Her Tell

Eyes squinting like a cat’s
she stares glistening
icy daggers

with a hint of curiosity
in my direction
– as if my nose
had a bull’s eye
painted on its tip

knees crossed
pinched
like the ends of clothes pins

her right foot flails nervously
a twitching tell
from right to left
from left to right

in fast-moving nervous micro-fits
as if her traitorous ankle

had no anatomic connection
to its long silent leg
semi-concealed
by the old wooden desk
she stares a dare
to cross her

Leaving me spooked

I avert her glance
with a dry
painful smile
stretched tight across my teeth

Managing to mask my focus
on her mesmerized state

I ask myself:

What long stormy hair

could possibly have
triggered
this unworldly eerie
hypnotic
trance ?

Lately I feel Lost in Space

when it comes to making a decision.
it’s become a dizzying prospect
choosing from the cyber space
supply of options
in this labyrinthine
flash-buzzing
LED, blue light
wired-in
robotic world
– makes my head spin,
like that tunneling
black & white
holy commercial
bat-break!
hypno spiral
on the 4 o’clock
pre-dinner episode of the
intrepid, but closeted
red-breasted
silky black & yellow
caped crusading dynamic duo,
or that spinning
psychedelic
pie-sliced
prize wheel
on the 7 o’clock
postprandial episode
of Vanna White
Pat Sajak and their

Wheel-of-Fortune!

Giddy for Beachside Storm Surge Fun

must be some kind of

initiation right,

a hazing ritual when

tropical-storm-covering-

tv-journalists

Seavees cemented in place

tethered to a cord

in category 5

hurricane winds

don’t blow away,

or at least sideways

like the violently

undulating background

hair-on-fire royal palms

howling ¡mayday!

the laws of physics

seem suspended when

the singular results of

cyclonic centrifugal force

are simply sopping-nylon-

clinging-jackets,

messy manes on talking heads

filled with hot air

and unintelligible news-

worthless babbling like

drunken beachside

wet t-shirt

contestants

Violet Crocus Uprising

Like a springtime uprising
tiny violet crocuses
forge their firm
brave cup-shaped petals
through the ice-crusted
crevices of glistening
jagged rock

thawing
from the long, dark
frozen winters of arrogance
aggression
oppression & fear
a culture of regression
hidden

hidden, deeply
in the eerie
mischievous sweetness
of Cheshire grins
firm manly hand shakes
clever adages & the everyday
civilities of conscienceless
cowardly kapos
from unsuspecting
fair-minded
peace-loving
men

brave women
and queer folk
wanting justice
tired of the boys’ll
be boys’ club status quo
blooming resplendent
restoring hope
in radical colors of truth
respect, loving-kindness
inalienable to all

to all
that is sacred
to this tiny, spinning, star-lit
blue-island-orb
snatched savagely
from its heavenly course
into the sweaty, greedy
clutch of fear
and the shock
of a red-headed
cyclops’
vengeance