Dinner fight ...

           When I say, “I don't like fish”

   Don't take it personally.

I don't hate you, my good friend, who's making this meal for me.

I enjoy your company; I don't mean to be a burden.

But fish just seem so—gross to me.

      And I'm sorry

            you're a sturgeon.

                When you bubble, “Hey, you racist!”

     I know that's just your anger. And you know we're not

a race apart: we're genus, order, family, class—on up 'til phylum, strangers.

If anything, I'm a speciesist—

 and I think we all are, really.

    So let me take another shot of air

               and let's enjoy this seaweed, silly.

Mountains or ocean?...

An alien moved into my neighborhood.

She stood gray in the shade,

Turning eggplant as she wandered

More in the sun.

       I asked her, “Why did you choose

            East Bay?”           She said, “Well,

               It was here                or Area 51—

                 I'm playing—      here or Montana;

                   A mountain                     cabin or

                   An apartment              by the sea.”

                    Sometimes            I watched her

                  Walking           through the park,

               Running temple-tendrils through

           The late-day sun,   stroking grass

        And brushing bark. “So why not

                 Those green mountains?”

“It was really hard to choose,”

She said, her eyes going inky,

“Like committing to one lover;

Always another one you lose.

But so rare is the ocean. So

There's where I wanted to be.

Mountains are everywhere:

Mars, Vesta, Oberon.

But so few have a sea.”

I handed her a cup, for her

Eyes. “Why are you inking?”

             “Oh, it's nothing,” she

         Laughed off with a warbling

                       Squeee, “You know—

                                      Just thinking.”

                 But after some time, as the

                  Sky's light drained, and its

                    Refracted blues emptied

                   Clear again, she guided

                  Me by gentle pincers

           Toward the balcony—

         And pointed into

The starry deep.

“Right there,

He lived:

He was

Opal-skinned.

And he foamed,

Like the ocean

waves, for

me.”

A walk beyond ...

What I was, I am not                           now.

What I am,                       I will not long be.

There are a                                   thousand,

Thousand  'I's                                   I've

Come to know   as                      'me.'

'I' was a baby, a child,  a teen—

Eyes opened,        a world;

Eyes closed,   a dream.

'I' was fat,     and 

        then    fit,                 

even gaunt—

         Eating,               

      sweating,

  Wanting    not 

                 to want.

                               'I' was a 

          builder,       a painter, a sage—

Channeling 

mud, glue,                     The truth of my age.

'I' was a server, a follower, a fool—

Taking on others' wills,

                                     Busy-work,                rules.

'I' was normal,                         and basic, a place—

Buying clothes, begging jobs,

Taking up space.

'I' was important,  and special, meant for—

My family, my circles,

My loves made me           more.

Still, what I        was, 

I am not        now.

And what I am, 

I will no    further 

                              be.

There are a     thousand,

Thousand 'I's             I'll

Come                      to 

                     know 

                    as 

          'me.'