Saturday, October 2, 2010


modern words are ancient
fly towards history
longing for old names.

Friday, August 20, 2010


always building.
ode to you who builds.
heavy, the hands of construction
long, the faces who fashion bronze.
Oh, light eternal
monuments mild fire gentle.
Your crown of languish and laurel
burns like a wreath.

Sunday, August 8, 2010

new apartment.

many churches.
many churches.
many bells.
many churches.
many bellies of balloons.

ventricle. ventricle. ventricle.
in the bellies of balloons.
never was afraid of a secret never swallowed.
many bellies full of illness.
many bell tolls of many churches.

Wednesday, July 7, 2010

breaths between the 4 and the 6

Illusive passageways echo to the bend.
The distance between time.
No train to either side.

No, I have not forgotten
the way my throat swelled
to another realm of thirsty
when faced with your face. Your slightly open mouth.
Thin and nimble, legs only for you.

Ventricle to lonely ventricle,
every thunder of you first sung in refrain.
Sorry-song swimmer, you are of the sea,
drowned, your magic was tragic and black.
Urchin choruses sad-saw cry:
for your nets, I was foam.
The sinew.
Between you
and I.

Saw you all silver. Mysterious as forgiveness.

Circular skylines deeply repeating,
elapsing morning arms,
coffee table dawn with no poetry in sight.
Away inches from a scripted deity of cartography;
a partitioned abyss, leagues down you found
stubborn flowers, a front-seat kiss.

You, of the lines.
As effervescent
as clothes-pins
strung up on twine.
Pulsing, this harmony embodies
homage to the wind, to life.

Any day now, any day now,
fall apart in this metaphor.
Moonlight corridor, night after night.

Wednesday, May 26, 2010

Were You Lonely, Cupcake?

Deeper dishes hidden in the pantry in the dark
she asks:
How Do I Love This Body?
How do
Does she roll it out of dough.
Consumer of the hot flame fuel I watched your tabletops grow
in the corner hearth fires.
Baby, you are so beautiful,
and hungry.

There are biscuits for the open window in your being, what was empty
what was lonesome can be clotheless in the shower, in the hot steamy mirror.
Do you raise your eyelids to witness?
Sink-swim again in your kitchen.
the marble-ish counters are hospitable houses for making warm mouths,
salivate, tempting
bite by bite of bread, butter, butter, butter: more butter.

Stay hidden, always remain silent and self-assured
not a one will know about the cranberries, or the chocolate-chocolate loaves
cooling in the sills of your kitchen.
Aprons fold so nicely over our tummies, tie it.
Kiss the delicate touches of saffron, of basil.
You are god's tastebuds.
You are his fingertips.
You reach for a fried-up crusty crustacean
he's dried-up and useless, crawling home.

Who will hold your sorrow besides a cookie jar?
a tempting salutation from a mushroom top, or a congruent cocktail made with
champagne ...and St. Germaine...

Balsamic reduction, redux, influx.
"Hey mister you can have me if you hand me your heart and your belly.
I'll saute you into submission.
Pour your journey into me, I'll swallow it
and kiss away your tired."

I saw you eating your dinner of rice and gruyere in a closet,
under mother's cashmere,
crumpled were your tears.
Pilsner in hand, a loaf in common:
Are you able to eat this? Do you think its delicious?
This is serendipitous.

Saturday, May 15, 2010

Denver Poem

You were
an uninjured soldier, or misanthrope.
(Hello white rabbit, have we met?
Have we fallen faster or caught ourselves? We float
hearts above cozy petticoats.)
You were arms-length, never close
enough to encompass, it was a
warm lamp,
an on and off
coordinated-quiet symphonic conversation from the bedroom tramp.

Dear Denver, you were a sullen night alone over boards of fruit with suede-ish flats, cigarettes on your breath, in your air. Oh, your nights are long. Take me, for these lights on- off are sorry when spent alone. Ask her the root of her why. Ask her, the root...ask her the root of her why. Ask her the logistics of her existence. She is infinitely unfolding tiers of body-parts, toes to motion of days spent with or without a dime or a kiss. Your sludgy streets rekindle longing dead inside her double-breasted vest. Those pockets she emptied for your performers, your juggling men and their tricks. The tall-tall buildings with the rounded corners are the judges of this nonsense, they point and hiss at the semantics. Her interactions were soft and deliberate. Watery in Confluence Park, picnics of decaf and midnight milk; she may pack up and leave you someday.

Friday, April 16, 2010

volo illo narrabat fabulam sui mihi

(this is a breath.
this is only a moment.
we were mermaids
who never drown.)


Tell me. Tell me something
I was watching. I was an emotionless
witnessing the breezes, the branches,
and spring.
I heard your strange geometry.
I need you to explain it to me.

Tell me. Tell me your myth.
What was your elegiac breakfast?
Wafting, lofty, morning to morning.
The floorboards are temporal, present.
But what was your preface?
The waltz that moved you, that carried you
here: I've caressed that music.
I envision a silken, hot, balloon.
It is golden. It is illuminated.

...and what of touch?
It is a fever of mystery.
I've felt them--
--your words.
They rain down upon me like violets,
like silver-sparkling thumb-tacks.
My edges blurred.

I wore seven veils.
My feet were barefoot. My back is crooked.
I have filled my curtains with wares and yolked them to my belly
to my back
to get here
to have faith in this flesh, in this skin.
May I still listen?
Never have I away'd in so many colors,
under so many waves.
I am full of questions.

I want to navigate with you
a river of forks
and spoons.

Wednesday, March 17, 2010


The surge: my feeling of the narrative was quelled, in bergamont.

It regressed
infinitely, until the snapshot of the gallop
was taken, made beloved and framed,
upon the wing of a summertime wave.

I remembered
the tastes of cities
like dreams of curry, like dreams of soap.

We worshiped the sky like it had become the sun, as if it had transformed
to the sacred baskets of texts,
to the holy feet of missionaries;
I wept into their hands and they ordained me.

The man's arms became ropes and I felt his semantics,
his lungs aided him
in the acceptance
of the pears
of their religion.
I wanted to kiss him.
I became like a jeweled fig. I was pale. I was a pistachio.
In becoming, I was the secret, the child, the figure in the carpet.

the man and I, broke into the temple.
We drank
to the calligraphers, to the songs of sorry-constellations,
to war,
to lemons in our hearts,
to the stark while of the walls.

His skin was a disruption, so I gave him woven lace.
He buried me in the center of a stone, I told him he was
a citadel,
and that he was bright

and timid.

Friday, March 12, 2010

Boundless Reminiscence of Dreams and How it Felt to be Felt

There is a homeopathic ambiance of the too much of never-never.
Organic and empathetic, the rhythms hung between consciousness
and a thick tunneled subway station. The air is honey.
A native steel drum sings melancholy pockets;
quiet closets.

Skin was fluid like shampoo, pretty little fingers, pretty little
quandry of golden hues of purple lights on a big down bed. Here dream't to be a
Patagonian astronomer, the sky faded in essentially imperfect paradigms; in the color of shivers everything is blue. Many people die in Paris.
Some gasp for air, the deep breadth of meditation.

...the bass comes in, an aria from the breezes of compositions waft between bodies
who lie crooked. Someone is the cadenza.
Electrically tactile, the space between matters moaned until it spun,
more than just hollow, it is the dwelling of lingering summer.
Hot opaque religion was the devotion of the pupil, of the offered child
trying to interpret the pauseless language of the inbetween scribblings.
Silence came over domestic spheres, where men sewed lace chamois,
women crawled on their bellies, offering communion to those who ask.

There is a sharp desire to accept the body, to transcend to heaven.
A soft river of geometric rules divides the mouth. Provinces of
bubbled soda and ruffled toffee play cautious, motionless music. Where is the kiss if native lips
never presuppose a cigarette? Delicate touches, the chimneys of boundary are burning.

Sunday, February 21, 2010

a recent journal-excerpt (non-cohesive)

This is a human document.....................................................
my intrigue is sublime. I dream't I was a boundary. I dream't I was a parabola.
he dream't in motion.
We were starstruck, twice.

I carry Him.
the anvil. He sighs. He is a symphony of sounds, filling me with
heavy metals.
I coo. I coo.
He spoke in parables of parables.
"Oh you are heavy," I etched in lyric.
And yet, He was light.

Saturday, January 16, 2010

thoughts on The Good Book

Gideon is the author of the God whose cadence
is a metronome.
He beats like a pretty little tempo-clock.
Twice reflected, I saw him in the glossy shadows.
In motion,
I told him his Mover, unmoved,
didn't move me.

Truth be told I read a Book that told me the
truth about stories.
I knew I had discovered the antidote.
I withdrew because I had recovered her petticoat,
ugly-raisin hands opened up from the sky and
stanza by stanza, fell billowing folds of clothes.

The protagonist asked for an endless supply of baked beans, and comforting
only to be soaking, pressure cooked in his own diction.

After the flood, only analogy was left to the plot. We skeptics, believers
analyzed the crisis
which untangled like a silky, gossamer strand that fell out
of mouths like French
I walked through the books until I reached a climax,
and in the ecstasy of the agony of someone else's lord, I watched the
world fall apart, in unison
all of the houses fell down, all of the Figs stood up.

I felt the overflow of the hyperbole, the chaos, the end.
I, stone iconography, laid on my back and recited all of the myths.

I came. I came, God. In this rendition,
I became God.