Write Like a Girl

I write like a girl.

Up at dawn

morning breath fresh

not clamming me up.  

Head swallowed by bed

spit me out, hair in a horn

on the side of my head.

A satellite towards the sky!

Catching some vibes

and recording my dreams

not literally.

Write like a girl

desert sweaty

sitting on a basketball

glasses cloudy with steam

head pounding

to the sound of the dribbling

around me as I’m

pounding this poem out

call me Ms. Smith.

I’m a misfit, a magician

fill you with illusions

my fingers typing away

fast as bee wings

on my smart phone.

I write like a

Techy girl

sign of the times

write short and sweet

sometimes in rhymes

Ay, phone! how many times

you saved my poem’s life.

Grrr girl,

I write like a girl

invading males spaces

with my stats and analysis

my “what had happened was,”

POV to the game

carving my way into

locker-room chatter

taking a spot on the floor

chop it up like a girl

wearing purple and gold

swirled tie,

blazer, skinny jeans

pointy toed shoes  looking fly

a fly-girl.

Like a girl

putting out like a girl

churning right like a girl

crossing the line

pushing it farther and farther

stretched out like some tight

tights. Stretched out like a girl

pulled in all directions

like carnitas

my limbs feel.

Write like a girl

always on my PERIOD

, ? ! ;: “”

run the gamut of grammar

they give me such trouble

those signifiers inserting

themselves in my conversation.

Such a girl

to bitch about it

so tuned in to emotions

that are tuned into sensors

a bazillion receptors

effective communicator

like the game of Simon says, following the light

no matter the patterns just go with the light

got you more twisted than Twister.

But I’ll be nice like a girl

care for, nurture like a girl.

Like, a girl.

Write for a girl.

Like me.

Twilight Heat

Heat makes you do things.

Makes you stay out past sunset,

pounding the basketball against

steamy pavement

trying to beat twilight’s defense.

Makes little girl do the splits

on barely-cooling-off cement.

It gathers the homies to drink

under a big shady tree

building a pyramid of empties.

It’s Sunday, doesn't matter

if work awaits in the morning,

gotta quench that thirst.

The heat got the best of 'em, bro'. 

Heat, it’s passion in your guts

hot as an habanero

bursting out into “Spiderman” layups,

or dripping and dipping on warm iron bars,

like the young dude doing pull-up after pull-up.

Pull-ups give young dude

Ironman chest.

Sweat. Heat makes me sweat

I’m feeling under your gaze

“Chocolate Bar stomach”

look away, Mamma hawk

not hunting tonight.

As you were! Dipping away,

I’ll see you in my dreams

wet, shinny, flexing

pecks and biceps proudly

like some urban Aztec god

bobbing your head to the sound

of your workout routine.

Heat can make you

lose it if you let it.

Short circuit of the brain

old  wiring

can only give so much juice

can’t process the requests

and shuts down.

Leaving you in darkness

alone with your hot head.

So hot you see white

but doesn’t feel

like a walk in the clouds.

Washed over with tears

as you talk yourself off

sabotage bridge.

Get your ass up!

Crack that window open

bust that shit wide.

Come back from the future!

Refuse to die, to fizzle out

got the rockets red flare

of my nostrils

and heart working on overdrive

to prove it.

Pumping, pumping, pumping

cyclist legs,

pumping, pumping, pumping

urban Aztec god.

Pumping- burning away the toxicity.

Got my room looking like the 1800’s

Industrial dark, darker than dark

as my carbon footprint balloons.

Not just wasted resources

DiRTeee energy.

Angry, silenced, recycled

In-HER-Chi

cutting the bullshit out

much rather fertilize.

El Soul Por La Window

One day looking at the hill outside my bay window

sipping coffee, my first cup

awed at how the bougainvillea grow

when the bush, like a green curtain, opens up.

The hill’s earth now exposed, an entryway appears

framed by the pretty pink flowers-ballerinas in the air

humming birds danced about. My heart hiccuped, eyes filled with tears

to look outside my window and see such flair.

Then into the center leaps a furry little creature

dark hair, blue-eyes, skin tan, slender as a fawn.

The branches bow down, birds chirp, leaves flutter around her

such reverence. Like bees to honey, I too am drawn.

I want to catch her.

I want to teach her.

I want to touch her.

She nibbles on the fruit fallen from its tree

sits on her haunches thigh muscles fibrous-rope

I kneel closer to the ground so she won’t see me

“Please stay, don’t get scared” I secretly hope.

Furry little creature, I take a step closer

feet delicate under squeaky boards

but her faithful, furry litte-er

creatures, look at me vigorous like boars

Her companions’ tails-linked

around her while she nibbled away in peace.

They orbited in her aura. She never blinked

they had her back, she was at ease.

Outside my window

looking out, framed

I feel framed, some sort of Romeo

tricked by your image. Our story, pained.

Realizing it was a trap

a little too late.

Furry little creature, have me in your grasp.

Why can’t this be fate?

The Last Poem

 Truchas, New Mexico. Look at that moon!

Sitting underneath the cauldron sky

Far away from home

Still the same sky

I take in the stars

Looking like busted Christmas lights.

I wish I may

I just might

Cast a spell tonight.

Take deep breaths

Truchas air stings my dry nostrils.

The moon leans over my shoulder

Immersed in her glow

I feel blessed,

Forgiven for my wrongs

My pen waves across the page

Cuts across the lines

It writes-

Not Queer, not Latina, not brown butch

Writes.

Not poet, not playwright, not fiction writer

Writes,  “Be a writer the way a mountain is a mountain

Even in darkness

It can’t hide its shape.”

My stories stir inside me

Truchas Peaks’ deep

No clouds in the sky to top the night

A breeze plays footsies with my toes

Rises and rattles my pages

More stars appear to the beat

Of crickets’ chirping.

Birds, dogs and the brush of my pen harmonize.

We all have something to say at the moon,

My guided confession

A howl lost in the night.

Natural world, you have won me over twice,

A guilt free escape

From my job, the traffic,

The “how was your day”, and feeding routines

I’ve come to bury my poem about writing.

Flowing fields wave at me like cheering fans

Enticing me to jump off this deck and crowd surf.

I write down my last dribble

Peel the pages out like burned flesh

Rip into pieces

Cup them in between my palms like a worry stone

Massage, soak in my writing

My work wilts in my grip.

I open my ink-smeared hands

Release my confession confetti

Pieces fall, wounded birds, to the ground

Get tangled in the fields

The rest scamper like tumbleweeds.