observation

sometimes i wonder
what it would be
like

to live in a body
without scars.

i see them all the time
on boards and glowing
screens, on pages
and in songs, those

women

made

of unmarked pages.

when the pen digs in
laying ink down
and buzzing against
the bone

it leaves a word.

but they
the virgin pages

are silent eggs, blank and
white.

i’d
rather
be
criss
crossed

at least, once it heals
up.

they want to touch
we know the sharp edges
if they can’t bleed
can we make them
understand
flesh isn’t the gift
they think it is?

it was a face
against the whitestripe fence
sloe eyes and
a sweet mouth, pursed
like a cherry.

i blinked,
and she became
leafshadow again;
i stared, and she winked.

i waited
but the sun rose
too slowly for me
to figure out
the moment the angle
changed and
it was just
a twisted bunch
of leaves
casting grapeknot shade.

of all the people
i met today, she
was the
most real.

tomorrow, when
i’m taking down
coffee and a shot
of beam for the
day, i’m sure
i’ll see her again.

i’ll look away
while she’s still a face
so neither of us
will be lonely.

there’s no love song
like the boy
who opens your car door.

who stands when you enter the room.

the boy who puts a warm hand
to the small of your back
as you go through
the revolving door.

that’s the boy who says
whatever happens
whatever it takes
i’m there
i’m yours
and we’re in it
together.

it’s a simple thing
but that’s a boy
i could let in.

forget the love songs,
babe, let them
blow by
like the empty wind
they are.

there’s no love song
like the boy
who lights your smoke
because he’s
just
that
way.

the boys gather
around the car
that holy of holies.

the tobacco smoke rises, an
offering; they nod
along with the liturgy;

it’s a bang bang thud thud
speakers shivering glass.
you can feel the bass
against your heart
right where religion
is supposed to press.

i watch from my balcony
as a joint makes the rounds
this my body, my blood,
they pass cervezas
and speak in weird semaphore
through the waves of thump rattle boom.

they look so young
and every warm night
they’re out there
as faithful as
the grannies
who hobble to mass
three times a week
in their black
and swollen shoes.

rained like
we were going to
get a boat
and go two by
two

and i started
thinking:

who would i
go with?

screw it.

i’ll stay here.

i’d rather drown
lonely
than see
you again.

i had it.

a perfect poem.

but there was life.

there was the job
the errands
the cleaning up
the business of
going on
and on

and by the time
i got around
to it

everything evaporated.

can’t even remember
the keyword.

god and virgin
why cover up
the essential
with so much crap?

i know there’s
always more
hiding
inside my bones.

but i wanted that
one.

and i resent it
so badly
i could murder.
but who?

so i sit here
take another drag
let the smoke out
and write this
for you.

don’t wait.
grab it

when it comes.

i sit on my balcony
aching feet up at last.

this is the moment

because i can sit
watch the old couple
with their hibachi
and their silence, everything
already said;
watch the boys in loose groups,
showing off for
girls with teased hair;
watch the breeze touch
greenery and smell
other people’s
dinners. i can see
the cars slide in
and out. each one
a story, each neighbor
a complex little world.

all the dinner i need
is here
on the balcony

with the amber liquid
in the jd bottle
and the smoke from
a pall mall.

i worked overtime
for this. the sun’s
ship has sunk
and the light
for almost an hour
is magic.

for that hour
nobody bores me.

yeah, it’s worth
paying the rent
on this crappy
little place.

i take another drink
take another drag
and wait for dark.

the shouldn’t call it getting old.

they should call it:

learning to speak
either less or more.

learning to trust
the right people.

learning beauty isn’t
in a magazine.

developing faith
in your capability.

figuring out where
your energy should go.

no, they shouldn’t
call it “getting old”.

they should call it
surviving the jungle
of youth.

panting
wide-eyed
red in tooth
and claw

i’m getting there.

“got two kids,” he says. “i tell
them, you gotta man up,
you know. Be a man.”

he swipes the tampons
over the UPC reader
and grins. “they think
it means being tough.”

i nod. he doesn’t
even notice what
he’s ringing up.

“my wife, she tells
me they won’t get
it until later. says
it’s life.”

i watch him bag
my girly groceries.
“i think that’s true,”
i finally say. “most
guys are 14 forever.”

“who wants that?” his
gold tooth flashes.
“see, girls, they got to
grow up. boys, some
times their mamas,
they keep them from
growing. wash their
socks instead of
saying, wash your
own.”

yeah, emilio the checker,
he works two jobs.
he always has a smile.
if he’s working he’s
getting paid.

they live in my
complex.

and i never tell
emilio about the
guy his wife
lets in at 6 a.m
when emilio leaves
for the morning shift.
a real tough guy
in baggy pants
and neck tattoos.
she opens the door
and glances out;
a pretty woman
with dark eyes.

i could be wrong
so i keep my mouth
shut.

but i always go through
his line
and tell the manager
what a good guy he is.

christ.