There is a woman
who sits across the pond
from me now
golden brown skin
and lustrous black hair
she's in her
mid twenties,
maybe
she looks like a marry or
a monica or a lisa
maybe
and she carries a black camera
with her wherever she goes
snapping pictures of her young glory
she sits atop a rock
and calls to her young warrior-
"antale chico!"
and I think
maybe she's more
of a maria, or gabriella!
either way she's beautiful
and so is her daughter of three.
or four, but certainly no more
and there's comfort in the fact
that she'll never read
much less,
know
that she made
my fucking
day.
Her fingers are nimble
and her eyes, deep and soulful
like the california sunset -- Amber Brown
Her beautiful figure could fool a guy
or two, or three or five
but underneath her shimmering
cover-girl lips and charcoaled framed amber eyes
lies the scar tissue
she wears her heart on her sleeve,
"You're only young once..." she thinks
but under it all, she knows this man, or any other
can't fill the lack of friendship; of love
of seeing beyond that
figure-eight body;
or amber eyes, or covergirl lips
but the spirit of gravity
cannot choke this flower...
from dreaming:
of a quaint home
where she can raise her new born baby girl
or a man to sweep her off her feet
care for her, just like daddy used to...
before the accident.
"One more night" she thinks...
for the thousanth
And oneth time,
as she gets in the car
where a horny businessman thinks:
"tonight's going to be a night to remember"
We exchanged a look
as she troddled up the incline
of the top floor
of a parking garage
in some suburban neighborhood,
no different from the rest of 'em
she had jet black hair,
and plump white cheeks.
Her name was Helen,
I assumed so at least, as she looked
as all helens do, I figured
with piercing blue eyes
in which I could only see my own reflection
and pale milky skin
which was smoother than sandpaper, at the very least
Although we only exchanged but that one brief moment
between shock and awe;
that another human soul was here,
sitting on the ledge
on the seventh floor of a parking garage
overlooking the entire city
on a friday night
sculpting words
into expressions
the trademark of a poet
But this moment had to end,
as all moments do, I suppose
as she quietly creeked
to the other end of that lot
sat atop her throne, and lit a cigarette
or two
and our words danced,
although we never exchanged a word
As the city clock struck twelve
and the pidgens startled into the midnight sky
I think we both shared something
like ordered chaos
or beautiful sorrow
in my dance with destiny,
I tasted fate.
