Snapshot of Love #4

Maybe
I will let this wind
Enter my veins
Let it carry me
To a new calling

We could
Cross this street
And take the bus in the opposite direction
Go down Lyndale
Until we can’t go any further
Hop onto a different line
End up in one of the suburbs
We could
Smile
For real at first
You
Would stay at home
I would get a few more ties
I would trade my diet
For an all-you-can-eat buffet
You would sacrifice
Red-dyed hair for
Lipstick and fingernail polish
Our house
Indecipherable
Our affect
Blunted

Maybe
You can stay where you are
And
I will stay where I am
Today
Let me ignore the wind

talking to strangers

His ears were red but his eyes were desperate,

a simple question asked with monumental effort:

"Does this train stop at McDowell?"

Yes it does.  Tense shoulders never relaxing,

embarrassment keen.  We never have all the answers.

He had a grizzled smirk that was ten feet wide.

Sunshine brings out spaghetti-strap tanks 

and makes shy men brave. 

"Well, well, that's what I'm talkin' about!"

Hope I made his day.

She had a wispy mustache and a lost little smile.

She carried three bags filled with things, a lifetime of uncertainties.

Stopped me at the crosswalk:

"What do you think of the market?  Do their vegetables taste good?"

We talked as the light changed once, then twice.

He perched on the stoop of a vacant office building,

noticing what I hadn't, as I braked for the light.

"Your bike tire's flat... gonna make it?"

No air pump, but genuine concern.

He stormed through the park, and saw 

the girl on the bench, with iPod headphones and a book.

Her friendly but wary smile ripped the frustration loose.

"Get the fuck out of my face, you stupid-ass bitch."

He is a realist.  A stranger's smile, no matter how polite,

won't improve his lot.

scene from a Phoenix grocery store parking lot

the wind rose like bread 

i paused to savor the smell

dust blew in my eye

sonuvabitch

the thing about the wind is
you can't see it bend it break it
mix it separate it
you can't catch it and set it before you
trick it
trap it
you could negotiate

the presence of it
gauge
the speed
at which
it grips

a sock strapped to a flagpole

measuring wind
physical only
in what it can animate

gluttonous
wind, wanting to hold
all it touches.

Ignoramus

Hateful words

erupting putrid, ignorant, deadly

from uneducated mouths, choked by

residue left from another time:

When men and women and

children

were beaten bloody

for drinking from a forbidden fountain,

for a different view.

Words that soil minds, poison

truth.  What is the value of "truth"

when it's claimed by complacent white men?

Fearful words that reek

of disillusionment, dissatisfaction,

insecure lies.

Can it be that I am of this blood?

Words

spoken by my father's brother--

I will never claim them,

but am I stained?

Words

that tear my insides

beyond recognition,

beyond belief:

"They come here,"

he says,

"And think they can change everything."

(But I hear truth in change.

Growth.

Survival--why can't he see?)

Fear festers in his words:

"They should get the hell out, go back."

To where? 

To war?  Death?

To places where ten-year-olds

carry weapons, where girls

gather firewood while men wait in ambush,

where brothers kill 

their own brothers?  Uncle--

you can't even begin to imagine the 

real truth.  Can't you see?

We are their brothers and sisters.  We.

What would you do

if it was you who had to leave

everything you knew,

if your entire world 

fell to pieces

and you were forced

to start again

alone

in a place where no one

knew your name

or spoke your language

or understood

or cared?

What would you be forced to become?

What would you 

be forced to give away?  

Uncle--

fear and hate kill, maim, blind,

rape and pillage,

beat truth bloody

but LOVE--

Love heals... love allows for choice.

And I choose to be unafraid.

I choose to fight for change, I choose

equality.  I choose to protect the rights of those

who have not yet been allowed to learn how,

in this place they now call "home."

I choose to educate.  I choose to

be educated.

I choose to love.

I choose to expand my horizons.  I choose

to aid, and

I choose to respect the voice

of a Somali family

over the hateful voice within my own.

See, uncle?

I choose.

And I will never choose

to be like you.

Ode to a Fart

This is an ode to the "sweetest" of deeds,

A bodily function so awesome, it needs

A tremendous tribute, which I will here impart:

That glorious, uproarious thing called a fart.

Too many times, I'd be sitting in class

When, wouldn't you know it, a big ball of gas

Would come rumbling out from the depths of my tummy.

All but the teacher would think it was funny.

The mind-blowing names for this feat, so diverse,

Nearly rob me of skill to do justice in verse:

Air biscuit, breezer, beef, and one-cheek-sneak;

Room-clearer, honker, trouser trumpet, and squeak;

Ass-rumbler, cheek-flapper, letting it rip;

Pant-ripper, poot, toot, butt mutt, and air tulip.

Heiny burp, back draft, and buttock bassoon;

Bottom blast, rip ass, and a little boom-boom;

Dutch oven, funky roller, and Smelly McSniffed;

Rumble-fluff, wet one, butt pancake, and 'pfffffft.'

And just when you thought all the names were too small:

'I stepped on a fart snake.'  It just says it all.

But the Grand Prize of Fart Names, it goes to my mom,

Who'd redden with shyness when she'd drop a bomb

Of wet stinky inky, and--no, I'm not goofing--

She'd blush, and then giggle and say, "Oops, I'm FLOOFING."

And thus, I say, no matter which way you spin it,

The world is the richer with flatulence in it.

So the next time you feel one a-brewin', take pride,

Stand with feet firmly planted, and cheeks open wide.

Windy Dreams

The wind was blowing
My car had been towed
Or stolen
Whatever
It was missing

In my dream I was eating alone
In a Mexican restaurant
The waitress asked me what I wanted
When I asked for plain enchiladas
She said they had tomato and cheese

I said "OK"
She brought these little sliced zucchini
Warm and cooked
With melted cheese
It wasn’t until after eating them all, that I discovered the tortilla