Current Residence: Texas|
Favourite genre of music: rock
Bluebonnet RainEven though the sky looks differentBluebonnet Rain by autumn-spirit
today than it did when I was sixteen;
waking up in an old-fashioned farmhouse,
I still look for pictures in the clouds,
trying to find the toy airplane
imagination we once shared.
But by 8 o'clock I'm already
putting on my tie, getting ready
to drive to an office downtown.
Oh boy, if you could see me now,
would you congratulate me on my success
or would you say you're disappointed
that I've turned into The Man?
I can't say I blame you if
it's the latter, boy.
Remember when we were
so against society's rules,
those backwater ideas that
we were forced by our
parents to live with?
My thoughts drift back
to that steamy September when
you wandered into my classroom;
second period English
at Spring Creek High School.
New kid, Austin-born;
you had long bangs,
strands of cornsilk
falling in your watery grey eyes.
You didn't look like an anomaly
but, boy, you were; deep inside.
You didn't drive a Silverado
or chew tobacco like the other
boys I'd grown up with
vintage talkThe flower beds are drowningvintage talk by autumn-spirit
in last night's sweat and rain.
Cat calls echo on the streets
below her window, the sound of
wheels, car horns and people going to work.
The radio echoes her favorite song
on a pencil lead morning;
notes of a Chinese opera,
coming from a simple yet
cozy apartment in Shanghai.
"I'll be right there, darling."
Stepping off the terrace,
she's like the breeze in summer;
orange jasmine seduction.
Beige skirt; knee-length,
showing off her slender legs,
making every dancer jealous.
She is made of dove feathers, creamy poison.
Last time we were together,
she continued sipping her oolong tea,
pretending I had never spoken;
never told her she was
Sleeping Beauty's nightmare.
Such a tease, it's true.
She loves all the ladies,
throwing fans at her feet
when she's up on stage.
And still, she finds ways
to make all the boys hurt;
for her, they're dead.
she bats her curled fake eyelashes at me.
In her dressing room,
I try to win her over at last,
ChinatownHoney, you burn my eyesChinatown by autumn-spirit
in the ashen morning.
Your amber color sparkles
behind my white shell lids
and your name sits
on the tip of my tongue,
the taste of last
summer violet rain.
Urban child, you come around;
lighting the red lanterns
on my porch like a ghost,
dropping plum blossoms
on the doorstep because
I told you once that
those are the only memories
of my mother that
I have left after years of
dealing with her
sudden death of pneumonia
when I was eleven.
Boy, you're mysterious and sweet;
the city's in your DNA.
You're the first one I call after 8 A.M.
I say, "Darling, let's get lost tonight
on the streets of a blank
Let's throw confetti flowers on the ground
and watch all those unlucky fortunetellers
stumble over each other,
trying to find the most magical ones;
the lilies and cherry blossoms,
turning their worlds upside down.
Let's do it all tonight;
waste no time, throwing pennies
in a wishing well."
Little Tokyo, Los Angeles;
take me down the undergro
Cowrie BeachThe beach has always beenCowrie Beach by autumn-spirit
a sort of haven for me;
a shelter made of august stones,
boulders shaped like birds,
wild grass huts and cowrie
shells that make the perfect
necklace if you just stop
judging the shape and
nameless color of them.
Yet, now it's desolate without the markings
of your footprints on the sea glass shore,
without your call, echoing over the tides;
greetings that meant we were more than friends.
On Thursday, I was thinking about just that
when I set up an easel on
the roof of my dad's old house,
pretending that I was back in time,
before I realized I like boys with
topaz skin and the sharp scent of
palm trees in the late pear summer breeze.
There was a natural canvas above me
as I painted; splashes of lavender
and blue, more exquisite than anything
I could come up with on my own
with hands that were so used to
holding 50 cent brushes and charcoal
pencils from the local Wal-Mart.
And the skeletal bridge of this
poor boy's city was a symbol of
the life I had grown accus