightly visions
Distilled by the vapors
Of its contents.
Copyright 2018
