new poems (because i've turned into a graphomaniac)

detour home

Boston roads go everywhere
behind your back
they are like secret passageways
in castles that little kids are afraid
to talk about in the dark.

I've learned my way around
a little bit better
each time I've found a different
accidental way home
and there are always new ways
to get lost here.
Black holes running from
Dorchester to Mission Hill
and into the Fenway
and I never understand how I end
up under the damn Citgo sign
every time...

like it has a magnetic forcefield
around it
or you under it.
another place I lose myself...
your back is the backroads of Milton
in the dark and snow
10 minutes and an hour away from
my bed.
your hair those tree lined streets
on the Jamaicaway that I had no idea
would throw me into Brookline
cost me a dollar to get on the Pike
to find my way home again.
your scars are landmarks...
the Citgo sign, the Zakim bridge, the
gold dome over the State House
that let me know I'm on the right track
that I'll be home soon
or at least know where I'm going.

The road home is always closed after
midnight
after I leave you and that stupid sign
in my wake
follow orange signs all over Downtown
Boston
tracing arteries through one way streets
and almost the right way
and I've wasted so much time getting lost
in those city streets
late at night
your cheekbone, the top of your spine,
the back of your hand...
sometimes I kick myself for
not keeping better notes for next time
but in the end I always find a new way
back to myself.



poetic license

don't worry about me.
i know that it may seem like
i'm falling apart
that you broke me in half
or more pieces than you think
i can repair
but that just sounds better
than "you were a fly in my pudding
and it take two minutes of whisking
to make a new batch."

i know you think you saw
my heart through the cleavage
resting above my low cut dress
but that's not where I keep it.
and I only wear it on my sleeve
because it can take New England winters.
baby, i saw that you were a bull
in a china shop the moment we met.
do you really think i would
leave the breakables out on the shelf?
those mason jars labeled
pride, dignity, future
aren't made of glass--
they're titanium alloy
the stuff they make spaceships
out of
you need some serious fire
to cut through that shit
and I just don't think you've got it in you

and you could be anyone
the boy I had a crush on in
the third grade
a passing stranger on the T
a weekend of memories
because truth and beauty
are two different things
and hyperbole reads better
than reality
and I can't say I know much
but I've kissed enough frogs to
know that lips don't make princes
but my pen always can.