My Hands are full of Thoughts of you

my hands are full of thoughts of you

my fingertips conscious of your presence

my skin steams with memories

as edible as dreams

you lay simply in my palms, like frankness

your weight as inconceivable

as love.

my eyes swim with words for you

every color my heart has gathered this year

saved for you

each melody and desire bathed in nostalgia.

my lips hold beautiful sights

I want to share with you,

every inch of me is skin pulsing with intentions

and wishes under my surface, over my bones

my body sings when I am alive with you

so much I own I wish to tell you,

you are mine, in silence,

in heat, in rush, in repose, in kiss,

in glance, in gaze, in truth…

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Roommate Rant #2 Waking up Blues

I fell asleep at dawn, 7 a.m. pure sunshine 

when I lived alone this wouldn’t be a problem.

I work at night                                  

                                          yelled at by rich, loco, coked out managers

paid under the table, can’t report them or

get a credit card, 

making tips only when I don’t look tired,

when I’m able to hide the pissed-off vibe

from my I-hate-your-bullshit eyes,

wiping the tourists’

tables and telling them, when they ask,

that they can find weed (whispered elegantly over the cash register)

from just about any homeless person in Venice Beach,

during everyone’s 

saccharine sweet summer fun California vacation.

 

and suddenly I’m a mother again,

being woken up at 11:30 a.m. (which is daytime folk’s 3 a.m.)

to ask if I have change for the bus,

or if I could spare my laptop for a few minutes.

I don’t have change,

and my laptop is dead,

and you are 3 years older than me,

yet I am more self-sufficient than you,

and you cannot wake me up just to ask me things like this,

I am not your mother 

but while we’re at it, 

would you please move your piles of clothes

from the middle of our floor to the closet?

and wash your dishes, and pay the rent,

so they stop bugging me to make you pay

just because I’m your friend.

you’re not in Vermont anymore,

nor are you in the Hollywood Dream you thought 

life without a plan would become here in LA.