Ironic

Ironic,
Isn't it--
We were in the kitchen,
Such hearth to warm
This pounding mass of love,
With a little bit of
Garam masala,
When hot oil,
And metal spoon,
Fed my hand
A searing bite.

The welts began to form,
Even as I ran to the sink.
You stood helpless by.
The music played on.

Later that night,
Again, so ironic,
We left the aromatic
Kitchen,
For the
Black room of
Silver screens,
A glistening web,
Fresh of Hollywood dew,
For our illusory
Pleasure.

You sat
To my left,
My right hand
Cradled in
Ice.
He came in late,
As usual,
And took his seat by you,
Took his place by you,
Took my place from you,
Feeding me,
Again,
A spoonful
Of hot oil.

The Russian

cigarette smoke

and cat hair

soviet posters

a few armchairs

left from explorers old

the russian smiles

at me

beard like black

lace

a nose that could hook

a trout

he shakes my hand

and smudges his 

ashtray

a little more

what can i do for you?

Curry

he says,

you know,

i love you all the time,

but i don't have to say it

right before i order

my curry.

it's morally

irrelevant.

the moral 

relevance 

of curry,

then,

must be the 

spice of life.

perhaps i shall tell him

i love him

before i order

noodles.

Our Very Breath

the air sweats and cries
no need for rainclouds
our very breath
gives life to water
the moisture smoothing
the flood stirring
the river running through

Full Moon

Silver marble skin

Chisled by shadows

Smoothed by love

In the light 

Of the full moon

Grass in dewey glisten

Lovers' breath 

Into silver drops

In the light

Of the full moon

Sweat appeased

Passions fulfilled

Quiet sighs and stars' caresses

In the light

Of the full moon

The Drive

this is what it looks like

when a person is so angry

that they can no longer listen

a flower picked

by the side of the road

car dissheveled

doors swinging

fumes still sighing

from enflamed pipes

miles away from

home

broken cement playing

shadow checkers

with the soupy sun

clock in the dashboard

slowly chipping away

the fury

as tear by tear

petal by petal

all the angry love

falls to the feet

of roadside weeds

La Mar

Some fishermen in Cuba
Call the ocean
La mar.
They say others call her
El mar,
But those who do are
Young and foolish,
And do not
Know
What it means to be
Conquered,
And at peace.

Those who are wise,
They say,
Know that she takes,
And she gives.
That when she is wild,
And cruel,
It is because she could never be
Otherwise,
That when she is willful,
And calm,
It is because she could never live
Another way.

Those who know this,
They say,
Can see how the moon
Affects her,
Like a woman,
And yet how humbled
Are those
Who are bathed in her
Presence.