Aries' Horns

The sea found itself on my fingertips
a bright coral color to hold in the sky's reflection.
Bold and bowing only to the soft wind whistling
just outside on the porch.

The nail polish is your warning.

I start at audacity, and sharpen the tips of curled horns.
Your feeble attempts to sneak in and
steal my love make me laugh,
My heart will beat fast and rule you and win.
The heat of my blood will burn you and provoke words
like "Demon" or "hell" from your undeserving lips,
which crave nonetheless the cool comfort
 of my moistened kiss.

But come to me, vulnerably, and throw down your weapons.
Caress my skin and speak easy, relaxed words to me
sweet as lemonade in endless summer.

And you'll have me.
Then you'll be mine, eternally.

Bad Choice of Footwear

My poor sodden shoes were ill-prepared
for the torrential downpour which would ensare
them entirely in concrete-based currents
the morning of my last expense
of energy this week.

Before the grey calm of dawn,
I sat awake and listened to the soft percussion sounds
that raindrops often make.

Were you awake during dark slumber hours
with the presence of mind to hear
each distinct drumbeat that drowned out
song bird tweets and
played rhythms against vertical glass panes
and overworked storm drains
for the amusement of your dreaming psyche?

I was, and I heard the sky
drop down in singing spheres
on the roof of my house.

Still, I woke before the sun,
not caring to see the slick streets
that shimmered,
nor the raincoat hanging limp in my closet.
     I donned my non-weather proof boots,
     useless against the elements
     in a way only SoCal could love.

And I walked out into the murky day,
for which my poor sodden shoes
were ill-prepared.

Angle of Reflection

A stone, thrown swiftly
into the center of the quiet pond,
whistled and popped,
dropping onto the silver surface
and hurling ripples toward
mud covered feet.

It was only briefly that my reflections were obscured,
my thoughts resettled when balance returned.

They Delivered The Wrong Package

Two hours ago

I got a parcel and a note

which read, "You're welcome."

in letters a five-year-old

might've wrote.

Nonetheless,

I brought it inside

curious as to what

the light box was hiding.

A pair of scissors and 

a bit of grit later,

the cardboard opened to 

reveal a longer letter.

It read:

"The meaning of life doesn't exist,

in some sort of universal personification.

It isn't born with you at birth,

It isn't bound till death do you part.

Meanings of life bubble up

like an inconstant spring,

in small bursts of insight,

situational and temporary.

Meanings of life bloom

like new flowers in the

pretty month of June,

flowing and searching

and following sunbeams.

That particular meaning of life,

that path you followed so piously,

will wither

as it is short-term, dying

and spreading its seeds on

soft wind,

till your ass finds itself lost,

and those seeds sow again."

I sighed and closed the cardboard flaps.

This wasn't the life manual I ordered,

I'd have to send it back.

Naming a Hypothetical Son

Caden, as in a cadence, a rhythm which flows
And mimics God's tongue, a soft song,
Delicate and all-entrancing, Caden.
Eerily, the sound rings in my ears.  Familiar, close, a
Necessity - I listen, amazed, and breathe the beautiful spell again.

The Financial Panic of Now

I panicked today.

Not the kind of panic
where your heart trips,
stops, skips back into place.

Not the kind of panic
where you wonder how you'll
get through the task set before you
that grips you, seems to
strip you of your dignity
and forces to the forefront
that childhood fear of speaking to strangers
that you tucked so neatly
behind your lungs.

I panicked today.

I looked at my car note
and it looked at me and it spoke.

It said: this is all there is for you.
That house you hoped for? Loan.
That car? That higher education? Loans.
Debt for credit, financial prestige,
none of which are worth much of anything
at your age, in this economy?
Nope, not a chance.

Those 2.5 kinds you wanted are expensive.
They need cribs, clothing, companionship.
They'll say they need a dog, a cat, or a hamster.
They need good schooling
and daycare costs money, too.
They need, they need, they need --

Its paper-thin, mechanical voice echoed away.

I looked at the car note,
a makeshift crystal ball,
and I panicked.

In retrospect, this psychological
self-destruction had been expected.
Years of watching one-sided pundits
spew half-thought out predictions
of the fall of the nation
through my up and coming generation
(not once taking into account
the effects of that Great Recession
on my peers' and my collective depression.

Jasmine Dream

I pressed the stick of jasmine
gently to the flame
watched the smoke rise up
and waft against the window pane.

And I inhaled, slow and deep,
let the foreign heat fill my lungs -
And I inhaled, slow and deep,
lent my eyes to faraway dreams.

Soft, golden fields of overgrown grass
and a white cotton dress caught the sun's rays,
and warmed the hidden cherrywood-colored skin.
     I danced slowly toward your gaze

and I inhaled, slow and deep,
I let your touch ensnare me -
and I inhaled, slow and deep,
let you become my faraway dream.