Estrogen doesn’t stain
Feminine calls,
as woman walk past,
showering me with estrogen.
Girl-friend longing.
i see happiness
in this,
flowing from shared lives.
Go for it, i tell myself.
Estrogen doesn’t stain.
(poem altered on nov13,2o1o)
Rusty in the Head
I’m a little rusty in the head
the Tinman to the lion said,
as they meandered
down the yellow brick road
toward the Tinmans tin abode;
in the Emerald city,
in the green metropolis,
the place from which Dorothy followed
said yellow road,
toward a witches dark abode,
through a dark forest,
through spooky trees,
filled with lions and tigers and bears, oh my,
lions and tigers and bears, oh my.
I’m a little rusty in the head,
my friend sitting beside me said.
I raised an eyebrow,
i turned my eye,
to observe her head
and wonder why,
rust was in there,
why her brain was rusty
since actually
it’s always
been pretty trusty,
that rust does not
in a head reside;
since iron in the brain
is not in abundance.
Unless of course my friend
had overdone her iron,
had overdone her supplements,
taking too many,
taking too much,
filling herself with iron and such.
My friend eyed me,
she eyed me back,
and smiled
as if she could see
the track
of my thoughts
as they moved
through my mind
about the rust
she had mentioned
the rust she had talked of,
inside her head,
upon her brain,
rusty red, inside her head.
Then she gave me a hug,
and jogged off to the Y,
leaving me to contemplate rust,
to contemplate heads,
(Oh, and about my friend talking in rhyme,
well this is a poem, and in poems rhymes common,
but in this case my friend has a poetical nature,
so her speaking in rhyme just represents,
her natural state.)
My thanxs to my friend Shana, who is fictionalized in this poem, and who spoke the phrase (see title), and other juicy phrases which i have copied down, on which this poem is based-her poetical nature in action.
The Edge of My Spiceyness III
(I am writing another poem with this title because i like the phrase so much-tell me which you like the best-again thanx to Shana.)
Do i let people
know me
or
do i take
the Edge off
my spiceyness
let them see what they want,
what i think they want
sand in clothing,
a blurry picture.
Be spicey.
Funess evolves,
stress-less,
real,
reels in friends,
because you are clear;
no dearly holding on
to obstification.
The Edge of My Spiceyness I
The edge of my spiciness
flows from you.
In living,
i live,
quite fully,
but with you
in my days
all deepens,
becomes real-er,
hues brighten,
and happiness increases;
places i am with you in are special-ized.
Moments remembered
multiply exponentially
covering all the times
you inhabit them.
Going back
to the places
of with you
expecting a moment,
but find instead
an ordinary place
without you.
(My thanks to Shana who uttered the phrase that titles this poem and gave me permission to use it)
Must not change for friendship
Must change
so i am good enough
for you/them.
Now i veer away
from people
if this compulsion
touches me.
To feel liked as i am
is more change directing
than any obsessive feeling.
Relations redo us;
love and like directed at us
encourage us in moving.
To be loved/liked
for myself
is more happy making*
than change compulsions.
*with thanks to Scott Westerfeld for Uglies et al.
