In a loud corridor
Full of young people
I move slowly, reconciled.
I have lived a little longer than they have.
And yet I do not know how
They recognize my face,
They smile at me so calmly.

On the walls
Reproductions of masters.
One calls me,
Face distorted,
Naked in his suffering.
I stop my thoughts.
I look.
I see his bitten soul.
Too many sunsets
in blood-red color.
He and she,
They lost everything
And yet they still see
so much love.

I am already with them,
on their portrait.
I am part of these colors.
I search in a corridor of eclipses,
Flashing hopes.
To soothe their dignity,
To save the bond between them.

I take this story in my hands, so gently.
Together, we look into earthly wounds.
We allow them to scar over,
Day after day,
Year after year.
Until they grow over with life.
Until they grow over with green grass.
I will be happy.
Observing how they grow in true strength
Of human fragile beings,
Of impatient humanity, longing to be reborn.

The world is the same

for you and for me—

What we see

depends on

where we stand.

he introduces himself
saying quiet, but slipping in, firm:

“something he knows for sure,
no is no”

I, (19, f)

replying, smiling
saying louder, firmer:

“something she knows for sure,
yes is yes”

and he says

“yes, ma’am,”

returning her smile, so shyly,
while blushing, so loudly,
thinking he said something dumb,
looking down at his shuffling feet,
covered in worn out cowboy boots

I like this guy
I like this man.

You would ask what I want to eat.
You would spend the day going to five or six stores.
You would call each of the kids to see how they were doing.
You would barbecue.
You would cook way too much food for two.
I would smile.

I remember marble that wanted heels,
clip-clop echo of women who belonged.
I wore slip-ons with socks,
easier for those of us who come to scrub
other people’s lives.

The elevator was a box of mirrors,
infinite versions of me-
I bent my head to escape them.

His office door ajar,
his voice stretched thin across a phone.
The girlfriend cooks,
spicy food,
place a *******, he said.
I had seen much worse-
houses where mold clung to the ceiling,
where grief leaked through the wallpaper.

The vacuum hummed its G-note spiritual.
I worked the nozzle into the skirting boards,
let my mind braid song and ritual,
a drop of lavender for closets,
labels straightened like soldiers on parade.
No one asked for these offerings-
I gave them anyway.

But he winked at me
while telling her love you, babe,
mouth syrupy with lies.
A twenty left on the hall table-
a tip that branded my palm.

Later, the bin bag tore,
Madras red bleeding into cream carpet,
pears bruised soft in their sweating wrap.
The stain spread like a hand
that gripped too long,
that would not release.
I cursed the ceiling,
the word **** echoing like prayer.

was only twenty,
scrubbing strangers’ luxury
to keep myself alive.
That day I left more than lavender-
a fragment of myself,
pressed into the carpet,
silent as the stain.

I turned my head to get a glimpse of the stars
but then came the rain
And something in me knew that it was already too late

how cruel of you to exhaust moments of delight into staying here
forever.
It can't.
Joy,
delight,
excitement,
laughs,
smiles,
sunshine,
happiness are all fleeting emotions. They come by as a swift of wind to kiss you so impressing that you may be tempted.
You may be tempted to make it last.
happiness is a part of nature that we solmely feel,
you cannot make it last.

It’s that time of year
The light has changed
Ever so slightly
From summer to fall light
The suns brightness less intense

It’s that time of year
The light has changed
From summer to fall light
The air is crisper
The nights cooler

It’s that time of year
The light has changed
From summer to fall light
The heat of summer is leaving
The beauty of fall is coming

Its that time of year
When leaves start to turn
Orange, yellow and red
Dabbling the landscape
Like a fine painting

It’s that time of year
When colors are bright
There is a special shine to everything
Moods are high
The world puts on its best face

all I see is
red
when I think about
you

I guess I'm just tired of being tired,

Or maybe I'm tired of being in a slump of wasted time disguised as progress

Love is more than words,
there may be tears
Love isn’t done in one night,
you work on it for years
It’s the little things you do,
to let them know you care
The hugs and the kisses,
locking eyes with loving stares
It may bring hard times,
when you only have each other
There will be the joy,
of knowing there is no other
Love is a flame,
you can’t let it go cold
You keep the spark alive,
so it never gets old
Love is those memories,
the kisses and the nights
It is two lives brought together,
bells, whistles, and flashing lights
Love is everything,
the journey may bring
The everlasting promise,
beyond the diamond ring
Make love in your heart,
for the one you love every day
Take the time, live your dreams,
so that love will always stay

9/20/25

un niño hunde la mano en su fiebre y saca astros que tira
al aire / y ninguno ve
yo tampoco los veo /
yo sólo veo un niño con fiebre que tiene los ojos
cerrados
y ve
animalitos que pasan por el cielo pacen en su temblor
yo no veo esos animalitos /
yo veo al niño que ve animalitos
y me pregunto por qué esto pasa hoy
¿pasaría otra cosa ayer? /
¿se sacaría el niño mucha pena
del alma ayer? / yo sólo sé que el niño tiene
fiebre
tiene el alma cerrada y la hunde
en las cenizas que dejará porque ardió
pero ¿es así? / ¿hunde su alma en las cenizas de
sí / un
árbol
mira detrás de la ventana al sol
hay sol /
detrás de la ventana hay un árbol en la calle
ahora por la calle pasa un niño con una mano en el bolsillo
del pantalón
está contento y saca la mano del bolsillo
abre la mano y suelta fiebres que ninguno ve
yo tampoco las veo /
yo sólo veo su palma abierta a la luz
y él / ¿qué ve?
¿ve bueyes que tiran del sol?
yo no sé nada /
no sé qué ve el niño de la mano en el
pantalón
ni el niño que tiene fiebre y ve los huesos del Atlántico
y los huesos de todos los mares revueltos en su corazón
yo no veo nada / no sé nada
ni sé en qué día nací /
conozco la fecha pero no el día en que nací
¿o ese día es este día en que muero por
enésima vez?
¿es este día en que todos los que han muerto
se vuelven a morir conmigo? / ¿o yo con ellos?
¿en esta luz dulcísima y abierta? /
¿y qué hace el niño con esta luz en su palma?
¿mientras todos trabajan para hacer dinero fuera de esta
luz?
¿encerrados afuera de esta luz que es imposible mirar sin
una luz adentro? /
¿sin un amor con pena adentro?
ahora pasan las cartas que nunca me escribiste
hijo / vos / que tanto nacés de esta luz /
tus cartas tienen fiebres de las que no sé nada
y nunca sabré nada /
parecen pajaritos que vuelan con su serenidad
astros que tiraste al aire y ninguno ve /
yo no los veo ni los ve mi dolor inseguro
pensabas en una vida más limpia que ésta
una vida que se podía lavar
tender al sol de tu bondad /
una vida llena de rostros como viajes
¿dónde están esos rostros / esos viajes?
la vida está desnuda como un mar sin orillas
y no puedo volver la vida atrás
llevarla hasta tu cuna
ni llevarla adelante /
yo soy menos real que la mesa donde como
yo como para ser real como el árbol detrás de la ventana
ahora un niño se le paró al lado /
saca la mano del bolsillo del pantalón
abre su palma a la luz
y piensa que la muerte es la muerte
y no más que eso

To be a watchman
Have my sights
Set only on the sunrise
Instead of my gaze
Being set on my anger
Or my trivial desires
To have my eyes waiting
Watching
For the sky to change
Into vibrancy never seen
To be a watchman
When the gold breaks through
And falls upon my face
Like the tears that had before

~
A blood promise
On the threshing floor
--a strand named Skull of Sidon.

The sunset passage
No longer a place for them,
The acceptance of absolute negation
Remedios the beauty.

Saint Fishermen churn in the waves
Crushing grapes from the estate,
Even the girl with the silver eyes,
Only then will their house be blessed.

Women uncharted,
But prisoned on watery shore,
Hum a silent prayer.

This is atonement day,
May grace be with them
In all the days ahead.
~

Let this be a safe place
Let the ink and paper offer peace
Let the words flow
Let the light glow

Let souls gather
Let worlds matter
Let ideals prevail
Let ideas reveal

Let this mean power, weakness, innocence, guilt
Let this be, what it needs to be

The stars were not to blame
Nor the ocean between us
Or even that dreadful place
We used to call home

It was only you and me
Always a little too wrong
And maybe just a little
Too late

Have there been any reported miracles
Since the martyrdom of Saint Charlie?
A few crutches left lying around.
A wheelchair.
Perhaps a small resurrection?
Just askin'.

Open and closed doors
windows shutters castles wards shops towns roads
borders. Follow your path
if you can, where possible

Open and closed gardens
skies valves taps sewers sluices vaults coffins
graves. Look and smell
where you are, where you're going

Open and closed monasteries
societies visors letters flowers looks lips eyes
ears. Listen and be blind
to what you don't need to see

Open and closed books
credits lines veins wounds chakras minds questions arms
hearts. Speak and keep silent
about what doesn't need to be said

Open and non-open
water fire kitchens pans curtain endings conversations
relationships. Be caring
for others and yourself

Sempre caro mi fu quest'ermo colle,
e questa siepe, che da tanta parte
dell'ultimo orizzonte il guardo esclude.
Ma sedendo e mirando, interminati
spazi di là da quella, e sovrumani
silenzi, e profondissima quiete
io nel pensier mi fingo; ove per poco
il cor non si spaura. E come il vento
odo stormir tra queste piante, io quello
infinito silenzio a questa voce
vo comparando: e mi sovvien l'eterno,
e le morte stagioni, e la presente
e viva, e il suon di lei. Così tra questa
immensità s'annega il pensier mio:
e il naufragar m'è dolce in questo mare.

You found me.
Just scroll my hair , my lashes, my
magenta kisses and porcelain kaftans.
I knit your desires all in a post.
Find me in Naples.
Yesterday Paris.
So well crafted,
you know it’s me.

Stacked green crates by the futon,
records quiet as buried letters,
each sleeve longing
to be drawn out into daylight
by her small, thoughtful hands.

I just want to play that Nick Cave again
teenager’s resolve in her voice,
she drops the needle on "Tupelo",
traces Peter Murphy with her thumb,
holds Kate Bush to the light
like stained glass.

She laughs
at the ****** box on the speaker.
I tell her it’s never going to happen.
She grins, unbothered,
says she only came for the vinyl.

I watch her tilt each sleeve,
never touching the grooves,
brush the dust,
lay the needle like a secret,
slide the disc back without a wrinkle.
Each time I’m surprised
by her precision.
It’s the third time
she’s dropped by.

She makes mixtapes.
Pressing pause, pressing record,
stitching songs into a spine of hiss.
Once, to me, or to herself,
she said her father wanted a tape.
She’d mail it when he had
somewhere to send it.

She follows me across the bridge,
talking about her brother,
an ex-best friend,
mimicking her professor,
how he wags his tongue
when he writes on the chalkboard.

I haul a duffel:
apron, uniform, boots heavy with grease.
She skips in the rain,
strumming cables, humming
the last song played, still floating.

I unlock the door,
steeped in garlic and kitchen sweat,
boots leaving grime on the boards.
She isn’t there-
only the crates, stacked neater,
jackets squared, spines aligned,
as if her care was meant for me.
The room settles with her absence,
yet holds me upright
in its small, thoughtful hands.

every drink to numb the pain
drowns His voice
dulls my hearing
callouses my heart
for how can I raise my hands
to receive, to worship,
when they are filled with a pint?

And if the heart can break, it can also begin again, fragile and trembling, but unashamed of its beating.

I find it scary to write a poem,
because what if people don’t like it?
Or worse — what if they do,
and it means they’re broken too?

Does it mean they also can’t find
peace and treasure in their mind?
Does it mean they feel the same,
so my pain is not a claim?

The fear, the loss, the pain and everything
If its not mine does it leave me as nothing?

Если вы в неё влюбитесь
Не отходите от неё ни на шаг
На её плечах полупрозрачное время,
Чтобы увидеть вы все понимали не так

Из светлого в полу-последних лучах
Даже Солнце остановилось за веткою
В её дыхании понежится кружа
Донесите сами её верхнюю одежду

Не торопитесь полюбуйтесь не спеша
Как не холодно будет за вечером
осень даже в листве без дождя
не смущается шагает приветливо

В парке рядом присесть где была
где только что тепло унесенное
Не дожидалась, а ведь только что прошла
В кружевах отсвечивает телесное белое

И ветер улыбается безветренно
По краям желтого в руках осторожно
Собранное тем, что теплее нежного
не стала отдаляться у талии от растревоженного  

Было зеленое время в каблуках
А сейчас туфли дорожке в беседе
Позаботьтесь всю грусть подобрав
В голове моей такой несдержанной

Tengo una sed de vinos capitosos
-venusino furor, pugnas salaces,
ojos enloquecidos por el éxtasis,
bocas ebrias, frenéticos enlaces-.

Tú, Dinarzada, tú, Fogosa Mía,
tú, Melusina, Vid de mis Deseos:

¡dóname tu lagar tibio y recóndito!
quiero oprimir tus uvas! y tus vinos
exprimir! -fulgurante filtro cálido
para mi sed de zumos citereos! 1Tengo una sed de búdicos nirvanas
-zahareño no oír, callada acidia,
ojos enceguecidos por el éxtasis,
espiritual ardor, psíquica lidia-.

Tú, Viaje Azul, Deliquio, Noche Intacta,
Música..., oh tú, mi inasequible Dueño:

¡llévame a tus refugios ataráxicos!
quiero tañer tus fibras! y el prodigio
de tu entraña exprimir! -don inefable
para mi sed de fugas y de ensueño!

My eyes are wide open
yet I cannot see
my connection to God
and what it means to me
If only I could see
in a grain of sand
the world beheld
in the palm of my hand
To look upon it
as “all that is made”
and relieved my intellect
not betrayed

Grateful for my boys
Worried. Worried mind.
Keep them moving forward
To strive, to seek, to find

O ye protective spirits!
Rally round and round
Yes to T.S. Eliot
No to Ezra Pound

                       Amen.