yogi hangover

happy trail all a ruffle

gin and

            hops and

you and me

still on my tongue. i smile

a little too softly

let my eyes glaze

over with new ideas.

bad idea.

in ceremony i say go,

            bye!

thanks

for letting me watch you

stretch

you

for lessons on one night

stand still (in) the morning rays

dance on your chest

on my shoulder

where you’d soon place your parting words

            so long

take care and

            blessings upon you

let poetry guide you

            may the calm of the yogi wash over

like the chiming of brass bowls

find comfort among the swirling smoke gyres

of sweet incense.

        i would watch you downward dog all

day. half pigeon me to zendom.

 

i could laugh at the way

the moon and the bartender

play tricks on me.

no scent on my pillow

no sorting of silly words

no sifting through

          

this is just 

what i get for diving too deep

            and tipping too little.

Evenings with You

You put me to bed

And your voice

Like smoke

Warm

Fills my nose

Wrapping itself

Up into me

Until I am gasping for breath

Calling your name

Both to stop you

and to urge you

For with you

I am constant

In a state of

Caprice

and weak with thirst.

January 2013

Somanona

for Francesca

the click click of your wedge heeled boots

percuss the concrete in a rhythm he can’t

bop his head to. your high bun perches where

his too short arms cannot reach. he hangs

from the silver ring in your flared wide open

nostril swaying in the gentle exhales above

your frosted bumptious lips. to kiss those bumptious

lips again he would call like he promised, dedicate

a remix to you. call it ms. brown skin, my chestnut

queen on patchouli street. sample a south African

drum beat and hope it makes you think of Lagos

long enough to need to be held, cuddled, comforted

but not long enough to put you on a flight back

home. the elongation of your vowels stroke his earlobes,

sends a shiver up to his elbow, a twitch in his flour dusted

trousers. he thinks his goods would be better with a sweetener extracted

from your voice. if only he could tap into you. 

New Year's Eve

Face to window

back to the darkened room

he holds a cigarette between 

two fingers

sits a stemless wine glass on the sill.

He inhales nicotine

exhales the taste of me in a sour cloud 

of smoke.

Beside his foot, moonlight nudges 

the sequins on my dress and I can see 

his face, his mouth in a half smile.

From beneath the sheets

I watch his shoulders sway 

in the shadows

I bite my bottom lip to fight residual 

tremors.

I inhale his scent from the chilled

 pillowcase and hold my breath, 

keeping him inside. 

Fruit

You placed a penny in my palm

I tried to plant it in my chest

The fruit it bore

was sickly sweet

with thorns the size of cupids’ arrows

When I brought you

a basket full,

with my bloody finger tips,

nonsense words began

to fall from your lips.

My name came out in stutters

amidst some jokes about a green thumb,

a misplaced apology,

a smile reminiscent of the ones

you used to give me

(I picked that up and put it in my pocket),

an offering of flour

so I could bake a pie,

a cough,

a glance over my shoulder

a glance at your wrist where you’ve never worn a watch,

a less familiar smile I’ve only seen you give to strangers,

an unsolicited laugh,

some excuse about a work meeting,

a hug with too much space inside, a see-ya-soon you didn’t mean, a soon that never came, a soon that never came, a soon that never came a soon that never came a soon that never came a soon that never
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Playing with Giants

In his giant fingers, she was like a child playing helicopter. Between his pointer and thumb he spun her, a wilting magnolia flower plucked from its tree. Her petals reached out sideways grasping for something to grip onto - another body to help her balance, anything to keep her from being propelled into the air without destination for this giant was unpredictable. He would either crush her between his calloused finger pads or let her fall to the ground. 

Some Final Words on Sweden.

Sweden really does morning buns well. Adam is sleeping in, getting his beauty rest, and I’ve gone out on my own for the second morning in a row. I’ve stopped at Wayne’s Coffee – a coffee shop franchise with a setup, frequency and brand font strangely similar to Starbucks – to pick up a chilled Chai and a vanilla bun topped with sliced almonds. They’re so incredibly satisfying – better than a muffin; bready and moist. It’s as if they’ve taken a dinner roll and baked it in a muffin tin with some buttery spread inside of the doughy folds. I could eat them everyday and intend to do so until I leave Stockholm on Tuesday.

It’s nice to travel this way – not as a tourist, but as if I’m just sort of hanging out in a nearby town. Adam’s brother was kind enough to let me stay at his apartment just outside of the center of the city and Adam and I have been spending a lot of time with friends. So I’ve bypassed most of the touristy stuff and we just sort of “chill” (Adam’s favorite word). It feels like taking a weekend in Buffalo or spending the day in Suffolk Country. Despite the language difference (which is barely noticeable since almost everyone speaks English) I’m comfortable here in Stockholm. The signs and menus are all in Swedish though and Adam often leaves me at counters alone to fend for myself. I’ve gotten used to ordering what sounds the most familiar to avoid any of the few things I’m allergic to or just don’t really like. I spent enough time in Spain trying to hide mussels and tomatoes under napkins. Here, I want to be relaxed while I eat so it’s been a lot of Greek food and tons of kebabs.

No one seems to know what the traditional Swedish foods are, anyway. Adam cooked pyttipanna my first night here but he apparently botched it so I have no idea what it’s actually supposed to taste like. I’m easy, though, when it comes to food because the less I eat, the less I poop and that’s ideal because my bowl fright has gotten pretty sever this past month. I cannot for the life of my get used to the European septic system. Spain’s flushing power is un-functionally weak. I will spare you details but let’s just say that things do not go down the same there as they do at home. Sweden seems to have things a little more under control but I’ve been scared so much by Raquel’s inferior toilet that I’m afraid to take any risks.

Moving on to a less intimate matter, though - Adam really surrounds himself with good people. I got to meet a ton of his friends and some of his family. And I finally got to see both Alex and Per again – his two childhood friends who came to Thanksgiving dinner at my house a few years ago. I had forgotten how much I liked them both. Like a lot. In that way of mine where I feel like I’m not cool enough to converse so I spend most of the time creepily smiling into their faces and feeling like a small child.

Everyone here talks about how cold Swedish people are but I haven’t experienced that in the least. Everyone has been so friendly and welcoming. – from Alex’s family to Per’s bandmates to some strangers that I met at a party in the woods.

All in all Stockholm gets only praise from me and I’m quite sad to say good-bye. But alas, I have a home of my own and it awaits me less than patiently.

So “hej då”, Sweden and adios Europa. Until we meet again, you have all of my longing and most of my heart. Thanks for everything, you’ve been a real pal.

Xxxxxo,

 Amanda.