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.

volo illo narrabat fabulam sui mihi

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

Narrate.

Tell me. Tell me something
captivating.
I was watching. I was an emotionless
witness
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.

N.R.M.

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,
walking-wishing-galloping
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.

We,
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.

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.

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.

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
things
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
cobblestones.
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.

In the nighttime, I still need you.

Whereabouts in the morning, I find myself transforming into the absent protagonist of a tired-novel, written only for myself, a semi-private-cyberspace, a personal journal, for all. I am leather bound, and drying out. I smell like must and have been translated, twice. My hair becomes the ancient words written in calligraphy. You are the calligrapher. I am the interpreter.
I wanted to tell someone how I am the skillet and you are the stove-top I crawl across.
Once upon a city, there was no recipe, we were in a taxi, hot like pavement.
The End.

Eighty years past a clinical psychologist, past his red-velvet couch
reads beautiful books, walks to the market
without a walker for reddish-golden apples. No skin. He carries a beautiful basket.
Mid-autumn, near frost, we wake up.
I, mid-poultice-wrapping, hot wrinkling legs.
I look up.
He said, he said,
“Sugarplum, we're all missing someone.”
We drank minty, Mediterranean tea.
I fed my insatiable-thirsty.
He remembers Beowulf and Antigone.

This is an elegy. We look back on the poets of transition, we look back and mourn their loss.

Once, there was an epilogue at the end of a story, where hills full of gold are full of horses that will never be tended, of baked-bread that will go stale. The treasure was cursed, the cider poisoned, the last servant wept until he fell asleep. It was written by hand on parchment, homed in a forgotten Grecian-library, set aflame.

We talked and talked about literature, we spoke and spoke about Freud. As I helped him, in his gray, into his robe, he told me his young-beautiful wife was traveling on business in Singapore.

We grow old, we grow old.
You are the toes. The End.