Visual

I woke up in the field this morning

to discover myself drowning

in waves of sprouting

young stems

of foxtails.

They shot up

all around me, riding

on rising swells of the warm

Summer's day. I am optimistic,

stranded as I may well be,

confused and lost with

no explanation

or hope.

But I see some

fresh life around me,

pushing on with no legs

to speak of, extracting green

bodies from the entire

brown earth only by 

 rite of good

nature.

Hey you visual artists!

Post some stuff. Please. 

Realization

“Are you two twins?” is always ringing, this is my life.
“Which is which?” strangers are singing, this is my life.

I could be listening to music, or quietly working,
then someone begins blubbering, this is my life.

Whether it is in a store, at a restaurant, or on the street,
Questions are constantly hovering, this is my life.

While being harassed people analyze thoroughly
and usually insult while inquiring, this is my life.

People become indifferent to the differences,
and morph two into one. How frustrating, this is my life.

I adore my other half and could not vision existence without her,
I just detest the ignorance and smothering. I am Lisa, and this is my life.

Ramblings on a halfhearted love affair

Last night’s party didn’t start out so well,
but when it ended, I thought it was funny
how you couldn’t make the peace offering 
any sooner—chances are you were thinking about
timing, or whether I even wanted solace;
probably thought I looked too bitter for comfort.

But for a while, I really didn’t need comfort—
I wanted revenge. Thoughts sprouted from a well
as murky as mist, hopeful to find solace
and fulfillment from attacking you and your funny
business—your mixed signals. I paced about
nervously trying to brew some consummate offering

of vengeance. But maybe I was just offering
my heart to a species that spurned the comfort
of companionship in exchange for pouting about,
or writing hopeless poems to ease how quickly tears well
up at the sight of your face. I guess it’s funny
how we were never anything, just one seeking solace

in another. Are there other ways to reach solace?
I’ve always thought that vices could work, offering
some sort of wholesome self. Would I start acting funny
if I married the bottle, or the pipe, or the comfort
of feeding and filling until satisfied? Well,
I’ve yet to try any. Those things bring about

dependency or a stern stoic letter about
how I should withdraw from school; seek solace.
But maybe soon we can start over. Well 
prepared will I be when I start offering
some forgiveness. And from there I’ll get comfort
knowing we’re truly on good terms, back to those funny

moments when we’d joke about how funny
was whatsherface when she started flailing about
whatshisface, back to when I found comfort
in just being a friend helping you to get solace.
Last night’s party, with its overdue offering—
your notorious hugs—convinced me to purge the fiery well.

I wish you well, and I hope that the funny
times outnumber my offering, my ramblings about
how I’ve yet to attain solace, the ultimate comfort.

Voicemail

Not long ago, when I was out shopping
I met your old friend and he said to tell you
He really does miss you.  I gave him your number
And told him to call you, but he said he thought
That if I were to tell you, he wouldn’t feel caught.

Maybe he called you and maybe he didn’t.
I guess that it’s really not my place to know,
But I was just wond’ring ‘cause maybe I gave him
My number instead, but now I feel bad,
Even though it was the only chance that I had.

I told you I missed him just as much as you did
But he never noticed and you never cared.
You two were happy, but then you two fought
With me in the middle.  I’d no place to turn to
And try as I might I just couldn’t spurn you.

I have always wished that you weren’t his friend
Or that, if you were, there was room for me too.
I wanted to know him as well as you did,
But I think that you always left me behind.
You left me to fend off the rest of mankind.

And then you just let him go fall by the wayside.
You used him and when he was used up you left.
It’s sort-of like how I feel sometimes as well.
You use people and when they’re gone then you grieve
It’s just that I never had courage to leave.

But when you lost him, you lost me in part
I wanted to follow him but I just couldn’t
Because unlike you I have loyalties also
And I always keep them, however untried
But sometimes I wish I could say that I lied.

I know you don’t miss him but I didn’t say that.
I think that I gave him my number instead.
I hope he will call me and then I will tell him
The stuff I’ve just said, and maybe he’ll hear
The truth, as I tell him about the past year.

I feel a lot better now that I have told you
That he asked me to wish you a “Happy Birthday!”
Goodbye and good riddance, now that I don’t need you.
I hear the phone ringing, so I think I’ll go.
But now I won’t lie when I tell him you know.

Just one last thing before I go answer.
I wanted to say that I know you’ll move on.
You’ll find a new boyfriend and best friend real soon.
Although you might think it, you’re whole world won’t crack.
Oh – and when you get this, please do not call back.

Angel

I so clearly remember you watching me, like a dream
Your eyes ignoring me studiously, like a dream.

The silence that always enveloped us, frigid and heated at once
The silence spoke volumes, precisely like a dream.

I’m constantly looking down upon you now
Just the opposite of how we used to be, like a dream.

When I lay catatonic in the whitest of rooms, your words soaked me
Though you never said a thing, scarcely like a dream.

As I watch them lower you into the welcoming dirt
I imagine its wisdom enveloping you, exactly like a dream.

SALAMI

  “Come ooooooooon,” John says as his ass furtively adapts to the velvet seat. He looks upon the stage nervously. “What’s the point of this? What am I going to get from some Jabba the Hutt singing her ass off?”
  “John, you promised me you would see this,” Renée says. “It doesn’t hurt to have a little culture.” John groans, but she continues. “And that ‘Jabba the Hutt’ you’re talking about is one of the greatest opera stars around. She’s been playing Salome for years.”
  “Shouldn’t it be Salami?” John asks.
  “What?”
  “Isn’t that how it’s said—Salami? I mean, I was looking at the program and it says here that the opera’s in German. So I guess you’d pronounce it like it is in German, y’know?”
  “Um, sure.” Renée replies hesitantly.
  “What’s the story of this opera anyway?”
  “I thought you said you wanted to be surprised.”
  “I lied.”
  “Well, when was the last time you read the Bible?”
  “Is that what it’s about?”
  “Answer me.”
  “I dunno.”
  “Well, it’s about this—”
  The lights dim down before she can explain any further. The orchestra tunes and allows the audience to engage in quick chatter. John decides to resume the conversation. 
  “So what’s it about?”
  “A princess.”
  “Stop right there.” John suddenly resolves that this is a ploy to curb his virility. “There’s no way my first opera’s gonna be some bullshit fairy tale.”
  “Now you stop right there, John. I’m going to speak in terms you’ll probably understand. I paid a decent amount of money to spend what I thought would be a pleasant night for us. But you obviously think this is going to jeopardize the size of your balls, so you can just go back to—”
  Another interruption. The conductor, a frail but confident looking gentleman, enters the orchestra pit. Judging from the boisterous applause, he’s a big shot. So much of a big shot the applause lasts five minutes. When it finally dies down, the old man turns to his orchestra and raises his baton.
  For most of the opera, John fails to catch up on the action between the actors and reading the English supertitles on the seat in front of him. By the time he gets to the “Dance of the Seven Veils”, he is exhausted, unable to look forward to another pitiful antic the main character can fix up. Even if she’s stripping. But as the dance progresses, he cannot help but be amused. Here’s Salami shaking her ass like no tomorrow, ripping pieces of clothing to shreds as if she’s on fire. The unthinkable occurs: he starts liking it. He denies it, tries shutting his eyes, tries making up excuses. Maybe the lighting’s just hitting her in all the right places; maybe the drinks before the performance are beginning to kick in. Whatever the matter, he’s engrossed in the movement, in the music, in the marriage between the two. As they become more passionate, reckless, and fatigued, more clothing disappears. 
  “This is what’s been missing all my life.”
  When the last strip of clothing is shed, he is the first to stand up, roaring with applause. He no longer recognizes Salami as ‘Matila the Hutt’. She is the definition of a woman.
  Renée feels a little embarrassed; John appears to be reacting with too much enthusiasm. A man in the row behind her asks if this is her brother’s first time at the opera. She affirms this with a nod, and turns towards John in the midst of the audience’s wild applause.
  “The show’s not over, you know! There’s more!” She has to shout.
  “What else could there be?! It’s already the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen!”
  “She makes love to a severed head!”
  John is shocked.