A Teen’s Transition into the ‘20’s

Black sparkling gowns and sharp collared suits boogie on down the dance floor under
     purple red blue green
flashing lights, Thriller bouncing on their heels, then Baby Got Back, then when the
     Twist comes on
their hips wriggle to the beat, get low and shimmy up again, ankle to the knee to the waist
     arms swing in rhythm,
fingers snap! I watch from a chair made of twenty-five year old bones, my eyes drift
     from the dance floor
to three hovering balloons tethered to an empty wine bottle over each table where the
     few, too afraid to dance,
play Texas hold ‘em with candy. Tonight’s speakeasy is groovy, the deejay shouts, thank
     y’all for coming out.
Now let’s see if any of you remember this one. He puts on the Macarena and the crowd
     thins to only the few
dedicated fans left of Los Del Rio. The rest scramble for the wings and that’s when I
     stand and move.
It’s my job to make sure they don’t grow up too fast. I guard the bridge of time,
     slow it down
and speed it up. I watch the room for stragglers running behind velvet curtains, trying to
     experience their first...
unhook of suspenders, their first, rendezvous with a flapper. I want to yell, Slow down!
     Stop dancing so fast
into the future, you’ve only just discovered the past. But I know it won’t do much good, I
     remember the desire
to leap ahead, to strip off the cat’s pajamas, to grow faster than my skin. It was a quick
     jump when prohibition
ended and I was thrust onto the street by my parents. Sneaking a girl into the basement
     for an hour under
the covers became less of a forbidden fruit and more of an expensive date. But then
     again I’m free
and saved by the deejay distracting everyone back to the dance floor, playing
     the Black Eyed Peas.
Shake them silly bones kids, there’s not enough time to be young when you are.

*Note: the lines here are supposed to be short/long/short/long, this blog doesn't give enough width to correctly portray that. if you want to see the real deal, email me

Tonight I Have Visions of Being a Poet,

of standing in a room full of people listening
     to my friend
of twenty three years introduce me. He talks
     of ping pong
and sail boats, how he tipped us on purpose
     and I lost
my second pair of sunglasses. He talks of betrayal
     and tears
in a basement, how he never thought I would face
     up to real
friendship. He talks about walking down to Anodyne,
     black coffee
and two different Steinbecks, how those novels wrote
     the first bridge
of words we walked across. He looks at me leaning
     against the wall
next to a painting and I look back wondering how many
     other poets fail
to be poets, how many other writers fail to be
     writers, how
we both made it, achingly pushing each other like bricks of words
     back and forth in dreamt
wheel barrows until the beginnings of a house were seen,
     the foundations,
when it was only two of us building, only four hands
     and mortar,
before we went to school and learned how to train the architect
     within us,
before we assembled construction crews and hired a foreman
     to get the job done
right and fast, to take the architect’s blueprints and turn them
     into physical,
bring the reader into the house, not just for a tour,
     but to live,
to die, to eat, to love, to sleep, to dream, and to brush their teeth
     while the dog
licks water out of the toilet. He looks back at the room full
     of people
and tells them about Bruce Springsteen, he tells them about
     music and love
for the story songs. He stops and they clap while I walk slowly
     up to him, we hug
in affirmation of our hopes finally realized and I begin. Tonight,
     I say,
I have visions of being a poet.