Poem on a Sunday

Her eyes are pearl green, like a treasure

Seen through a filter of ocean froth

And the water, brimming and subsiding,

Knows how pearls are built, not born,

From endless repetitions, much the way

The heart, tidal in its attractions, rests

 

For a moment, between sets–respiration

Like inspiration, an on-again/off-again thing–

And returns to work. But my eyes, denim

And lapis-flecked, flicker in her direction

Hungrily, hopelessly. Only a fly on the wall

Sees my breath catch as she looks away.

Reporting Back

goth-and-gay-birds__zero

So my coffee date with the OKCupid person went well. She was nice and we made each other laugh. I doubt I will see her again, but I am okay with these things simply being about practice.

Meanwhile, I am four chapters into my new novel. In theory it should answer the eternal question, “Why do fools fall in love?” with the wrong people, over and over again. (Also, probably “Why do birds sing so gay?” although I am pretty sure we already know the answer to that one.)

This Week: My Half-Gay Agenda

  1. Coffee. Every day. On Monday, fireworks like glitter in the sky.
  2. But tomorrow, a coffee date. With a goil. Oy veh. How exciting!
  3. I am about ten pages in to my newest novel, about the search for the perfect butch. Wish me luck. Send me ideas. Send me warnings. (You could send me money too, but I have enough good sense to know how unlikely that is.)
  4. There was something else. Rainbow-colored boas were NOT involved. I think.