Unpublished Poetry
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      Sunday
      I listen to the "Sounds of Brazil",
      lush as whiskey-kissed ice cubes,
      then I walk to Japantown.
      There's a basketball game
      at the Buddhist temple,
      the orchid place is closed.
      Invariably,
      I think about three people:
      Allen Ginsberg,
      and a pair of
      twin white women
      I once saw here;
      they must have been 70,
      with identical pantsuits
      (cherry blossom pink)
      and white curls.
      I picture them young,
      in bloody competition,
      over toys, boys, and lipstick.
      Fair-haired among the Asians,
      fearing a different set of statues,
      learning the poetry of patience.










      Heartbreak #87
      The little girl's short fingernails
      painted metallic green,
      to match her mother's.




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