Menstruation... period.

My body has started a riot
against me and I cannot keep quiet.
My mood is haywire
and I'm getting real tired
of everyone saying, "I don't buy it."

Fever Dream

You seem a dizzy dream to me--
nothing more than a fever delusion--
and you put my mind to ecstasy

as you force me to dance, make me feel free.
But you spin me around, elicit confusion.
You seem a dizzy dream to me.

My head falls back, hot and heavy,
into your hands and ready for fusion
and you put my mind to ecstasy.

No more longing; lacking loneli-
ness and was-ever-present exclusion
but you seem a dizzy dream to me.

So I faint and fall to my knees--
again, head back, incoming contusion
and you put my mind to ecstasy

when your palms cradle me up, unexpectedly.
And I'd swear you're just an illusion.
See, you seem a dizzy dream to me
yet you put my mind to ecstasy.

Limerick of Dislike

I've never quite liked structured poems
and I don't have the interest to know 'em.
Unless you're Shakespeare,
get your ass outta here.
What the hell else rhymes with poems?

Mamihlapinatapai (Yaghan: a look between two people that suggests an unspoken, shared desire)

Not in the slightest a rarity,
we find ourselves staring together,
speaking no sound--
noiseless knowing shared through glares--
daring each other to make the first move
but for moments, we

squint, smirk, squirm
like the night I said I loved you
and your first response, "I know."
Then repeated, requited, "I love you" came back to me.

"I know."

And we sat silent, steady and breathless,
starting to squint, smirk, squirm again.

We stayed quiet, ready, wanting--
needlessly taunting one another
with strong eyes
but we required no words.

We require no      .

Ko No Yokan (Japanese: the sense upon first meeting a person that the two of you are going to fall in love)

After sun fall one early summer night,
when all the light was city-stuck and incandescent,
you sat and glowed on your own
but no one near seemed to know
so I walked on over to steal your warmth
and you were hot-
ter than I first thought.

But you ceased to burn out so I
inched toward your flame and we played games all night,
acting pro and speaking prose
and blowing smoke rings at each other.
Then you spoke of Mark Rothko and a play that you knew--
I think it's called Red,
and I'm sure my face flushed and resembled the play
as you toyed with my heart,
but you turned cherry too
on a mid-May night, in the city
with no light but your own that you shared with me

as we prepared to fall for each other.