bungalow

I miss the bungalow. The bungalow was really an old garage/shed at the house I lived in last year. I turned that space into my own little nook, apart (it seemed) from the rest of the world. I wrote there and relaxed and entertained. Here's a poem I wrote at the height of my boy-crazy wild summer...

this bungalow and my imagination

at odds with aspects of this reality
peace and balance, morality or sexuality?
in my dreams: drums and strums of guitars
boys, bars, the stars

i heard it all when he returned my hazy gaze
these moments abound I've found, and are
lost in a fleeting blink of my eyelashes
amidst splashes of Bacardi, friends, and the party
swift I realize this gift
of life over strife and passion reaction
to the sweet heat of summer lovin'
friendship should make it easy to
fall into it--shit why not one shot?

as long as he lets me breathe

this warm rhythm brings more to my mind
than love
it opens the doors for creativity
and inspires imagination, ingenuity
so into my bungalow i go
for the afternoon soon blooms
into night when i might politely invite
him to sit with me for a while
oh, how he brings over that smile
but only if winks first, drinks for my thirst
immersed in the world light, ignite
debate and smart conversations
temptations excite
sensations, incite relations

unfortunately this won't ever exist
as he seems to resist the idea of my kiss
its too bad he'll miss this
possibility infusing in me