pink 2010

my year of pink,
seeping into
my clothes,
a solvent in
my veins,
bad case of
menopausal acne
on the side,
to go.

my She
reveling,
rioting
one last time
in all her
frivolous,
feminine
anti-redness.

flaccid
pink
brain,
skin,
stomach
where
ruby tough
thought,
callus,
gut
once lived.


I've
always
hated pink,

I think.

now

a fresh white
clean bright
page

age

My body has begun
acting it's age
griping
"Hey!?"
things suck
in here!

My boss says:
"dress professional"
I interpret:
"dress your age",
drop the hemlines
and funk,
adopt black as
my favorite color:
hit it
right
on
the money.

I get myself up and
put myself to bed
in stages
'cause it
takes
so
long.

My skincare routine
has acquired
several
extra
steps

I'm having trouble
getting my makeup
done
in under
15 minutes.

I now own
one of those
pill boxes with
M T W TH F S S
on it
and
five pair
of reading glasses.

planetary motion

drawn in
accelerating
anticipating

our
dangerous
intimate
orbit.

our
timeless
instant.

our
eternal
second.

balanced
spinning
toe to toe
soul to soul
mind to mind

i fight
to escape
your gravity,

wise,
you let
me go

a comet
streaking
out into
the dark

till
burning
i turn
for your
heart-home
once more.

no we

there is no we
there is just you,
and me.

there will never be
invitations addressed
to us,
jointly.

our appearance in public
will always elicit
gossip
and evil publicity.

all this i know
and accept as
just and good
for society.

but my heart
needs to know
when and over what
you will finally
leave me.

you, so patient
with me
while i sort
my identity
like dirty laundry.

help me not
throw out the
parts that
draw you to me.

apology to a married woman

I'm sorry.
I was weak.
You have all
the cards.
Good Luck.

bears

I have heard
the best way
to survive an attack
by a bear
is to curl
up and lie down,
protect the parts
that bleed
with the parts
that only break
and pray
like that crazy man
that loved bears
did as he died,
that the bear
he loved
is only
a little angry
and not actually
hungry.

blood

the Passion,
not Christ's
but perhaps
like it-

passion
paid for
in
blood/
money.

your life/
blood

surrendered
to her knife
wanting only
to be free,

willingly,
thoughtless
of protection
from her
blood/lust.

blood/lust
on my hands
too.

forgive my wounds,
my friend
my lover.

rag

not enough
to cover me,
just enough
to remind me.

not sorry,
just begining
to realize the cost.

no going back,
just falling forward.

anxious to escape
the now.

living love

too busy living love
to write about it
or think about it,

too busy listening
to
two heartbeats
instead of

one.

answer

I give you
my
self

surely you knew
but just
wanted to
hear it
out
loud.

tell
if
you
dare.

bling

my lover
loves me in bling
50cent size bling
Lil Kim size bling

bling
that screams
I am
something
special.

no subtle
tiffany
or vintage
cartier,
just
really
big
bling!

black hole

I have a
black hole
where my heart
is supposed
to be.
a monster
sucking in
and crushing
love.
insatiable.
invisible.
devours
even
light
itself.

rugs and souls

I wear my skin
like a kilim,
good side
outside
for all to see,
back side
inside
so I can pick
at all
the knots
in my spare time.

I don't aspire
to
fine oriental status,
let me be just a kilim;
not too much difference
between front and back.
beautiful enough,
but not too
precious
for the dog to lie on

passion

passion
like a soup can
and string telephone
works best with
a little tension
in the line
to keep
us present
in the moment,

a little distance
to increase
the drama
of togetherness,

a little solitude
so we can rightly value
companionship.

no batteries, minutes
or bills,
the tools of love
humble in the hands
of the makers

reinventing>me

My head is spinning,
I can't sleep or eat,
but I think it's good.

good like a
rollercoaster ride
you finish sick to your stomach
and dizzy in the head

or a black diamond ski run
where you're pretty sure
you didn't deserve to get down
without breaking any bones

worry

I wake
in the middle of the night
with to do lists
all ready half grown
in my unconscious state..
like those things
growing on potatoes
that have sat
in the cupboard too long.

Questions needing answers
tangled in my head;
monkeys in a barrel,
I lift the lid to take out
just one
to wrestle with
and they all come
in a big knot of furry,
screaming mischief
and lodge in the pit of my stomach.

Staying the course was tough
but this venturing into uncharted
territory wakes all the sleeping
beasts

the mirror

a flash
of me
caught
in the corner
of my i

the mirror
diverts,
seizing
my i
in a
reflective
trap.

suddenly
there is
no more we
enraptured
by music,
only
the scrutiny
of i
whispering
insidious
slander.

gods, lovers
despise
a divided heart,
the i
triumphant
over
we.

that egoist
i
forcing them
to witness
destruction
at their expense.

blindly
i turn,
choose we,
let him
carry me
forgive me

i abandon
i,
let music
and mercy
resurrect
we,

the i
humbled
to accept
we
as grace
enough.

NO tame tigers

My favorite tigers
are the wild ones
that come right up
to the bars
& look you
in the eye,
so close
you can feel
their breath
on your face
and hear them
silently speculate
on how you might
taste.

a good german house/estate sale

did death creep in quietly
or did you just
wake up one morning
and surrender.
to dust, mildew,
and decay?

I hope you struggled
against the shroud,
with the same
enthusiasm for life
that made you buy a
chandelier
three times too big
for the dinning room and
40 cases of Cuban rum.

in the end,
I hope you chose life
even on nursing home truce-terms,
crazy, angry, alive,
aware of the price you paid

a free soul,your birthright
green to the end
in communion with
God and humanity
not stillborn into eternity
wrapped
in a precious chrysalis
of possessions
alone
on a cold
grey
January day.

honey bee irony

the honey bee
in sensuous and
intimate pleasure,
sips a little nectar
from the nipple
of each flower
and leaves
a fertile pollen-gift
from her dusty body
in return.

she,
consummating
the love affair
between others,
is yet unable
to share her own
with another,

being utterly
other,

alone.

how ironic
that she
should be
a symbol of fertility!

porteno kid

I pick him out because
he's tall,
moves sweetly
and reminds me
of Jimmy Stewart.

I watch him
joke with his friends,
flirt with the girls
at his table.

I invite,
he protests,
I insist,
he yields
with instinctive
Argentine gallantry,

and
bravely soldiers
through the tanda,
apologizing
for all the things
that don't really matter.
He will be
really good
one day.

Blushing,
he escorts me
from the pista
anxious to retreat,
nurse his wounds,
embroider the truth,
ponder the feminine mystery.

I leave a bit
of myself to grow,
to return to
and check on
sowing wild oats
in a foreign port.

gilded cage

on Sundays
I dance in a gilded cage,
a secret retreat
from the real world.

My jailors indulge my
every whim,
handle me with
velvet hands
like living
treasure.

The cage door is
open for they know
I thrive and am
content with their care,
having no desire
for flight

into the unknown.

wages

wild dolphins
play tag
with flying fish
at sunset,
dancing
in the bow wake

same as I play
free in the
milonga/sea.

Sea World dolphins
still smile,
but they dance
now for
dead-fish
wages,

wild joy
stolen by
a price tag.

sterile/fertile

her tango is sterile,
no sweat, no blood, no tears.
no dirt.
lifeless, perfect
hard
as polished marble.

make mine
fertile,living
organic soil,
regenerating the
pain and garbage of life
into food for the
tap root of my heart.

I sleep

I sleep,
dreaming.
belly up
to the night.

nostalgia, the argentine virus

virulent as bird flu,
I'm infected
with nostalgia
for something
not in my past,
a foreign passion
not part
of my genetic pool
or experience.

like antibodies
for a childhood disease;
the memories of others
carried by music and flesh
infect my soul
with mirror image of
tango.

this miasma!
without knowing
barrio
or castellano
without ties
of blood
or tradition!

the monster in my closet/la belle bete noir

I used to wear
sensible white underwear.

Now,a black lace bra
underneath a businesslike
cotton shirt on Monday,
my amulet/scapular against
the mundane.

Fishnet stockings,
flashing
between sensible loafer
and trouser cuff,
a private entertainment
on the way
to the copier.

My favorite thong
and the hug of my jeans
reminding me to walk
like a woman.

meant to be seen-
or perhaps only sensed
like a shade of infrared light
beyond the visible range,
felt, not seen

Beggars and Charity in the Argentine manner

Unlike Tijuana, where the beggars bring their tired children to peep "chiclets" at me like fragile,
homely nestlings or flaunt their disabling cataracts and birth defects on the street,
the beggars on the way to Plaza Dorrego are beautiful magical creatures
that will greet you from another world for spare change.

A crowned and veiled Madonna on a pedestal,
all white lace, glitter and pearls suddenly comes to life to bend down and whisper
blessings and admonitions in the ear of a child holding her papa's hand.
A sad eight foot tall Charlie Chaplin holds out his bowler
and waits for some one to pay him to play with his cane.
Of course there is a Gardel with his guitar slung across his back and another,
an old Delilah with torn fishnet stockings and faded red plastic rose.
She was here last time we were here my friend tells me.

We are going to the flea market in Plaza Dorrego
past windows of elegant antique stores
filled with the remains of dented opulence and pawned homeless heirlooms.
For years now, El Indio, his braided waist length pony tail down the inside of his shirt,
has performed in the middle of this square, for free, a show about the history of tango.
His beautiful, earnest partner passes the hat at the end.
All the money goes to help the poor.

Our landlord pays a young, unwed mother to be our "maid"
She is supposed to be there from 8am to 8pm to clean and cook for us .
She makes coffee in a sort of cotton sock thing
and sets the table with fine china and coffee in a big thermos pitcher
then I don't see her till the next morning unless
I walk in on her cooking her own supper
with her toddler sitting on a chair next to the stove.
I have tried to get her to clean the bathtub.
I take her in there and mime scrubbing
and point out the mold growing on the grout
between the travertine tiles.
nada.
I get my tutor to tell her what I want .
nada.
I tell the landlord.
nada.
My friend and I despair of ever getting rid of the
baby-rabbit-size dust balls under the bed
and enough light bulbs
to fill the empty sockets
on the chandelier.

As far as I can see
there is no United Way here
with fancy PowerPoint presentations
and easy monthly deductions
from your paycheck.
The charity of the people has a face and hands
and is done mano a mano.

tiger safari

If I were to go on safari,
to hunt a tiger
on his own turf,
I would take a camera
or a gun
to capture his essence
in two dimensions
or three.

I could have his image
but not his breath and body,
or have his skin
but lose his spirit.

I think the zoo
best for me.
I want no souvenirs
except the ones
in my mind.

tigers in New York

there's a story on TV
about a man in New York
who was keeping
a tiger in his apartment.
it had National Enquirer
flair, certain to catch the
channel surfing eye.

he bought it as a tiny illegal cub
and ended by keeping it
locked in a bedroom
unable to do anything except
crack the door open
long enough to throw meat in.
surely not
what he had envisioned
when he first brought it home.

he was finally outed
by the neighbors
due to the terrific stink
and Animal Control came
to rescue the tiger.

moral of the story: Beware!
tigers do not make good house pets!
better to visit them in the zoo.
every one much happier,
no one hurt.

tiger eyes

what does he see
when he looks at me?

what tigerish thoughts
as we gaze at each other through
the bars of the cage?

would he like to maul me,
take his revenge on my skin and bones
for the wrong done him by my kind?

play with me the way my cat plays with
a mouse she has caught and crippled,
a passing afternoon entertainment
pleasant to the feline mind?

perhaps if I opened the door
he would just escape
out of my presence
as quickly
as possible.

that,
my worst
nightmare.

tiger baiting

Why do I have the
childish urge to poke him
with my word-stick,
jump up and down in print
and in person,
elicit a response of some,
any kind!

Is he afraid
I want to possess him?
Maybe so,
but only for
three minutes at a time!

I long to commune
with his tiger-soul
the way I commune with the sun
and the bandoneon by night.
speechless, through skin and bone
bypassing the tangle of gaudy
words and lucid, rational
thought.

Exiles

The Argentines I have met
live in exile,
They didn't want to leave
and now they don't want to stay.
Men, women, children without a country,
but two passports.


Migrating between continents, hemispheres,
balancing the need for carnal bread
with the thirst for spiritual, sacramental wine
they drink from the chalice of the Buenos Aires night.

Perpetually leaving/arriving,
more akin to Jews than Gypsies,
having never lost
the internal heart compass
that always points
home.

Spirits at La Viruta

Silver hair,
Golden age tanda.
I know after the first song,
he is dancing
with a ghost in his arms.
I
remind him
of someone
else.

He invites me to
his table,
an elegant bucket
of champagne,
two glasses on the linen.

But this ghost of his,
she's jealous.
Her icy breath on my neck
turns the fine wine
to ash.

I finish it too quickly,
anxious to escape.
Unquestioning,
he gallantly escorts me
back to the safety
of my own table.

Does he come to
exorcise her
or hold séance?

Catch and release at Nino Bien

He doesn't dance
he swims, beautiful, liquid
immersed, unconscious
in the swirling music.

He sets the hook with
his water colored eyes,
scoops me up
in the silken net
of his arms.

I slip into the stream
of his consciousness,
breathe his breath,
live a lifetime before we
take one step.

Gently he releases me.
I shiver as I shed
my new grown piscine skin,
gasping on the bank,
longing to be a fish again.

Magic shoes

At the milonga
I sit in the row of girls
and compare notes
on homemade remedies
and orthopedic options
for various ailments of the foot.

We watch shoes go by,
suede ruffles, metallic polka dots,
silver glitter and slinky straps.

Cinderella had her glass slippers
Dorothy her red shoes
My magic shoes are black
and have been resoled twice.

No Comme Il Faut stilettos for me
I need shoes I can walk miles in,
Miles backwards and with my eyes closed.

Tiger rendezvous

I'm going to visit the tiger at the zoo.
He's beautiful and dangerous
and I want to take him home.

Caught and brought here,
he speaks tiger and
maybe understands
some human tongue,
but not mine.

Since I can't have him,
I visit him where he is safe from me
and I am safe from him.

My skin is safe
but not my mind,
there he prowls
all night long.

3) Black

Color of sin/covers a multitude of sins
Either way/I wear it.

2) Black

My three dimensions
reduced to a silhouette
concentrating
the essence of me
like an espresso..
dark, strong, hot.

1) Black

absence
of light
or sum
of all colors.
Which am I
tonight?

Counterclockwise

Have you heard of vortexes, leys,
places of intersecting energy fields,
natural power lines in the earth
magnetic perhaps?
Places often sacred
from ancient times and civilizations:
Native American, Celtic.

There's one at 44th and Upton,
Stonehenge is a famous one.
The trees are twisted in these places,
clockwise or counter clock wise
and with old, new age wisdom
the intersections can be divined
with an amethyst dangling on a chain,
the stone swinging in circles,
sometimes 600rpm!
According to the initiated,
clockwise movement actualizes ones dreams,
counterclockwise movement brings release.

The ronda goes counter clockwise.

On PBS there is a travel program about Turkey.
It show the famous Sunni dervishes
spinning in their trances,
turning counterclockwise.
I watch carefully
and get up off the couch to try it,
to be sure of the direction.

Wonder what they know
about the mysteries of counterclockwise motion
on the human heart.

my silver pinkie ring

I have ring I bought at the flea market in Plaza Dorego,
a man's ring I'm quite certain
It has that little dreaming angel
from the ceiling of the Sistine chapel on it,
it's head resting in the upturned palm,
an image very popular with those that
believe in angels and
like Victorian and country things

It's not quite round anymore,
molded to the finger that wore it (I imagine),
to countless milongas
where it witnessed scenes of
real-life-soap-opera drama
on the edge of the pista,
betrayal, lust, impossible love

A talisman familiar to
his wife
his lover
his favorite partners

Who, I wonder, upon his death
fought over the precious heirloom
or
was it discarded for pennies
in a rummage sale
disposing of the contents
of his rented room?

Vampires

Last summer in an orgy of trashy novels
I read ALL the Anne Rice vampire chronicles.
One disheveled secondhand
paperback copy after another.

I'm secretly amused by the similarities I find.
I could be in one of those books,
rising from my lavish coffin
as the sky turns shades of midnight blue, burgundy, granite.
(Vampires see very well in the dark according to Ms Rice)
dressed slightly over the top,
off to taste the delicacies of the night.

None of her vampires dance tango,
but they should.
They would understand the soul-wail of the bandoneon
and the mourning of Gardel over his lost city and loves.
The rage and rebellion of Pugliese and Piazolla
crashing over their critics and jailors,
Eternal outsiders all.

Their bodies crave only the sweet blood of their victims,
a facsimile of passion from their past human life.
As wanton in their desire as any human
seeking intercourse of the usual kind.
They drink in the memories of their prey
with the blood.

La Flor de Metal/Buenos Aires

Outside the Museo de Bellas Artes,
on the pampas-size lawn there is a single flower.

giant man made petals.
The heart of the flower
exposed to politics and acts of God,
the petals reaching for the sky.

Enormous, red.
Tiny lights
along the edges
for night.
Seen from the shoulder of a 767
or the back of a taxi,
It sparkles.

According to the back of the postcard
it is able to open and close every day,
with the rising and setting of the sun.
My guide tells me it has opened and closed
only once,
on the day it was made.

It's stuck.
Open.

The baby buggy

My friends carry me
a new born divorcee
still reeling from the experience of birth
away to Buenos Aires
in a baby buggy with silver wings.

Like new parents, they make sure I get good food to eat,
enough sleep, exercise and mental stimulation.
We settle into each other's biorhythms and
I live for 2 1/2 weeks in the present tense only
(which is also the tense I am learning castijano in).

They introduce me to their friends and favorite places
make sure I see all the must see spots,
Recoleta, Plaza Doreggo, the Obelisk!

They take me out to the milongas like taking a toddler to the park for the first time.
I carry my own key and money when we go out at night
"just in case" they say.
I stand at the top of the "slide" and look down-
decide it's still too scary for more than 3 minutes at a time.

Revelations in the subte

Revelations 21:19
"...and the foundations of the wall of the city were garnished with all manner of precious stones..."
-- The apostle John describing new Jerusalem, King James Version

I go down to come up in this man made heaven.
The walls of the subte are tiled with gems created of earth, human
hands and love.
They walk by oblivious to Paradise only an arm' s length away.
I get on and off on just to quarry it for my mind's eye.

In exchange for 70 centavos
I get a transfer good for 3 hours and a subterranean treasure hunt.
Malachite Mediterranean themed murals.
Iridescent earth-colored Edenic scenes of pastoral bliss.
Lapis-blue arabesques.

No graffiti here, no need.
That they save for government buildings
-kill the monkey.

The cats of Recoleta

The souls of the dead come out to play?
These are not the skinny feral mange-infested cats that used come out
of the scrub behind my house in California.
Or the spooky matted barn cats with the eternal litter of kittens in
my grandmother's hay loft.

Like Egyptian/Argentine royalty they materialize from the underworld
into the watery sunlight of April.
Sleek, perfectly manicured and coiffed
Two sit meditating the ruin of their neighbor's monument.
One sleeps, sprawled like a heavenly king,
an orange god-cat in the middle of the miniature street
oblivious to the tourists.

We are the only pilgrims to the city of the dead
witness to these stone valentines
made to honor past beauties
and redeem fallen scoundrels
with marble and stained glass.

Toothpaste from Argentina

This morning, the morning after, I reach for my toothbrush and toothpaste.
The taste of 747 cabin air still on my tongue.

The tube proudly declares that it is sugar free! even to me with my smattering of Spanish comprehension.
Only in Argentina, plastic surgeon paradise and designer jean heaven would they think to put THAT on a tube
of toothpaste.

I check my new tube of Crest in the bathroom closet. It has "sorbitol" and "saccharine" on the list of ingredients but
the label is more concerned with obliterating plaque, gingivitis and tooth decay inside my mouth.
Is my mouth SUPPOSED to be germ free?
Only in America would they think sterile = healthy.

I decide to use the Argentine toothpaste.

Am I home-
or not?

Blue and white ribbon

You see it everywhere-

Painted curlicues of blue and white ribbon
around the numbers on the collectivo,
blue and white ribbon tied around paper packages of media luna
and little snippets on labels of dulce de leche and jam.

They love her.

On the hand painted sign
and the made-for-tango-tourists-like-me t-shirt
I buy outside Recoleta.

They sell her.

On the tattered poster of the world champion futbol team in the pizzeria
and the endless game on the TV hanging from the ceiling.

They celebrate her.

On the Plaza de Mayo the grandmothers,

They mourn her.

La Confetieria Ideal

Like a body suffering hypothermia,
conserving heat,
sacrificing the extremities
to preserve the precious heart.

We walk in
past one tray of desiccated pastries
in yards of dusty glass case,
all the chairs up on the tables
and
a bare bulb in the ladies room,
no toilet paper.

From up stairs the sound of Muchachos de Tango
six bandoneon players,
none of them under 70
but playing like a heart attack.

In the air the extra tang of possible disaster
due to stroke or aneurysms on stage
added to the usual mix of music and bodies
foreign and local.

Like going to a bullfight.

Hide and Seek

When I was little we used to play games in the dark, kick the can, hide and seek, capture the flag.

Everyone played.

Joanie, the little blonde curly top
(I would have killed to have that hair!)
from the top of the street.

Her dad smoked!
And they were Catholic!
And she was an only child!
I ate baloney sandwiches every time I was there for lunch-
Bliss!

The Stevens sisters,
one fat, one skinny,
there were lots of other kids in that house too but we played with them.

Me and my little sister,
the scary big boys from the house
that you couldn't see from the street 'cause of all the overgrown bushes,
the ones that sometimes chased us home after school
for the fun of seeing us scream.

In the dark.

Under the streetlights and in the really black shadows
next to the houses and in the backyards,
all up and down the street.
In the yards of people that had kids and some that didn't.
Whether they wanted us to or not.

I still play games in the dark.

shopping list

My friend is going to Buenos Aires and asks if I have a shopping list. Yes, I tell him but nothing you can bring back.

I want to smell autumn on the strange trees that grow there, taste the stollen from my favorite bakery, hear the traffic outside the window early in the morning and the lovely round sound of Spanish on an Argentine tongue. I want to feel the water close by in the texture of the air, see familiar faces on the street going in the same direction as I am-to class or a milonga at 2am.

I want to be in a place where people still know how to make things and fix things and creation is considered everyone's job and comes as naturally as breathing. I want to take two hour lunches and naps so I can dance till the wee hours. I want to know the man I buy my bread from and the girl that does my laundry.

I want to live in a house like an old movie starlet, glamorous, full of memories and gently decaying. A place with a key in a shape my grandmother would remember, questionable plumbing, marble floors and an orchid growing out of a crack on the facade like a beauty mark on her ancient face. Can you bring that back??

An Argentine exile without an Argentine passport.