WHEN I LOOKED UP, FRIDA LOOKED BACK

What are you telling me, Frida?
Is listening to Mexican ballads in a shack
by the sea everything I need to know of love?
Is it as simple as following a dream, searching
for the just right word or thumbing
through the colors on my palette,
even if my brush strokes are crippled and lame ?
What is the story you have for me, Frida,  
with those pink roses tucked behind your ear,
and your lipstick the color of fire?
What is it you're trying to say? Is it sufficient
to sit on a bench and watch the sky,
the people passing before me like clouds?
Is it enough to browse through a bookstore by the ocean,
listening to the whispered wisdom of ancient pens? 
I set down the book, Frida, and there you are,
staring down at me from above, dark eyes
penetrating my soul, memories of Diego
and The Blue House swirling through
your memories like jewels. Do you want
to speak to me today, Frida, or am I just
imagining this, this look you give me,
that half-smile teasing along the edge of your mouth,
a message on your lips meant only for artists?

SAY ANYTHING TRIPTYCH

Lloyd Dobler

you strike
a power pose
silver boombox held
aloft like a talisman
in the near dusk.
your face is earnest,
even pensive
as peter gabriel's
dulcet tones
paint the sky around your
tan duster
and the beater
you drove
into her empty driveway.
what is it you want
exactly? for her to leave her
father and run away with you
to somewhere exotic? Are you waiting
for her to come, arms wide
and accepting? maybe you'd
just like for her to hear you
and know you're breathing
into the autumn sky
in shadow of her
front door? 


Diane Court

you know it's him:
you can hear
the crunch of the gravel
as he drives up in that
giant car of his. it's kind of cute,
really, that hang-dog look
of his, though you'd never tell
him that; it's much too soon
for such intimacies. Don't smile, girl,
they say at school, 
don't ever let him know you care.
From your bedroom window,
You see his arms raised, spread 
in a type of worship
you see him 
as a kind of sexy, 80's Christ
and that's when you hear
peter gabriel's dulcet
tones talking about the light, the heat
in your eyes.
and it's then that you want to race down
the stairs, fly out the door,
and run straight into his arms.
But you can't reach out for him.
It's still too soon.
We're not quite there yet; you're not 
Molly Ringwald and we're not quite
a John Hughes movie.
At least not yet. In this movie,
you still won't even know 
things are okay, even after
the closing credits roll.

Cameron Crowe

This is not Ridgemont. This is
something else entirely.  Cusak
assumes the position,
hoists the boombox in the air,
and at that very moment,
you know in your gut
that the heavy silver love letter
he's carrying
will define the decade.
You stand behind the camera,
cue the sound guy ("Roll! Speed!"), 
and
in one last bit
of  Hollywood magic
peter gabriel's dulcet tones
come from just behind the boombox--
an audio illusion of love,
a little movie make believe
that will ultimately fill the theater
in stereo--Dolby or THX--depending
on the budget.
Right now, however, as if
in slow motion, the boombox 
rising above your actor's head
is at once iconic,
compelling,
thrilling, romantic,
and moving,
but ultimately tuneless.

PICKING UP MY DAUGHTER AT HER BOYFRIEND'S HOUSE ON HIS BIRTHDAY

i'm early

and so parked by the curb

as the stars wink

their cosmic arias

over the suburban streets.

the blue of twilight

twinkles like

a Matte painting of

a movie set.

Leonard Cohen

in London

Comes through

the minivan speakers,

crooning about his secret life.

alone, I scroll 

through my

smartphone. . .

the screen lighting up

my face

like a portent,

a strange sign

both ominous and near.