Riddles

Goldilocks and a teddy bear-
love's impotence is just too clear.

He raised a clock tower in my heart-
it beat and sang; it played its part.

That thing about his voice, I say,
makes me drift everyday.

A handful of art, nothing more-
what's there to a sea but the shore?

Riddles one too many, my dear-
love's impotence is just too clear.

Eyes I Love

You never uncovered them for me,

but your eyes were serendipity.

The sun may sometimes be caught

in a rain puddle.

And the puddle never survives.

But with our eyes,

it's different.

Yours make me too happy.

And I survive it.

Mine,

should you see them,

burn like you.

I go to your eyes and bath my soul

in their blackness.

You never look at me.

His Hands

They ask me about my preferences:

"What do you like in a man?"

The 'Misses' at the University,

walking their eyes across my dress,

dragging white fingers across desktops,

killing

time.

Handbags. Eyes. Lipsticks.

"What would attract you?"

I hear them all, one by one

and never know what to say.

I do not know any men.

I dream. An evening drowned

in purple bruises and white lies.

Flies. And hands.

Hands that held the mood. Hands that played

it all. Hands that beat. Hands that were bitter

and hot. Hands that sawed air and broke

my breath into two. Hands that hush-hushed.

Hands that rubbed. And rubbed. And rubbed.

Hands that bloomed and betrayed. Hands that

contained. Hands that took, took, took.

Hands that crawled. Hands that clawed at the silence.

Hands in my hair.

Hands.

"Come on. Don't play shy!" She insists,

"The smile?" "Chivalry?" "The style?"

"His hands."

Nothingness at Boiling Point

So choked am I
swiveling on this chair-
the pivot of nothingness;
takes me nowhere.

I weave half-circles, then return.
What for is the meaningless sojourn?
I burn.
And never completely burn.

What for is all this that I learn?
A formula for everything!

Clinging to the kingpin,
swinging and stopping,
I trick myself into futures
that will never be.

I do not move when I move.
I do not love when I love.

I heat it up, just
this nothingness,
like it were Desire and Promise.

My thoughts, like broken glass bangles
are kept
only for the sake of keeping.

Two Poets

They came for us one day;
I hid behind the buttons-
Q, W, E, R, T.

He turned, walked away-
walked to the furthest room,
the room with one door
and no windows.

                                                 There had been nights when we'd
                                                 played lovers, me and him;
                                                 I, perched on his 'window', would sing
                                                 and he

Q-W-E-R-T-

                                                There had been nights when I'd
                                                flown in through the window,
                                                a sparrow and hovered
                                                for a moment to see
                                                what they call an eternity.
                                             
                                                I'd been rain on some nights
                                                and a snowflake on others,
                                                falling, dropping, giving in, dying.

                                                It was beautiful-
                                                our being perfectly free.

Then one day,
they came for us.
We weren't found, of course.

I still hide behind the buttons
and he lives a windowless existence.
I don't knock, not me.

Reading the Notes

Weightless on a bike,
I travel like
the unreal quaver
playing in my mind,
leading me to forgetfulness.

I look up at the sky
and open my arms
to the blackbirds that fly-

birds,
like musical notes
on an endless sheet.
Sky is music
and so am I.

Halt me not,
let me go today-

I look up at the sky;
my eyelashes like staves,
trapping a few bird-notes.

A Birthday Party

They were blowing into balloons,
themselves
and the balloons wouldn't take it
for they came in sizes, too small
to be inhaling emptiness,
containing
the weight of it.

The balloons burst.
They tried newer ones.

Mother got tired.
Father needed a drink.

I picked the reds and greens from the floor.
It pricked me when I saw him
head to that door
while she tried
to try a little more,
my mother.