Ode to a Weekend

To start -  

a beer, a book and a little black heart.
A girls night out, followed by meeting a boy in the park.

On to hear a poem about holding hands,

I ache to reach out across the spans 

and let my fingers talk to his. 

Instead, I let right tips find my own left wrist.

Forget penance,
this is smiling at innocence.

What's next?
Fit a tight face in crowded place,

and laugh at my own damn pace.

Sigh deep when that song on repeat

finds its beat and lets you keep

thinking you're the breaker and not the broke

and that we can still hold on to hope.
This much is true upon finding that I couldn't be fonder
then to witness love at first sight
of a Daddy and his Daughter.
With a simple gesture, he has taught her
Nothing beats a good brunch date.
New York is full of those though, I suppose.

A deadline looms
and suddenly I am running the streets!
I leave behind the dead fumes

and come home to fresh, clean sheets.

Crawl into bed, 

and be damned if I don't dream of him instead.
To wake up with breath abated,
Oh how frustrated!
Not the way I thought this would end...
But those thoughts are not mine to mend.
And I will see you again, my dear weekend.

Repost of a Poem About a Mustache

I promise to have something authentic and of my own style soon... apparently I haven't been drinking enough to keep the creative juices flowing: So in the mean time, enjoy this brilliant poem by Diane Wakoski. Thanks Karen.

WHAT I WANT IN A HUSBAND BESIDES A MUSTACHE

Well, to begin with,
you might as well not apply for the job
if you don’t have a mustache (
     or any plans
     for growing
     one
          )
and I tend to like men who are not too
tall,
say 5’8” or 9”.
I like men with powerful shoulders
and prefer big hands.
no requirements for the size of your cock,
but you have to like to use it,
preferably just on-in me,
and be willing to fuck quite frequently at least until we’re 90.

That’s another thing.
I want a man to be steady
to plan to be married to me
at least 50 or
60 years
with no sabbaticals.

I like men who read poetry,
and men who write turn me on even more (though I know that’s
     trouble
In fact its such a dangerous line that I think I’ll reverse it:
men who write “don’t turn me on”)
if they’re good.
I also only like ambitious men,
men who will take their destinies in their hands
and try to shape them.

I want a man who is mechanical,
physical,
likes to build,
work with his hands,
perhaps even a sportsman,
but one who does all these things with intelligence
and preferably learned them from
books.
I like a man who has faith in books.
That means he’ll also have faith in me.
I’m a very long and imaginative book.

I’d also like my man to be a simultaneous traveler
and homebody,
one who would be happy working at home
with me
or equally happy
out wandering around
looking at new things with me;
one who found himself the key to the meaning of the world,
and who found me the key to the meaning of himself.

I like a man with good manners,
one willing to respond to the world;
a man who likes music,
and who has definite style.

One who could earn a living,
though I’d contribute a good deal;
one who wanted a real woman
and who loved her
for her womanly
accomplishments.

A man who reads.
A man who likes painting.
A man who likes to talk in bed.
A man who likes the sun but thrives in the cold.
One who loves to touch my body.
Who kisses often.
Who types his letters.

One who drinks bourbon.
Who can ride a motorcycle.
Who collects books.
Who has a big dog.
Who calls my name in his sleep.

So far, I’ve only met one man like this; but if you think you qualify,
write in for the application forms.
Truthfully,
you don’t have much of a chance against
this first candidate.
But I’m democratic
and want to give everyone a chance.

Include a photo of your mustache.
I have not yet finished my document
describing the exact kind of mustaches I prefer.
But that is an area of connoisseurship
to me.
Believe me,
there are some mustaches
that just wouldn’t qualify.

I am known for my
discrimination.