streets

the streets are slick
filled with puddle jumping girls in white floral dresses
and their yellow fathers who watch them
or rather
the dirty water vanishing into the thirsty gutter
as they take a long drag from their fourth cigarette
wondering how their daughters got to be so goddamned lucky

clattering heels enter and exit slippery cabs
that smell like body odor and cheap sex with bubblegum
and soon disappear behind swollen doors to dark houses
where plaster people hold plastic cups and each other
to forget
or remind themselves
that they are here

and the din of emergency brakes and ambulances
punctuates the smug silence of the stars
that hang above
reminding us of what we’re made of
and what we’ll never be

savannah, the salt lick

After a long and lovely day at the beach, I am simultaneously soggy, crunchy, and covered in salt. I subsequently dream about being an old chew toy for some depressed farm animal that spends its days eating cud and sleeping in its own excrement. The bus stops to let others on. I’m jolted from my dreams and am quite relieved to find that I am not currently in the mouth of a dairy cow named Bess, but rather a bus. Though it has a faint odor of fish and soiled diapers, so I don’t really know which is worse.

And now, there is unfortunately a man to my left groping and caressing the seat handles with sharp nails that have exceeded the “outdoorsy ergo sexy” dirtiness level by approximately 3 centimeters. There are plenty of empty seats behind me, but he still chooses this one. I mutter a pitiful “hola” and wish I could collapse into myself like a card table. Sunglasses are squeezed onto his head in such a way that make him look like a 31st century superhero, or rather just a potbellied fly with a horrible mustache. He smells of cheese-flavored crackers and cheap cologne. He puts on his seatbelt while the bus is not in motion. I find his alacrity more than slightly obnoxious (why didn’t I bring my swatter?) as no well-adjusted individual should ever be that eager to get on a bus.

Nonetheless, the belt barely fits over his yellow shirt, which coincidentally enough matches his yellow tennis shoes that hide self-consciously beneath his jean shorts. Fiddles with the air conditioning. Smiles at me too long. Licks his lips lasciviously (perhaps he is Bess’ bovine beau, Gomer). Gropes the handles once more, with feeling. His bulbous thigh is now less than a baby carrot’s distance away from mine. Predictably, his speckled arm brushes against my chest and remains in limbo for 3 seconds too long. I scowl but he, unpredictably, does not turn to stone. He then lowers the arm rest in shame and I begin to think of East and West Berlin. He keeps looking to the window. To my side. But if I have my druthers, this wall will never come down. Communism may be bad, but lecherous men named Pepe are even worse.

on departures

on the beach at night
your smile is stolen quicker than the sun
and your bright blue eyes are like footprints in the sand
soon to be swallowed by the green-eyed sea
whose embrace will always be more powerful than mine

and as the tide drags you away from my setting memory
with its sneaky, silent hands
the cool night wind whispers softly in my ears and on my skin
"i'm sorry, i hope you understand"

sad sketch of a woman

she was teaching the class about the difference between the imperfect and indefinite past in spanish. and in a fraction of a moment, a german word escaped her.
how do you know that word, the boy asked the teacher. he was from austria and had never fallen in love.
the teacher looked to him and smiled slightly. her teeth were a bit yellow. her gums a bit pale. i knew a german once, she said. i learned it from him. she placed her wrinkled hands on the particle board desk. i saw her fingertips turn white like ghosts from the pressure. so white they were almost red. and then they self consciously disappeared into her lap.
they rose again. slowly, self consciously. as if she had been caught somewhere she shouldn't have been. quickly, she brushed her hair behind her ears, now short and coarse from the chemo a few years back. her hair used to be below her waist, she once told the class. she smiled at this, too. and then she looked out the window. there was just a wall.
i watched her eyes the entire time.
when her gaze returned to the boy, i thought of the tornadoes that had turned a nearby town into a picasso painting in the years past. abstract and out of order, she looked as if she had just been swept up into the hungry mouth of a twister and then spit out lackadaisically among aluminum siding and rusted tractor parts. i felt hollow all of a sudden. maybe sorry, even.
the teacher cleared her throat and swallowed. alright, now where were we, she asked.
page 73, chimed the chorus of mildly disinterested students. the austrian was fiddling with his mp3 player. he was asking the student next to him why he couldn't get wifi.
she nodded. or maybe she shook her head. her fingers gripped the book tightly as some of the others searched for page 73. they turned white again.
"bueno. el indefinido es algo que pasa una vez en el pasado y no tiene nada que ver con el presente."
it was all spanish from this point on.