Tell me a story
about raindrops and thunder,
about Parmesan cheese and sandcastles.
While you are talking,
pour me a glass of something room temperature
and menstrual blood red,
something stomped out of mixed blood grapes.
I will eat your story
with a teaspoon,
bite by bite,
too quickly to remember
the protagonist’s name.
Was it Harry? Was it Sylvia?
Was he 47 or she 22?
Did Sylvia dance or did she whisper poetic monologues
to the back row of the Paramount Theatre in Austin, Texas?
My mother was once 5,
my father once 17.
She was older by five and a half years,
died five and a half years before he died.
They are the same age now.
Inside the raindrops and thunder story,
I wear a black vest with a sterling silver gecko pin
attached to the paisley lapel.
I used to be pretty
until I grew wise.
Now my silver hair shimmers
like that ridge-backed gecko.
I speak this poem that is not a poem
aloud as I type, watch black words
soil white screen. I’m a dismal drip
until you look into my small, brown eyes
and realize that I like nothing better
than deep, gut-busting laughter
even as the wind attacks my shingles.
(note: this is only "spoken word" poetry because I wrote this poem aloud, typed the words I was saying as I said them, composed it directly from mouth to screen. (no editing))