The Bull

Don’t speak;

Be silent, be attentive.

Be listening.

Don’t ask me how I’ve been.

I’ve been nowhere.

Nowhere has watched me read thousands of pages of fan fiction,

stewing in envy of those who can summon The Will;

Nowhere has watched me go to bed at 4AM on a Sunday and fly

through the house and out of the window in three frantic

minutes the next morning; Nowhere has seen me marvel

at Banteay Srei, a trip I never told you about, where a blazing

noon and humid air startled my skin into nostalgia’s waiting grip,

caught in a slowly crumbling red world, dragons breathing white

fire, a stone bull resting on its side on a slab in the middle of it all;

most of him is long-eroded but the eyes on that invisible head

are nevertheless watchful, bewildered still by a sky of any color,

curled tail and timid hooves wary of curious hands.


Dreaming of Old Age

She reads almost exclusively women

with the occasional exception

of those aged well beyond their ripeness (dead)

with the fervent hope of improving the poetry

of her body. Bodies, she says, are

“no more, no less than the words we take into ourselves.”

Seated back straight, knees trapped between chest and desk

(she does love her partial rhymes)

unconsciously fetal,

she pulls sustenance from all corners of the virtual globe.

Her dream of dreams is to live to an unforgivable age

to shake hands with Andromeda and spin,

spin until all her blinking worlds have been flung from the house into the chaos

of an empty street.

She wonders what the hell is taking that girl so long. (Time is always sometimes slow)

Half-remembered upon waking, the sunlight of memory warms her arms;

oh yes,

she was Methuselah in a previous life.

His beard perhaps, or the wafty hairs surrounding a bald cap

(there’s no way he wasn’t at least partially bald)

The point is, she was a follicle

thousand of follicles,

itched and scratched by the man himself and God knows who else.

She rises from the sheets confused, stumbling

to the fridge for hot chocolate and cold pizza

feeling thin as a plastic bag and older than the moon.




I don’t remember who she is anymore; it’s been so long.

I see blonde hair, and not much else.

Does she have blonde hair? I can always

change it, but it’d be nice to know where

my mind had gone back then.

How good is she in social situations?

Who does she trust — what’s

her best friend’s name?

Does she have a best friend or did she forget him?

Did she leave him behind and unsure number of years ago

so that little remains of his life in her mind —

a brief memory of sitting cross-

legged on a small basketball court with ten hoops,

her reading, he and two more beside, forming a small square.

His face is vague, brown eyes and short brown hair.

Very Miami. Or very almost everywhere.

She doesn’t remember his voice.

Maybe he had a funny laugh?

Did he try to ask her out once,

or was that someone else, years later?

Does she wish she remembered his name?