Her red hair was suddenly blue, blue like a blueberry muffin on top of her scalp. I wanted to cup her and gulp it, gulp those mountain blueberry swirls, gulp her like the muffin she is. I wanted to eat her out completely. The coffee was hot, hot like me. I took a sip.

I waited for something but the silence was warm; it was a fine and kind kind. It was fine. Silence can be kind and fine with her in the air–she makes the silent air kind and fine I find. Yes. Kind and fine are the words for her.

“I like my coffee black,” I said, “Black and bitter like my heart. I do like it dark though, dark like my thoughts, dark like you,” I smiled.

She smiled, such a wide delectable, lickable smile, “Tu es stupide! Mais, oui, je aussi aime du café noir. La vie, c’est comme la merde, n’est-ce pas?” She understands my sarcasm and has nothing but quips and smiles about it, no scoffing from her. She knows I’m just bullshitting because I’m nervous yet calm. No, I’m anxious. Anxious for her, for longings past and longings to come.

“Oui, un mangez et fait chier et baiser et mourir. Pur merde!” I sipped my black, cold coffee. How did it get cold so soon? I’m still hot!

And I gazed waiting for her to purr some more. I wondered why does everything I love run behind the fridge only to come back out from there to nibble–bite after little bite–tearing at me slowly until I become gangrenous? Is that why I feel like a zombie?

Green, I am. Black, I love.

************************************************************************************************************************

Note: Native French speakers, apologies for my terrible three-and-a-half semesters college-battered French.

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Beat poets.
Bring the sweet.
Tonight we’ll meet
at Taco Milagro
on melancholy street
in east-end,
near Eastwood,
by the old
Third Ward hood.

We’ll go.

Red fizz and black caps
burning grass like jazz
and my belly growlin’
or is that my heart?
Hungry head spinnin’
Red, red, like wine
drips of heart thumpin’
empty empty
the jitters jumps,
beats bumpin’,
runnin home stumblin’.

© paz

I.
Lorna —
running from awful nights,
nothing but a cataclysmic calamity
all to cavil and nothing to hold.
Too many nails digging in skin;
that’s what it is living
in this bawdy city.

Lorna, cursing. spiting, splitting.
Of all nights,
it had to rain.
Lorna, taking flight,
choosing not to
fill this rancor.
Choosing to churn it,
burn it into ash
and not fall in it anymore.

Bags waiting out back, but I
can’t carry many. It can’t show.

Rain, drilling, sizzling drops.
Rain, like Lorna, bouncing off roof tops,
drops son sounds of bags of falling diamonds,
crashing on hardwood floors.
Lorna, a caring crystal in unfamiliar
hands, in this odious out pour.

Downstairs, all that
drinking, all that clinking,
all that clamoring, and Lorna halts.
But I can’t sink! Not tonight.
Stick with your plan!
Lorna
La Mas Bonita,
what Big Johnny y los otros osos
ogros la llamaban,
has to rush
hush.

II.
Running now, down wood stairs,
sliding back, fast gotta go,
passing vacant curtains, swing back door
out to cold midnight air to flushing,
gushing wind that smacks
–a familiar punch.

This, this storm
is nothing
to storms Lorna
is living,
passing, and
passing.

Now this minty, misty spring wind,
this tonic, this aroma is kissing
Lorna, kissing la
mas bonita’s
sonrisa.

© Paz
*********************************************************************************************************

Today’s prompt was to write a  lipogram/Beautiful Outlaw/Beautiful In-Law. I didn’t even know what that was but apparently, it’s  “a poem that explicitly refrains from using certain letters.” I took the letter “e” out as it’s the most common and vowels are the most challenging ones to remove but are also more rewarding when it comes to results. Hey, learned something.