newark international

sunglasses on my head say, "i'm approachable."

sunglasses in my hands say, "i wait."

cocktail party

naked in a clear bath

just hot water & jamaican sea salts

that scent the room with

tangerines and ginger.

without clouds of pink foam,

my body-

thinning waist

plain legs,

is vulnerable to the day.

drinks & swollen heels,

dry tongue & small talk,

my pores purge what they deem toxic.

the biker

His shorts betray him.
They rise higher than the average New York man is comfortable with,
exposing lean thighs.
Thousands neglect his silent offers 
to pedal their black slacks aroundin the 97 degree weather.
They continue on to the Paola Pivi plane
leaving the immigrant waiting.
I am one of them.

poems for austin- pfa #1

driving home,
through streets welded against memory fibers,
a caffeinated eye notes the absence of trees alongside a golf course.
"the corner looks so empty,"
the voice notes.
"i think it's amazing that we can tell when something's missing.
i can't detail the flowers in my neighborhood
or the color of front doors now,
but when it changes,
I remember every splinter, petal, & needle.
maybe the emptiness changes its shading,
or something new-
signs
Virgin Mary statues
blow-up advertisements-
has been added.
regardless the edit,
what was calls to you."

the other voice has listened to her friend's reasoning and,
seeming to agree,
glances at the verdant void.
"i think it's amazing when someone doesn't notice."