The Rubber Glove

“You pointing your finger at ME?”
a quizzical look on my face
“You pointing your finger at me?”
in my best imitation of DeNiro
while the doctor, smiling,
snapped on his rubber glove.

Raynaud's Phenomenon

With one small word 

all the goodness had been wrung out of the day

Her secret silver hair now covered in hennas of tobacco brown

and at other times natural brown or natures brown

 When wanting excitement

black or very black

Now hung lank and languid over the computer terminal

 Raynuad's blue fingers scratching at the keyboard

searching Google for the meaning of life

He walks by and coughs

her fingers keep moving

she does not even look up

Silver Seagull

The pure silver seagull
wrapped its wings
around my finger
“it’s your totem,” you whispered
     (we were into totems in those days)
as you handed it to me
it turned out to be a going-away present
I never saw you again
and thirty years later
I discovered where you escaped to
wrote you a letter
which you never answered

Angry Birds

The love of my life 
was carried aloft 
by a flock of raging white seagulls

A desperate grab at his sibilant hand 
met only the empty air

He unwillingly floated 
and pierced my eyes 
with his knowing Vedic gaze 
then, he simply sailed away

No time for last goodbys
No time for I'm sorrys
No time for his tonal touch 
to let me know, that all would be well

Those seagulls
Those seagulls
Those seagulls are stronger than they look 

and what has been lost
will not be found 
now that it has been unbound

The Rush

An unexpected appointment,
a hurried rush,
squeezed into a fragment of a lunch hour.

You pick me up in the truck.
We exchange words, jumbling out without thought,
purging events of the morning.

In the haze of sound,
I feel the closeness of the cab walls,
caccooned next to you,
the two of us alone without our daughter,
the love of our lives,
for the first time in months.

And your words flow over me unheard--
so sorry my love--
because you have suddenly become brighter, luminescent,
and I marvel at the blueness of your eyes
and your olive skin burnished by the sun,
and I take your hand in mine.

Golden Gate Park

We have made our way into San Francisco.

All around us is hushed.

Those sounds do not sing,

your eyes are not blue.

Hold my hand Reptile.

Walk our storied path to Golden Gate Park

and try to remember

when I ever loved you.

The Game

The Devil resides between layers of chocolate cake,
moist, yielding, the promise of melting in my mouth.
Hunkered down in creamy, dark ganache,
he knows I am weak.

He lurks down dark alleys and lonely streets,
shadowy, making noises unseen.
Dredging up feelings of fear and uncertainty,
I hesitate, cower, and turn toward more traveled roads.

He waits beyond steep mountain curves,
sheer and achingly beautiful.
I grip the door of the car harder, looking straight ahead
as he laughs at the scenery I have missed.

It is all a game to him,
To overcome or be overcome.

The Devil

I sometimes feel the Devil
rides across Planet Earth                                                     
looking for points of easy entry.
Like a hacker probing the system for flaws               

looking for the unlocked backdoor,
Diablo works day and night
to access our vulnerabilities.

I, have been made dimpled from all my probes.
Skin stretched from point to point
in a constellation of scars.
Just as one puncture heals another one appears.
Satan knows well my systems peculiarities,
and exploits them quite elegantly, quite easily.


The world seems to be splatters and dots of red
and I wonder when enough blood will be spilt.
Attracted to weakness, The Prince of Darkness
(seeking his own safe place just as mortals do)
flies to the house with the Crimson porch light,
crouches in the corner, and silently waits for me to walk by.

Downstream

She told me she was a stone,
smooth and tumbled,
worn down by steady currents so gentle, yet insistent and powerful.

Her crags and crevices abraded away,
bashed and broken,
pounded by constant forces so strong, yet glacially slow.

Until one day there was nothing,
no protrusions to catch on, to wedge her in place,
and she was smooth,
tumbling endlessly downstream.

Flor de Fango

you will be covered with shame

Break Down—Break Through

DNA shards sloughing off
through our sojourn in Obidiah

With my nest not set in the stars
But in the rich Spanish Fango

Sephardi in my bloodlines with
A kink in my spine to prove it

We travel to our home of destiny
My little Flor de Fango
My sweet Mud Flower

Fantasy

Tell me your fantasies, he whispered,
brushing a whisp of hair,
rich and glossy as honey dates,
away from her eyes.

Tell me your fantasies, he whispered,
tracing the line of her arm,
warmed and tanned by the desert sun,
with his finger.

Tell me your fantasies, he whispered,
gazing into her eyes,
blue and refreshing as the life-giving water of an oasis.

Tell me your fantasies, he whispered,
and I will tell you mine.

Pouilly Fuisse

We have spent the day at the beach
(my lover—my mistress—my paramour)
our towels merely feet from the tide
as close as we can get is what we want

We lay side by side and fall asleep
(the heat—the sounds—the mist)
the tides creep closer to our slumber
bodies paralyzed by liquid dreams

Washing out to sea with no cares
(divorce—family feuds—sunburns)
floating on the  endless sea grass
we finally crack open the Pouilly Fuisse

Drink my love, drink
and I will drink to thee

At the shore

Firmness
Standing the water's edge
scrunching toes digging in to gritty sand
grains scratching, itching
bringing my attention to unnoticed places

I dig deeper
marveling
at the absurd firmness
of countless grains of sand,
a million acrobats
balancing on one another's shoulders,
suspending me,
above what I don't know

The water rushes in to take its turn
swirling
enticing my acrobats
to abandon me, one by one

I feel them leave
as my feet sink down
deeper
lowering me,
toward what I don't know

Kite flying in the Spring of 1968

I am ten years old
and it is time to fly a kite

For what small change
I can squeeze out from
the small slit of my fathers
plastic change purse
I can fly a kite

Running to Parade Market
I make a list:
Kite
String
Stick
Rags

My sense of pride grows
as my kite fly's higher and higher
with each tug of the
long white string

The Kite

The kite soared,
danced and tumbled,
Teased by an erratic breeze.

Tail up, tail down,
Not unlike the four year old
at the end of its string.

Mommy, she cried. Look!
The kite
is flying
me.