de joel
by Curt Stubbs
In the April darkness a child squalls,
Abandoned by his mother, put up for adoption,
unwanted for 11 months. I never knew he was there.
I never comforted his fears. I never held him against the darkness,
but he grew through all the traumas of childhood,
perhaps magnified by his cleft palette,
and I still didn’t know he was there.
I never taught him to throw a perfect spiral pass,
I never taught him to throw a wicked curve ball,
I never taught him to ride a two wheel bike.
I was never there for his teen aged angst.
I was too involved in the pursuit of the perfect high, the mainline drunk.
even so he grew to manhood, pursued and won a wife, fathered little Erynn.
She never cried in the night, I bet, lonely and not knowing who her father was.
I never even knew I had fathered a son.
By my seventieth year I had calmed down, I had grown responsible,
learned to take care of myself.
But by then he didn’t need my care, my hard earned lessons.
He had all the things I never had, a career, a family,
a certainty about his place in the world.
Then he matched dna with me, found me
and I was startled out of my complacency.
and I finally knew where he was.
Curt Stubbs
curtstubbs69@gmail.com
STONEWALL TRILOGY
by Curt Stubbs
1. Before Stonewall
A theater showing grunting Gay porn.
Blue light voyeurs sitting alone in the dark.
An approach … tentative… nodding assent.
Mutual furtive hand jobs under humping coats.
An escaping sigh, a stabbing light.
Chuckle. “What you boys doing here in the dark?
Zip it up. We’re going downtown.”
A meek trip in a paddy wagon.
Coats hiding heads / faces / self-respect.
Closets are built of billi clubs and baseball bats
wielded by cops or fag bashers,
The certainty of fear,
the uncertainty of brutality,
keep people from going out,
holding hands, showing intimacy.
“You a faggot?” shove, “I asked
you a faggot?” You deny it,
but they shove again.
“You scared of me faggot?”
Again you deny your internal identity.
They hit you anyway,
blow after blow.
Broken bones, cracked skull,
internal damage, all depending
on how many attack you.
At first you don’t go out
because of the bruises.
Then because of fear,
your loss of self-respect.
A mafia owned bar. Watered down
twice-priced drinks add insult.
A bouncer at the door to signal
an approaching raid. Men and women
dancing with men and women to switch
when the bouncer hits the light switch,
boys and girls to switch to opposite sexes,
“Ok girls, you better have two pieces
of men’s apparel under those frocks.
Show time now girls. Show and tell.”
A meek trip in a paddy wagon,
coats hiding heads / faces / self-respect.
Newspapers list those arrested, addresses, jobs.
Loss of homes / jobs / self-respect.
Lives of quiet desperation.
2. The Stonewall Uprising
Street queens, hustlers, homeless youth, those
with nothing left to lose.
A mafia run bar that had not paid off the police,
a raid expecting quiet acquiescence
as in the past. “OK all you dykes and faggots.
We’re going on a little trip.
Everybody in the paddy wagons.”
Maybe Judy Garland’s funeral has long fanned the flames.
Maybe an arrestee’s plunge from an upper story
police station window and impalement
on the iron fence below.
Maybe they were just sick and tired
of being sick and tired. A whole lot of maybes
fought back, fought, the cops, threw copper pennies
at the coppers, locked them
inside the bar, uprooted a parking meter
to batter down the solid wooden door.
Inside the scared police lodged
a cigarette machine against the door
to keep the angry, growing mob out,
open unashamed faces / self-respect.
Six nights of taunting “Lilly Law.”
Always circling around the block
top confront the police phalanxes.
Kick lines taunting, throwing bottles,
bricks and witty insults.
60’s protests came to the Gay community.
Kick line sings: “We are the Stonewall girls.
We wear our hair in curls.
We don’t wear underwear,
We show our pubic hair.”
and other such slacious songs.
More performance art than riot
3. After Stonewall
Riot leads to the Gay Liberation Front.
Leads to one year later – a commemorative march.
Will a hundred show their faces?
Saw thousand! marching proud and free.
G. L. F. all over the country – the world.
Fight the laws, the American Psychiatric Association,
change the definition of mental illness.
Everybody’s doing it, doing it, doing it
in the bars, parks and bath houes.
No limp-wristed faggots here.
Moustaches, leather men, gym toned bodies.
Then Redrum = AIDS spelled backwards.
Fear, decimation, abandonment by those in power.
Fighting Falwell’s lies for self-respect,
Fight back – ACT UP – silence = death.
Chalk outlined die-in at St. Patrick’s Cathedral.
Come out, come out whoever you are,
you sick bastards.
Lesbians tending the living,
dying Gay men.
450,000 March on Washington.
Thousands of grave-sized quilts
to mark those who’ve gone before .
Silence = death.
5000 couples speak their commitments
a forecast of things to come.
Soldiers don’t ask,
and sailors don’t tell
abolished – stories of abuse.
Lawrence Vs. Texas goes all the way
to the Supreme Court
making consensual sex legal at last.
Everybody’s doing it, doing it, doing it,
leaving closets burning in their wake.
Courts everywhere striking down anti-marriage laws.
President Obama mentions Stonewall
with other freedom sites.
Who’s next? Who’s next?
A BAG OF WIND SPEAKS
by Curt Stubbs
I can dance.
I can twirl.
I can jump.
I can race across the ground.
I can go slow.
I can go fast.
I can zig-zag.
I can drive a 2×4 through a brick wall.
But best of all I can destroy.
I can blow up a house.
I can toss tractor trailers like dice.
I can scatter tree limbs all over the town.
I can blow off a roof.
I can shatter windows.
I can leave the family car up in a tree.
I can leave a whole town homeless.
But best of all, I can leave a mile wide path
of destruction wherever I go.
SPIRIT BRIDGES
by Curt Stubbs
We are queers and lesbians,
bulldykes and flaming faggot firebearers,
Fairy kings and fairy queens,
cross dressers and bridges to the spirit world.
To the Ogalala Sioux we were winkte,
boy and girl twins born in the same body,
and we were sacred.
To the Lakota
we were adi-wa-lona
and we were sacred.
To the Pomo tribe
we were das,
to the Mojave
we were alyha and hwami,
to the Navajo
we were nadle
and we were always sacred.
The Zuni called us Ko’thlama
the Chippewa, a-go-kwa,
the Kokiak,ke’yev.
To all tribal people
we were accepted as spirit bridges.
In Tahiti we were called mahu
and cock sucking was our sacred duty
especially before a battle.
The Chinese spinsters who cross dressed
wore their hair short
and acted masculine were forced to work
in factories spinning and weaving silk,
a most holy task in old China.
They were considered to be lesbians
by the village people.
Faggots were mythologized as those
who brought fire to man.
Could Prometheus have been the first faggot?
In secular western culture
we are the writers, directors, producers and actors
who bring magic to stage, screen and television.
We are the hairdressers
who make women beautiful for men.
This stage magic and cross-
beautification of the sexes are
the modern equivalent
of crossing the spirit bridges.
We queers and dykes
are poets, novelists, musicians, artist and priests.
We bridge the spirit world of the arts.
Not all queers and dykes
bridge the spirit world
just as not all basketball players
play in the NBA.
There are different levels of existence after all,
but queers and dykes
have always filled a large niche
and we are sacred.
Curt Stubbs
A TALE OF TWO SHOWERS
by Curt Stubbs
There are no truths
Inside the gates of Eden.
Bob Dylan
He was just a soldier
who loved baseball
and whose eyes teared up
at the national anthem.
He also cried at sentimental movies
and giggled at the sight
of puppies and kittens.
In eighth grade he fell
in love with Tom Bailey
a neighbor who was in
his P.E. class at school.
Shower time was a time
of pleasure/pain as he tried
to keep his thirteen year old body
from responding to the sight
of warm water sluicing
over Tom’s naked body.
I will never forget his naked, broken body
lying in the latrine showers,
his face no longer recognizable,
the back of his skull
stove in by a baseball bat.
He followed Tom like a puppy,
wherever Tom led he was sure to follow.
They went to the movies together
but he couldn’t concentrate
on the movie with buddy
beside him in the dark.
They sat together on the school bus
and together hassled
Archie the bus driver,
calling out whenever Archie
missed a gear, throwing spit wads
and being altogether thirteen year old boys.
He joined the army to serve
his country. He thought the repeal
of “don’t ask, don’t tell” would protect him.
And besides Tom had enlisted
at the same time and they thought
they could serve together.
The army had different plans
and sent one east and one west.
In high school he made sure
that he was in Tom’s P.E. class
so he could continue to see that
which was forbidden to him.
He wasn’t sure whether the feelings
he had for the girls Tom
went out with were jealousy or envy,
he just knew he was uncomfortable
when Tom bragged of his exploits.
He told one of the others in the barracks
that he was gay and HE told another, and HE another
and soon the whole barracks knew.
One Friday night he and Tom
cruised Main Street with Tom in the truck
with his arm hanging out
and catsup dripping down.
Officer O’Rielly was not amused.
They each got a $300 ticket
for disturbing the peace.
Jason Swanson justified killing him
with the standard “gay panic” defense,
claiming that he had made a pass
at him in the shower
but he had had his back to Jason
and never knew what hit him.
He was just an eighteen year old soldier
who loved baseball and his country.
Curt Stubbs
AND DUST TO DUST
by Curt Stubbs
There ain’t much I don’t know about this land,
The smell of it, the taste of it in the summer
when the sweet birthing rains bring bounty
and the lightning bugs glow just past my son’s fingers.
She groans in the deep dark mornings
when the cattle calve and my old cock rooster
rehearses his songs behind the big barn.
She’s a woman still fertile trusting a man who
who can’t get her with child.
She’s a child alone when the powers gone out
and the summer storms but doesn’t bring rain.
There’s something sad of a morning when the bean fields
gulp dew as the hot sun smirks and the still air stifles;
you can almost hear the land dying under my plow,
her death rattle dry, her last thought on another year’s bounty.
This land kept my daddy alive and his daddy as well
And if the dry heaves don’t kill her,
she’ll keep me and my son and his down the line.
If I thought she’d accept them I’d shed tears like autumn leaves,
and if I thought my prayers would save this farm
I’d wear holes in the knees of my trousers
and burn candles twenty four hours around the clock.
It’s a day sad to dying when dreams dry up;
and dance swirling away in afternoon dust devils,
the roots that held a man to his land
clipped at ground level and the clear sky above
singing the hollow shell meaningless blues.
Curt Stubbs
WEDDING BELL BLUES
by Curt Stubbs
The pulpit grows organically
before the fruited, flowered alter
as I stand with my boyfriend’s heart
in my hand and the King James Bible
swearing full commitment to a man
somewhere near here and now
I pledge my troth in complete and full
ring upon his finger touching the sky
wherein dwells our God feeling
our love and caressing my soon
to be married ass clad in tuxedo
pants complete with bright red
comberbun and he’s dressed so handsome
his tux matching mine in
and color me blind
by love possessed and let no man
put us asunder in a fine church like this
where the pulpit grows organically
out of my league and into the stratosphere
where boys toy rockets red glare
lights up the heir apparent
watching over a child’s crib
and adoption right
to be free according to our natures
before God and Country-
man loving man like
Romeo and Juliet without
the tragic ending in false conclusions
like those four eyed moths who confuse
predators into thinking
they are right about our nuptials
and our lives in the balance
of natural occurrences
Curt Stubbs
NIETZCHE SAID IT
by Curt Stubbs
God is dead
He died intestate
leaving no will, living
or otherwise.
His only son died
two thousand years ago
so his estate went to the state,
including his great powers.
God is dead
and Pat Robertson and the Pope
are fighting over the corpse
each swearing to God and country
that they knew Him best.
The corpse has begun to rot
and is drawing flies and other claimants
to his legacy.
God is dead
and with him died civility
and tolerance (sometimes called love);
and with him died
hope and optimism to be replaced
by greed and despair.
Curt Stubbs
PRONOUNS: A LOVE STORY
by Curt Stubbs
He was
sleeping so intently that he
didn’t hear the fire alarm.
He was
so aroused by the fire’s heat
that he was rubbing himself in his sleep.
He was
overcome by smoke
and burned to a blackened corpse.
He was
so grief stricken that he
never dated again.
He was
so lonely in his old age
that he committed suicide.
He was
buried along side the blackened corpse
that was his former lover.
ON HIS OWN TERMS
by Curt Stubbs
All the time we was going someplace,
drinking and smoking and farting great
fireball dreams of some time or place
we wouldn’t know of when we got there,
he was doing nothing, sitting
on the curb choking beer bottles
like they was empty promises.
He was always filling up the hole
in his gut with words by a bunch of guys
with names no one ever heard of,
telling us that nowhere was just as good
as the next place and doing nothing
was better than the empty things we was always doing.
Once in the park, pitching empties
into the velvet dark softness,
he insisted every star was one
person’s dream that would never come true.
I told him the stars was just lights
in the darkness and that they
didn’t mean nothing. He just smiled
and said that was exactly what he meant.
One night he and Louie got shit faced
and pissed in the doorway of the church
across from our old high school.
He said they was Baptists and pissing
was another fine way to anoint the Holy,
but Louie said they was just drunker ‘n’ skunks
and only wanted a dark place to empty their bladders.
Its been years now but I still think sometimes
of that last drunk and him
bashing his face against the asphalt,
screaming that the pain meant nothing
and that his blood was the medium
through which he expressed his art.
I don’t know if he ever got out, but Louie and the boys and me,
we finally heard what he was saying.
Curt Stubbs
THE POET SPEAKS TO HIS AGE
by Curt Stubbs
When I retire I’m going to build
my dream house out of music.
It has never betrayed me
and always offered succor
in times of need.
You can’t have a better
musical base than the Beatles
so they shall be my foundation.
My home shall stand firm and proud.
The floors will be laid
of the finest John Prine,
a little raspy, a little line,
but always with a broad understanding.
Jimi Hendrix will provide enough
electricity to power my house forever.
The plumbing will be Captain Beefheart.
I will build the walls
Out of prime-time enduring rock.
Rolling Stone walls will stand forever
The corners shall be reinforced
by Buffy Saint Marie,
always sharp, strong and uncompromising.
The Windows shall be Phillip Glass.
That seems fitting somehow.
I shall frame all the windows
with Kris Kristofferson
except the large picture window
which will be framed in Willie Nelson.
God, what a view.
The open beamed celling
will be Led Zeppelin.
Their music will not be brought down.
I will roof the whole structure
with classic Bob Dylan.
Nothing bad can happen to a home so roofed.
The kitchen will, of course, be Joni Mitchell,
sweet and light and always enriching.
To keep the house mellow and calm
the bedrooms will be built out of old folk groups-
Peter, Paul and Mary, the Kingston Trio
and Simon and Garfunkle.
For the bathroom I will use
the original potty mouth, Frank Zappa.
The doors both interior
And exterior will be made of the Doors themselves.
The yard will be planted with bluegrass
And the borders will be U2.
I expect to live a long and happy life
in my musical domain.
XI J.D AND J.C. GET KISSED
by Curt Stubbs
(from the A NEW APOCRYPHA series)
That was no lady, the lady
in red and Getsemene a theater
not a garden when he waliked through the lobby
looking hot in his motorcycle jacket
and his 501’s stone washed
cause Laundromats weren’t yet invented.
And J.D and J.C were neither one thugs
but the best hopes for a people
occupied by Rome and foreclosed on
by imperial bankers. And Judas was
not a drag queen but a G-man dressed
in a red satin gown when he kissed
Dillinger’s lips and the centurions
dragged him from the theater.
A naked you man with a hard on
ran from the bathroom and out
through the lobby thinking the Romans
had come to arrest him.
And J.D. was not queer but
he had a thing for bearded men
in evening gowns. On the screen
a rooster crowed and the audience laughed
three times thinking the amusement over.
Curt Stubbs
CLIFF TOP CONVERSATION
by Curt Stubbs
It is an endless ridge that stretches
vainly past the horizon
in pursuit of the fleeing sun.
He is a square jawed, fair haired boy,
his mother’s dream of everything
any mother’s son should be.
I am cast in the image of
a shattered toy once capable of joy,
now suited best for the refuse pile.
We love in a way conceived
in night’s dark shadow, nurtured
by complete and total lack of light.
We sit atop the night sheltered ridge,
the hard cold stone beneath us
a metaphor for the heart that casts me out.
He says he wants a wife and children,
not to have to explain or justify
the love he has for me.
I throw a flower of the edge
and watch it drift to earth
a thing of beauty even in its dying.
Curt Stubbs
OUTLAW
by Curt Stubbs
I was arrested in the neon high sun
by a rookie policeman who said he didn’t
know poetry. He and his old lady read
best sellers, he said, when they read at all.
He told me if I didn’t quit screaming verses
at him things would go hard on me and then he
banged my head on the door jamb of his squad car.
I stood there stupid with a mouth full of words
and no one I could say them to.
I was arraigned in a room where the walls were stained gray
by the lives of the ones who’d been arraigned there before me.
The back of the bench in front of me had teeth marks,
a full set, where someone else had bit back their words
when they found out the judge didn’t know poetry either.
The judge said his name was Stud Poker and he didn’t
tolerate laughter when justice was being dealt out.
I was found guilty by a jury who also didn’t
know poetry but still thought they were my peers.
The foreman was a trim black woman who wore
haute couture fashion but still thought poetry
wasn’t being written these days. She said the last
of the poets died before this country was born.
She didn’t know that poetry is not written but lived.
I was sentanced to confinement in a single cell,
and to have my eyes blinded, my hands shackled,
and my mind laundered. Judge Poker thanked the jury
and said I had been dealt a fair justice for my crimes.
My mother shed tears and begged him for mercy, but
what does she know about poetry anyway?
Curt Stubs
WHISKEY ROUNDS
Going down where the whiskey sounds
like water running through my fingers.
All dressed up in gin and flannel,
my jeans as faded as my soul.
I’m on a hell bound train,
ain’t got no ticket,
no baggage that I care to carry.
Can’t get there fast enough,
one sip and all aboard.
In the morning my freshly plowed mouth,
like a dry, dusty field produces no sound
except a deathly squawk.
My stomach rumbles its discontent,
my hammered head hears
each sound as an assault.
I order a bloody mary to start another day.
Curt Stubbs
LOVING SOMEONE STRAIGHT
Giddy with the wine of youth,
we hurtled down the road
singing out our verse,
out of tune, off key
and assuredly off color.
Do you know my oft thought of friend,
how many times I went to sleep
with hand milked dreams of you
sprayed across my chest?
Do you still recount,
as do I,
every word of all our talks,
every thought you mentioned,
every secret that you shared?
It’s been years since I last saw you,
waist length hair,
Flannel shirt,
and faded skin tight jeans,
as I dropped you on the freeway
where you started on your journey,
and I ended mine
but I still remember skinny dipping parties
that we hosted
crazy, drunk and rowdy
so that I many once again
dream of your youth
and regret the wasted years of mine.
Curt Stubbs
FOR A FRIEND JUST COMING OUT
The rope sings through the pitons.
The wind shrieks curses in our ears,
and we climb,
seek to reach the peak
that looms in the leading edge of vision.
Our toes grasp desperately at the slightest ledge,
Our fingers grip knuckle deep in every cranny,
and the rope
stretched taut from man to man
bonds just as tightly as the smiles that light our faces.
Our muscles shake with strain, exhaustion,
nervous sweat stains our clothing
and you say
you can’t make it
as if expecting us to cut the rope and let you fall.
Having reached this peak we see others looming taller,
making this mountain less than we had thought,
but we know
having climbed this one together
that no mountain need be feared, no peak left unassailed.
Curt Stubbs
THOUGHTS ABOUT TREES AND WATER
I live in the desert.
Large trees that loom
over the road, hiding
the sky and casting
elongated shadows
across the ground
make me paranold.
I never know what or who’s
going to jump out
of the darkness to atack me.
Give me good old Palo Verde,
Mesquite and palm trees.
There is something to be said
for open greenery.
I live in the desert.
Rivers with water
running in them are a nice idea,
but I don’t think it will ever catch on.
Everyone knows water
belongs in swimming pools.
Curt Stubbs
NATURE/NURTURE
Don’t blame the salad
if the fork is bent.
Perhaps it was meant to be bent.
Perhaps it is the nature of forks to be bent.
Not all salads are dysfunctional.
Don’t blame the pie if the counter is dirty.
It takes a miscommunication between
hand and eye to spill the pie.
You should never blame the kitchen
if the food is not to your liking.
If the kitchen is clean,
and the appliances all work
then the only one left to blame is the cook.
Curt Stubbs
IN THE CORN FIELD
I like to listen to the corn
growing, the golden tones
of the green leaves ringing
gently in the summer breeze;
the black and yellow plaid
of the cobs with their promise
of summer under butter;
the tap, tap dancing of the silk tassles
at the ends of the cobs.
Corn always grows
with such abandon.
Far beneath my feet I smell
the underground river waiting
for me to tap into it,
to brings its life affirming soul
up where it will seep back down
after enriching my corn
and nurturing the soil.
Water always teaches plants
how to grow.
Around my ears birdsong flits
aware only of the next note,
filling the air with seduction
and melting virtues.
The birds release their birdson
far and wide like milkweed seeds
floating gently to their destinations.
Birdsongs always wear robes
of impertinence like butterflies
wear images of color.
Weed-flowers grow
among the cornstalks
presenting themselves as the lawful
residents of the field
but depending on the protection
of the hardier corn.
Weed-flowers always claim where
they grow as their own garden.
Corpulent warted toads lumber
through the stalks
belching seductive songs
for their lady loves, an earth tone choir
singing songs of green-brown love.
Toads always bring earthtones
to the bubble eyed corn fields.
I am hiding in the corn field
smiling at things I can’t
understand, feeling things I can’t see,
and seeing things that don’t exist.
It is the nature of fields, all fields everywhere
to confound man’s senses
and bring him to his humbled knees.
Curt Stubbs
ONE OF THE GOOD ONES
The morning sun stutters
through the blinds,
the cat sleeps behind my knees
forcing me into a fetal position.
The dog snores gently
beside my bed and
it seems that today
is a good day for living.
Even the morning paper
with its stories of war and pestilence
doesn’t bring me down.
I hang around the house too long
and the afternoon sun shouts
hello at me as I start my daily walk.
The birds mark my passing with a cacophony
of chirps and twitters.
It sounds like the roadside trees
harbor each a different species.
As I walk the pigeons try to out run me
rather than take flight.
The gravel crunches beneath
my outsize feet,
orange blossoms blanket the
area with their heavy scent.
The twilight shadows chase my dog
across the yard as she
runs and rolls and leaps
at the bats who are chasing
down their breakfast.
As the sun goes down
I can feel the temperature do the same.
The shadows extend into night
and again I feel that this is one of the good ones.
Curt Stubbs
HE DIDN’T KNOW BEAUTY
He was man who didn’t know beauty.
He saw the world through the soles of his feet.
He was not deaf but he couldn’t hear.
He was not blind but he just would not see.
When he spoke his voice had no modulation,
it sounded like a butcher knife on bone.
He thought all art had to match your sofa,
and music was what you heard in an elevator.
He read Reader’s Digest Condensed Books
and thought that made him literate,
and knew for sure that all poetry rhymed.
When he died his wake had no flowers
and no on delivered his eulogy.
He was buried in a potter’s field
and a directory marked his grave.
Curt Stubbs
ONE OF THE GOOD TIMES
The morning sun stutters
through the blinds,
the cat sleeps behind my knees
forcing me into a fetal position.
The dog snores gently
beside my bed and it seems that today
is a day good for living.
Even the morning paper
with its stories of war and pestilence
doesn’t bring me down.
I hang around the house too long
and the afternoon sun shouts
hello at me as I start my daily walk.
The birds mark my passing with a cacophony
chirps and twitters.
It sounds like the roadside trees
harbor each a different species.
As I walk the pigeons try to out run me
rather than take flight.
The gravel crunches beneath
my outsize feet,
orange blossoms blanket the
area with their heavy scent.
The twilight shadows chase my dog
across the yard as she
runs and rolls and leaps
at the bats who are chasing
down their breakfast.
As the sun goes down
I can feel the temperature do the same.
The shadows extend into night
And again I feel that this is one of the good ones.
Curt Stubbs
For Dyanne
Respect the silence;
let it roll down your face
in great tears of joy.
Let it fill your heart
like it fills an empty room.
Don’t let it spread tales of dead dogs
or force opinions to cross your lips.
Respect the silence;
it has great things to say.
It will thunder in your mind
like a spring storm
and bend great trees to your will.
You will know tantric joy
and find brilliant gems
to wear on chains around your neck.
Respect the silence;
it is all you will ever have
and all you will ever need…
Respect the silence
and it will respect you.
Curt Stubbs
A Greater Stage
Let’s call her night,
this actress on a greater stage,
smoothly strutting her stuff
in her gowns of blue and purple.
She has always wanted to play Juliet
but being timeless in her beauty
she is unable to play the doomed teenage.
She has powers other actresses lack:
under a new moon she can portray
the darkest possible heart;
a full moon shows her shadows
and traces of grey.
Nightmares do more for her
than show our darkest places,
she also illuminates our secret hopes.
When she takes the stage
in her countless jewels
we dream of other worlds
And travel between the stars.
Curt Stubbs
3880 N. Park Apt. A
Tucson, Az 85719
Tucson, Arizona
curtstubbs69@yahoo.com