Out of Time

As an American…
Sometimes I think I was born in the wrong decade.
By the time I came of age
Allen Ginsberg, River Phoenix, and Miles Davis
Were already dead.
I couldn’t attend a reading, write a fan letter, or see a live concert.
If I’d been born in the fifties, I could have
Been a hippie
thrown coins at the raiding police at the Stonewall Bar
taken my clothes off in the first performance of “Hair”

As a Briton…
Sometimes I think I was born in the wrong decade
I could have had breakfast with Conan Doyle, lunched with Shaw, dined with Wilde.
If I’d been born in the 1880s, I’d have
married young
kept a female lover in the countryside
shocked proper society by becoming an actress
given Dylan Thomas his first pen

As a Non-Christian…
Sometimes I think I was born in the wrong millennia
Temples to the Gods have since fallen or been turned into “culture spots”.
My belief in Zeus, Athena, Eros, and Dionysis
Would not be the quirk of a weird girl who hates monotheism.
If I’d been born before Jesus’ calendar change, I would have
Hidden around the corner to listen to Socrates’ trial
Left my offering for Aphrodite to bring me love
Been executed for masquerading as a boy to act alongside Thespis.

Never Take Notes

Dedicated to Spot and Race

I sit cross-legged on the bed
and stare down at the alabaster
marble of his flesh, tracing
a new constellation onto
his back. His bangs cover
his closed eyes like a
golden gauze curtain.

My notebook lays open, but
blank at my other side, a
third wheel in the affair. I want
to describe him in detail so that
years from now, when gray hair
overthrows brown for superiority
and my memory falls victim to
Time’s ravages, I will find that
currently unborn poem and see this
moment and him as though I were
watching a movie in my mind.

Yet I have forsaken my pen,
letting my fingertips write nonsense
across his shoulder blades.

Waiting-A Velvet Goldmine Poem

Waiting

Arthur’s bent over his
computer keyboard
like the hunchback
of the Herald.
Long fingers waltz across
the minute letters
as his words begin
their evolution into
an article.

Curt dropped into
the office to take
Arthur to dinner, only
to find him grappling
with the fierce monster:
writer’s block.
Arthur’d given him a smile
weak as watered-down
tea and Curt could see
frustration dancing with
defeat in his eyes.

Curt shrugged, promising
to wait for him,
caressed his bangs away
from his eyes and took
a seat on a corner of
his desk. Arthur began
typing, the sound a
monotonous tone of ants
marching down the sidewalk.

By the time Curt started
nodding off to the murmur
of hunger in his stomach,
his lover giggled in coffee-induced
delight as he printed out
his work.
“My muse,” he called him.

My New Philosophy

I build my religion out of musicals,
my Jesus is a drag queen, but he still
comes back at the end of the show,
greeting his followers by the stage door.

Pleasure for measure, Hedonists
like me find our bliss where we can.
We love without needing love,
but we can see it when it’s there.

Six of one, half a dozen of the other;
I have no label of ‘lesbian’
Or ‘straight’, so society cannot
File me away.

I defend the lifestyle I live
through the wind, rain,
and protest signs. Want me
to march in a parade of Pride?

Been there, done that, bought
the over-priced designer t-shirt
and it says, “Love is
Love.”

Eliminate Words

I wrap a red bandana
around my head and grip
my keyboard tightly. I
make my way across the
poem. I don’t want to watch
my phrases dies, ink dribbling
out of their mouths, but I
must, I have my orders.

I stop. Listen. Scrambling
for its life is the phrase,
“the moon wrote sonnets
across their skin”. It sees me
and holds up all nine syllables
as if to say, “What harm could
I really do? I’m only seven
words, who’s even going to
notice if you let me slide by?”

“I would,” I reply, tapping out
a funeral march with the
backspace key.

I see the family. A
stanza of sentences all
huddled around each other,
trying desperately to advance
the poem’s plot, but they fail.
I say a prayer for their souls
and try to ignore the fear in
their eyes as I obliterate them.

A tiny ‘the’ stumbles along,
wondering where the rest
of its sentence went. I want
to let it stay, it’s only a baby
word. But even the babies can
grow up to ruin a whole piece.
I look away.

Delete.

Lunchtime

After a sword-fighting lesson with Boudica,
it’s time for a brief lunch before play
rehearsal with Shakespeare.
I grab a plate of food, made by Julia Child
and take a seat between Jonathan Larson
and River Phoenix, leaning forward
to hear Oscar Wilde’s latest idea for his
new play.
Johnny and June Cash are working on a song
at one end of the table while John Ritter and
Don Knotts are sharing ‘Three’s Company’
jokes at the other end.
“Look, a distraction!” I shout, trying to sneak
a bite of River’s pie. He rolls his eyes and fends
off my wandering fork with his own. Since I
don’t want a stab wound to explain to Mary Rapp,
the nurse, I pout and turn to watch Aaliyah
choreographing the chorus members for our
production of Mister.
I tilt my head and try to read Emily Dickinson’s
new poem upside down from my position across
the table. She blocks my attempt by crouching
over her open notebook.
As I head for the theater, I see Al Capone losing
a poker game to a very smug Katherine Hepburn.
Minnie Pearl gives me a “HowDEE!” as I pass her.
I enter the stage door, where Jerry Orbach and Fred
Astaire are running through a tap dance number.
It’s just another day in paradise.

Center of the Universe

New York City has usurped the Sun’s
bragging rights, becoming the core for
art, music, history, color, creed, poetry
to make their revolutions.

The lights of Times Square’s skyline
outshine the stars, forcing the celestial
bodies to flee to the country where their
egos can been stoked.

It’s a world unto itself, like an animal
screaming, cursing, spitting out
everyone who doesn’t realize
they’re the aliens.

Gypsy

Inspired by "Your Tranquility Matilda"

The music is swift and loud
We twirl and dance around
The fire, our proof of our existence
They call us the devil’s children
Say we steal babies and money
The music increases in tempo
They believe in what they can’t see
We can see the Nature we worship
In the moon, stars, flowers, and trees
Mother Earth’s blessings surround us
We bohemians, dance for spare change
None will hire us, so we leave
Move on to the next town
The music draws to a close, we begin to pack
Early dawn, we leave
Will none remember us?

Death of Glittler

including lyrics by T. Rex


It was the decade taste forgot,
and tight shirts shimmered
under dim club light.
Friends say it’s fine/friends say it’s good
Suzi Qautro’s crown is made
of leather and King David Bowie
wears the sparkling tiara.
Everybody says it’s just like Robin Hood
The fans are androgynous in dress, manner,
and sexuality; no one knows which Rebel,
Rebel they’re dancing in the streets with.
Fly like a plane/drive like a car/hold out your hand
The guitars pound a driving beat
that seems to inspire clapping
and tapping and you had better
shimmy with whoever you can find.
I’m your toy, your 20th century boy
People sang their “free love” refrain,
then forgot the names they never
bothered to learn. The love wasn’t free,
but the lust was and came with bargains,
two for the price of one.
20th century boy, I wanna be your toy
Slade took a photograph with one lyric:
“Mama, We’re all crazy now.”

Poetic Dreams

Climbing into Death’s carriage, I leave
behind the California supermarket
where Ginsberg is stalking Whitman.
We throw watches to virgins as we pass,
calling out warnings of Time’s haste.
People salute the man in a stove pipe
captain’s hat as he lays bleeding on the floor.
A woman leads a group of kidnapped poems
down a trail that wants wear, though
they cast sorrowful syllables
at the clear yellow path unchosen.
As fog slinks in on its feline paws,
I smile at my fatal choice of companionship
and thank him for the new book of verses.

Bohemian Valentine

I bend a paperclip into a lop-sided heart, wishing
to have the means to present you with more
than just a metal caricature of an organ
that has nothing to do with emotions.

Were I a wealthy lady, free to bestow
material affections to young beauties
like you, I would purchase your heart’s
desires, hoping to become on of those wants.

A mint-colored couch and a lamp made of seashells,
five chickens, a new bag of cat food, an empty jar
filled with imaginary peanut butter, a CB radio,
whispers and kisses in the dark, a map of Egypt,

a plate of fingersandwiches, guitar strings,
a photo frame with three sections, books
of Romantic poetry and pictures of New York City,
a playbill from a show you’ve never seen,

and a blank notebook are gifts I want to shower
you with, like hot water upon your skin.
Yet only a ghost’s murmur of heat, hope, love
can make it’s way from my heart to your being.

The Origin of Love

Some say love comes from the heavens above
Because it is an easy rhyme and people
Who think it’s that simple aren’t digging
Deep enough.

I say love comes from below, rises from
The earth like a plant, seeking the water
Of tears shared and sunshine smiles
To strengthen it

When the toes tingle, it is love birthing
Itself, pushing into life from the ground
Up.

Wild Strawberries

Wild strawberries stained our lips a rustic ruby,
leaving traces of crimson on the flowers we kissed.
Dirt painted our fingernails as we worked the soil,
bringing life back to the dilapidated garden.

He and I spent our childhood tending flowers,
living off soil and sunlight with them. Chanting
our spells; prayers for silver rain.

Parental neglect would have destroyed
weaker beings, but we were rooted
to each other and to our secret world.

As the seasons claimed their rotations
of victims, we soon noticed we grew
as the roses did, climbing tall. Hunched
over our rainbow of flora, I found his grey eyes.

A play rug of grass became a bed of passion,
as flowers tilted down their voyeuristic heads.
We made love like we grew flowers, with gentle
touches and soft promises of what the world holds
if you’d only take my hand and let me show you.