Nothing

In death

people don’t disappear

they brighten up and write poems

on the other side of the sky

wait for you to decipher

their lines.

They bury the flowers

you planted and eat your leftover soup

even if living with the dead was hard

their life in your hands

is as comparable

as empty hands and brick walls.

life

At it again

I woke up early to collect data for poets

that know how to write but not how to read.

I woke up from dreaming about you,

to pointed fingers and mirrored poetry.

There is this effect of how the sun

reminds me of cool sand gliding through

my fingers on a black beach.

 

I lie down

and stare at the blue sky in awe. Nineteen

years old, dark tight skin, golden reflections

in my hair, I was a brunette then, pure olive

love. One foot is on a rock, flat belly

yellow striped bikini, puffy eyes behind

liquored nights. You’re an ellinitha

the Greek men would say and admire.

 

I write poetry for fun apparently, but you

do not know how it hurts. I submit to be

recognized and sell my soul some more,

but you do not know how the perfect amount

of ice, vodka and cranberry can knock out

the slips. I forgot how to type to remember

how to think. I hope you understand

all the secrets can only be spilled

over eyes on eyes

feet under the table

hands holding a glass of envy

it is the ways of the social media underworld,

the selected few

who have the perfect tattoo,

smile, angst, whiskey breath,

it is the epitome of everything

we are against.

Trust me, you are better off

not knowing and judging

from afar.

 

Thank you for taking the picture.

Anytime, he says and winks

in that flirting, I’m on vacation way

where nothing matters

but the temperature.

 

I am at it again,

the addiction rising.

The morning coffee stirring,

the need to find all the information

at my fingertips, except how

to get to that sky again. IMG_9615

 

Less you, More me

From above if you were watching through

a fine telescope

my wise ass remarks

would help you to understand

that it means nothing

to die. One life to create memories,

one breath to forget. Then Alzheimer

kicks  you and sets you on fire

with nonsense. I try to laugh

to cover up my turmoil of

uneasiness at these awkward situations

when the brain ceases to speak,

when the mind is muddled with

words you never thought

would make you cry.

 

Hold on 

to that patience, you will need it.

 

There was a time I lost everything in you.

Now I speak to my soul and repeat

less you, more me.

All this to convince myself that I still matter

somehow, before the memories fade

or the cancer grows

or the breasts disappear.

It’s Hawaiian day at work

and I will wear my hula

tell all the teachers how I appreciate

their soul

hug a child

and try to forget about the telescope.

 

Hold on to your soul,

you will need it. 

 

Unleash the Soul in me

In the morning you were sleeping in the dark

you know that type of morning dark shade

that is so opposite from night,

and all my reasons to wake you

left me with cold feet on the hardwood floor.

I bought time once

and it left me broke.

Ancient people talk to me about how

we held hands and made choices

in the new land. A black and white shot

of all the dead people sitting on a quilt

up in the Greek village where

I saw the sky for the first time.

If my soul was on a leash

it would be easy to control

but I never worked out my life

like musical notes.

It would be ideal to see how

the last act plays

but the fortune teller told me

I would live long,

sign my name

over and over again

until I was tired of Christina

and change it to Chrissy

or Krissy with a K

or Chris, or Tina or Christine

and all the ways everyone

changes the spelling of my name,

but

it starts with an X

and not many people know the truth

of how I unleash

the soul in me

from time to time to breathe

and take deep sighs

then tie it back up

to write a book

or drink one bottle of Jack

in three hours.

Beware of a writer’s reach

and length of a book or poem

it means that nothing ever ends

and it all starts over

until all the smokes

and all the bottles are emptied out.

 

Freedom

I wrote it on the beach

while staring at the ocean

but forgot to send it

deleted it somehow

and poetry faded into

the sand under my feet.

I hear what you say

but I’m nodding at the sky

it’s talking to me

so be silent.

listen. i told you to

stare and you did,

listening to the wind

and how the earth moved

with the clouds.

You breathe deeply.

she was the one

who never got

away from your thoughts

and she was the one

that reminded you

of me. no spells

required. it was

word play. tricks

that poets perform

on cue. i trust no one

but my lover

who knows every

mole on my skin.

every beach is different

yet the same,

and every man is you

and every woman

is me.

That freedom of

saying you’re mine

or I’m yours

or other lovely phrases

that confuse the horizon

are Purolator express

packages of signed poems

I sent to Pakistan, London,

Lebanon, and other exotic

places that poets meet.

Remember how we ruled

the scene with teased hair

and duMaurier cigs

no line ups, no hash tags,

no texts, no pictures?

You just wanted to

get next to me.

That was all

that mattered.

Now everything matters.

My shoes, my hair,

my fake promises.

Yet you see nothing

but what you

have always seen

and that is one

of the myriad ways

that I love you

in every song.

Love or Lust

first it’s my eyes

then it’s your heart

pounding. your kiss

lights my soul. my

love for you empties

the darkness. what’s

left of us? you ask.

the lust. the desire.

your arms around me,

drowning my river

turning me slowly

into all you crave.

love and lust me.

my body and soul

and mind

are waiting.

as are my legs

ready to wrap them

around your waist.

sky

Every day is a different state of mind

do you see the difference in the sky?

It is a speckle of molecules that transpire

into dust, gone before you even see them.

Words.

Pain.

Wind.

Spring.

A mere wait in line at the coffee shop

download the app from Starbucks and get

the free latte, get the royalty card and free

underwear, join the list and free eBooks,

upgrade your car, and free hubcaps.

No vacation this year?

I escape, I have my ways

concern yourself with your own child

your wife, your husband, I have nothing

to do with that boiling pot.

Sex is still hot because I make it that way

he can turn my body into a poem

his hands into sonnets

and I recite the masters

with ease and such fucking grace

you’d wish you were a fly on the wall.

I am no one that special

have been drilled to believe

just that

so all this means absolutely nothing.

I believe the poets more than the politicians.

One day I will write a poetry book

with a title that you will

truly understand

with some emotions

that will cascade on you

like a waterfall.

I will wait for you

as you drive by

I have been doing it for so long

as the sky watches me

in all its shades.

Same sky

I must have learned something last night

perhaps you thought I knew

you always think I know what you will say

and usually I do, but yesterday

you said that perhaps I gave up

a long time ago. The car needs

a wheel alignment like my love.

Straighten me out with kisses

along my back. Imagine an ocean

then dive straight to my bottom

plunge deep,

I will still be there breathing

kissing the stingrays

glowing like clownfish do

dreaming, erasing, writing,

in that state of distraction.

Yet, during the snowstorm

I looked up at the Montreal sky

and thought this is what we share

the same sky

and then I heard it

the chirping in -10

I stopped of course, and searched

each naked branch of ice

as soon as I saw the cardinal

he flew.

He just wants me to know

he’s still watching

and other notes

from the grave

I can read.

Cemeteries too deep in snow

he misses my visits

so he comes

to me.

You’re lucky my mom

says.

How so?

He forgot me.

Never, you know you’re souls are one

from kids

so stop that shit,

just look for it

really look

and then I explain to her

how she once explained to me.

All under the same sky

but

completely

different lives.

Ahead

I could not have met you
at a more perfect moment
not at a park swing
at ten
not at a party at sixteen
not at a bar at twenty-three
not at an altar at thirty
not at Central Park
under a full moon
at forty
but under the Montreal sky
on a dangerous street
looking up at the infinite stars
on a mild fall day
that warmed my heart.
I thought my hair smelled
like fish
but you assured me
it truly did not.
And I liked how you asked
so many questions
in so little time,
you said I was how
you had pictured me,
you know what I felt
you felt what I knew.
This is being Ahead
by a century, I thought
but I didn’t say that,
most of my thoughts
they come out slowly
like dripping water.
I said another line
and you understood
that even if I was a bit tipsy
you were such a gentleman.
I always remember
every
word.