lover, what i wouldn't give
to whisper "te quiero, te quiero, te quiero",
until my lips tire of the exertion and i say it with
my fingers parting your glistening salt-bleached hair
and my arms unearthing the architecture of your
broad-shouldered back—making landmarks
of the isthmi and gently sloping dunes like
a pilgrim in some pristine promised land,
affirming all he knows to be his
my sweet sweet summer child, my beautiful boy,
i might've laughed when you told me you thirst for
the lingering burn of houston sun on your face
but i understand all too well now, cariño;
because you set alight a thousand little fires
within my heart of hearts, immolate me
when you let me hike your shirt and
lay my stone-cold hands on your body,
and it is as if i am beholding some blue-hot star
i abstain from you, and i sip you in moderation
because i fear i will come to live for what you ignite in me
the knowing that we're here and we're here and we're here.
for in you, i have found port and asylum, safe harbor
where i can drop anchor, moor my wayfaring ship
lover, my quietly brooding daydreamer,
you need not feign nonchalance around me:
your laughter is spring rain and i wish to bathe in it,
your stoic shoulder some perennial rock to rest my stubbled chin,
and i am but some wide-eyed child, stunned into wonderment
by the blessing that is you,
lover, to call you sweet would be to dishonor you:
the words you hand-pick for me are savory as dew-glazed herbs, and i relish the taste of them from your mouth;
together, might we burn sage? make a home together?
fill hearth and hearts?
i see my god in you, and in earnest, i pray:
that i have found continuity, something real and
alive and domestic as it is spontaneous, because
this is a love i will feed daily as if it were my child
my old soul knows yours by tens of names
pero ninguno tan hermoso como iván.
Feb 27, 2025
Feb 27, 2025 at 11:37 PM UTC
...and words still come to my fingertips as i undress you in spirit.
almost-friend, hold me tight and love me true / stare me down, see me as i am: disquieted, patinaed and accustomed to pockets / loose change, a worn copper penny; incoherent, the thrill and lurching sensation of gravity / blooming in my core as i die in my dreams; afraid, for all that word means / of the figs that lie waiting on the branches ahead / ample and pregnant with sweet-rot possibility;
we will labor, singing of light and covalence / until dusk is shorn of its gloomy nightgown / staving off the cold with what tea, what liquid light / the yielding sun could gift our wide eyes: / just ask, darling almost-friend / and i will provide, because…
you are a fawn, limber and knobby-kneed / and i am but a stranger waxing melancholy in stolen glances from afar / as you come into focus in my wood / drinking from my fountains and eating from my briars / leaving me to wonder, “how could i not love such a soul, astute and gentle as it is?” / and so i offer you food and drink because i have nothing else / you could be in want of;
but such things are not for me to behold / and i fear that you will molt your coat as seasons change / the down behind your ears yielding to antlers sprouting like milk teeth from gums / tendering tender for tenacious, grace for gruesome / that you will forget the hands that have proffered to you / sustenance and healing in your darkest hours / for to see others consume satisfies my hunger / to see others delight, my vicarious feast;
in my mind’s eye, you are unclothed and angelic / even with the ophidian basin of your back pressed flat against the tiles of a scalding shower / even with tears ravaging your honest face / here, the masquerade, the spectacle and circumstance, ends / because your rapture will betray your guilt / and we will summit new zeniths hand-in-hand / be baptized, enthralled in the fresh, algid, restless oceans we called forth from the far reaches of our globe / with nothing more than the labyrinth-etched palms of our hands / charting the great floods of yesterday / inking them into the annuls of a friendship (nothing more) for the ages;
celebrate holier mysteries in the anamnesis of that day / we rested upon sand fine as powder, crusted on our knees and elbows / as the ark of our covenant neaped and sprang with cyclical certainty / almost-friend, smile me but one more drowsy floodgate grin / rest your raven-crowned head upon my bare chest / laying in that tender way for eternity / and never again will i ask that wretched question of you: "are you with me?"
no, darling almost-friend: forget me not / because fair weather or poor, my love will remain / echoing truer far and far more sweet / than the oblivious whisper of a forest brook / or the stentorian thundering of an ocean reclaiming what once belonged to it / to know that i am cared for even a fraction of how i care for you is an honor/ and as but a stranger gazing from afar, i promise you this: i will far sooner take myself for granted than you / even should no tea remain to keep us warm, i will hold you till the storm passes / and forever will your name be engraved herein.
Dec 24, 2023
Dec 24, 2023 at 5:27 PM UTC
the boy scout in you died
when you were 16.
the creatures of the wilderness
of the brush and bramble
the mountains and basins
held vigil at the low-lying ranch with its
wide-brimmed eaves casting shadows
on the lake in the evening light
the viper slithered solemn
the mockingbird warbled wistful
the frog croaked creaky
the monarch flittered fretful
i couldn’t care the way you did
you wanted that freedom because
you were never afforded it
not by the crucifix nor your family
you wanted to be able to go
anywhere, anytime, at your own will
so you logged your 30 hours,
did the lessons
you earned your freedom
i wonder if you’re a good driver:
if you shout and swear like my parents
when cut off on the freeway
or if road rage takes a backseat
to the sheer pleasure of coasting on
highways and night air
breathing syncopated
with your heart beating in 6/8
i want to be in your shotgun seat
no maps, i want to get lost with you
miles? we’ll quantify distance with time:
five hours in any direction,
smug with the knowing that
wherever we’ll end up
texas’s blazing lone star
will still shine overhead
sheaves of hallowed rays gathered
like threshed wheat
sun biting the rolling golden plains
of our faces, mother of pearl spittle
dribbling from my lips in ecstasy
(i could never stop drooling
while napping)
an almost imperceptible
etch-a-sketch grin
betraying your apparent enjoyment
i imagine you splayed on
limestone and shale
toes tickled by mountain water
or balancing on the bow-legged
boughs of some mighty fallen oak
swollen strawberries skinny dipped in
marshmallow fluff
blistering over open fire
mottled black and praline brown
sticky chocolate between our fingers
all in our very own golden afternoon
i imagine your lips on mine in a
humid school locker room
choking back bile and something else
as i succumb to your gnawing
an indomitable wildness emanating
from my skin, fierce, foreign, fickle
like the stubborn shimmer of pollen
caked on my leaden eyelids
i imagine your neck making
sweet amends with mine
carotid against carotid,
lifeline on lifeline
tracing cherry-red capillaries
with fingers that could speak to wood
protruding from carpenter’s palms
soft and creased like origami cranes
the little love you can spare me
broils me alive
what bitterness in my bone marrow
maillard-sweetened as the days pass
burn fast, burn bright kindling
summer eats me alive and it's glorious
i imagine that you fight for this
(because i refuse to fight any longer
for a love that i'll never receive)
your mirth, you sacrificed
in the name of growing up
because you knew **** well
that with happiness came
the certain promise of pain
the boy scout's compass,
the adventure, the calling,
tucked away neatly in a box
and traded for more classes,
extracurriculars, exams,
time spent withering behind screens
more, more, more, something, anything,
to plug the gaps and fix the leaks
because things are better this way, right?
you don't stop because running towards
the unreachable is familiar, comforting
my mother can attest to the fact
that i have no sense of direction
but my heart has always
stood strong and pointed true
i will be your due north, your polaris,
with a quiet majesty rivalling a
thousand sunsets and moonrises
bearing sharp as the bite of june
asphalt on the bare soles of feet
still, even below our tie-dye sky
we found even darker corners
to sequester ourselves in
when threatened with the
possibility of light
i want to share milkshakes with you
in red-white checkerboard-clad diners
i want to stargaze among bluebonnets by your side
the breath of the creek thick in the air
i want to bake cookies upon cookies together
until you are fragrant with butter and toffee
i want...i want...
Nov 27, 2022
Nov 27, 2022 at 10:37 PM UTC
VIII. trompe-l’oeil
come one, come all
boys and girls
to the menagerie
sip your fill, if it suits your fancy
eat and relish, if you’d like
poke and **** and gawk and gape
oh please do make yourself at home, dear
let this pain and my unspoken words
be your momentary delight
trompe-l’œil
i could never reconcile
real and ruse
make me your canvas
lay your slick brushstrokes
before the paint on my eyes dries
make me your clay
to hold and to touch
master your craft
on my nacreous freckled flesh
make me your cloth
tuck into my glaciated folds
when you feel down
perfumed to hide the rot
pin me up by my wrists to admire
or lock me away with your shame
keep me breathing on
borrowed time and borrowed oxygen
cigarette burn kisses and asphalt smiles
keep the silk on my eyes
that i may see only what you want me to
and learn what it means to play god
you peered down at me
from chiaroscuro temple ceilings
“god or man?”, i could never tell
oh they all want to be me
ashen graphite fingers
worlds bending to my pencil whims
head buried in precal homework
hands tucked into the
holes of our sweaters
fraying laces, scuffed suede skates
swollen ankles, heads through moonroofs
as we coasted on highways and night air
it wasn’t us, but it could’ve been
toasting to our lucky constellations
i let the liquor and brown sugar
burn and stick to my ribs
crystallize into caramel cages
because it got darker and colder quicker
without you, dear
the days swallowed by yawning loneliness
and the fire let me know i was still awake
but it’s hard wearing your heart
on sweater sleeves
splayed out for the world to see
you carved it out with a paring knife
and kept it throbbing with nightstand pills
by law, every process must decay
it is said that which strikes the shell
does not scathe the pearl
but i am the product of imperfections
scraping, gnawing, ripping
like misshapen gears in a clockwork machine
if too, this bloated body was fashioned
by the hands of god
if too, this sickly brown, pockmarked skin
could glow once again
if too, games could remain games
and war could remain war
if too, blood was thicker than water
may these hands be clean
quench your thirst in my fountains
sate your hunger in my briars
dare to **** me dry, dear
(and i will **** you raw)
Jan 27, 2022
Jan 27, 2022 at 9:49 PM UTC
II.
the boy at the coffee shop
is, in fact, a barista
he whiles away his time
at odds with metal monoliths
coaxing honeyed shots of espresso
from the scalding machines
and honing his delicate craft
his language is one of
valves, gaskets, filters
copper boilers and pressure
his artistry
in the turning of steam knobs
folding froth into rich milk
the pulling of levers
the milling of fragrant beans
the pouring of flowers
he learnt his calling
when he first sipped that
viscous indian coffee
cut with bitter chicory
softened with caramelized cream
and dark brown sugar
this is what he understood, coffee:
input/output, give/take
ratios and recipes
detailed tasting notes
he spoke to the machines
and they answered eagerly
and the barista thought the world
to work the same way...
till he saw the girl at the coffee shop
questions glimmered in her eyes
and sweet mocha laced her lips
she was nothing like his machines
all hopeful uncertainty and "what next?"
she wears her hair in braided crowns
concealing her mica-freckled skin
behind oversized cable-knit sweaters
scribbling in sketchbooks for hours
she too, honing her craft
he is a
chipped porcelain cup
gilded with gold
letting others sip their fill
till the cup is empty
and nothing remains
someday he will
go up and talk
to the girl
at the coffee shop
but for now
he is just
a stranger
longing from afar
forever people watching
and forever watched by people
-wren
Dec 18, 2021
Dec 18, 2021 at 6:33 PM UTC
I.
the boy at the coffee shop
is a nameless being
with a permanent hold on her
he fills her waking thoughts
with his soft smiles
and brown eyes
light cocoa skin
a sharp contrast
to the white of a coffee cup
every time she's there
he is too
it makes her wonder
if he happens to work there
but in all her time at the cafe
she has yet to see him
put on an apron
and ask for orders
she longs to talk to him
to banter and to flirt
to have a coffee shop au
all her own
but every time
she tries to speak
doubt creeps
into her throat
and stays there
she is a
chipped porcelain cup
gilded with gold
letting others fill her to the brim
till she spilled over the edges
someday she will
go up to talk
to the boy
at the coffee shop
but for now
she is just
a stranger
longing from afar
forever people watching
and forever watched by people
-j.
Dec 18, 2021
Dec 18, 2021 at 6:32 PM UTC
VII. mitosis
i...
i love him
and i will pay with fire and brimstone
maybe i’ll realize
that the plot arc of my life
doesn’t really make any sense anymore
that i don’t know where i’m going
(i never really did)
and i’m falling i’m ******* falling
the potter's wheel lays in disuse
the clay has cracked
much like ourselves
crazed in the heat of our crucible
the teacups are but shards
and no golden lacquer remains
to mend, to smooth sharp edges
we cherish things until
we can replace them
"fragile, handle with care"
i didn’t test in an inconspicuous spot
i didn’t reset to factory default
i didn’t come assembled
but i didn’t come broken either
we were dealt the cards before
we even knew we were players
and i cry for innocence had,
and innocence lost
innocence misplaced,
and innocence taken
my nightmares lathered
in sterile surgeon cyan
after all, we lobotomized machines
could never feel
what pleasures lie,
in those frosty windowed wards!
arched backs, bucked hips
gossamer cauls of flesh unwillingly broken
bulimic hearts, skinny love
i need not drink but the viscous
milken nectar of our lust
what pleasure, achilles!
what pleasure?
what pleasure is there in
the supplication of sutured flesh?
iphigenia, astynome...briseis—
flesh blemished, removed, replaced
housing haunted souls
heracles, phaethon, oedipus, icarus...
are we too consigned to eternal song,
that bitter deathless death,
like our tragic forbearers?
our glory, our hamartia
lies only in our love, philtatos
when wisdom brings no profit
to be wise is to suffer
the proud will be humbled
and the humble will be exalted
quell your arrogance
mitotic spindle
my name means glory to the father
and i am the prodigal son
all is equal in the chaotic omniscience
of mitosis, of death, of entropy, of war
we? we are indivisible.
Jun 25, 2021
Jun 25, 2021 at 11:14 PM UTC
IX. cathedral
i am human
i am young and stupid
unusual, tragic, and alive
and this is my penance
you are not mine
to keep, to touch, to hold, to love
i will smile when i want to cry in your arms
and i will laugh when i want to scream
i will be content and happy
everything you gift me
will burn as incense, fragrant within
the cathedral of my heart of hearts
till roses bloom within these lungs
and the incense begins to choke
my minutes, hours, days
they are all yours
i only ask that you don't
drop this heart of mine;
appraise it, dust it off, and
replace it in an unsuspecting alcove
for in its fragility, it has been
broken time and time again
and i'm not sure i have it
in me to mend it once more
addiction
speed
immoral
ecstasy
in the
continuum
of
risk, reward, and rheum
everywhere
there is only You
and i...
am but shattered abstractions
fractured glass
in a mosaic beyond
but i will love You
in the only way i know:
wholly, in life and in death,
always and forevermore
goodbye and farewell,
my darling achilles.
May 19, 2021
May 19, 2021 at 10:47 AM UTC
VI. deidameia's danse macabre
we are sick, deidameia
till the end of our days
we are sick with mortality
we are the ants on the pale blue dot
alone in our fruitless toil
we are a godless generation
feigning synthetic emotion
philosophies oh so fragile
dogmatic pins pushed into
unsuspecting cloth dolls
i'm right
you're wrong
i'm lonely
but right now
we stand at the crossroads
of destiny
a former self behind
a well-trodden path ahead
we find nirvana
as the clock strikes thirteen
when my eyes close
i taste oblivion and holocaust
so we dance on the edge
round and around we go
the pauper child, the holy man,
the king, the tiller of the fields:
so you sow, so shall you reap
the dice are cast
the cards are dealt
the matches are lit
this soul has been aching
to burn once again
douse me with kerosene
light me up like
cigarettes to cellophane
choke back the embers
we live on the smoke
i'll hate you till my lungs give out
i'll love you till my body's dust
i've won the world
and all her pearls
i've got the world
except you
Mar 29, 2021
Mar 29, 2021 at 10:49 PM UTC
IV. dawning at the sanctum
We were arms and legs,
ruffled pillows and
twisted blankets
bare writhing bodies
reflected in a warped carnival mirror
glowing embers of a fallen star
Your strokes
tentative and wavering
in an unsteady tremolo
find me where the shy dawn
dare caress the black crystal waters
that sparkled so green
amidst cold oceans of metaphor
and warm, streaky peach jam skies
gift me, make me, break me, grant me
may i find nourishment and sustenance
in suckling the dripping honey
from your velvet rose-tinted lips
slake Your thirst
sate Your hunger
drink from these fountains
and eat from these briars
revel in my sanctum
but let no blessed water
pass my parched lips
i will etch soliloquies into the nape of your neck
i, the calligrapher, you my masterpiece
monet's soleil levant and water lilies
botticelli's map of hell and rorshach blots
i will find god in your twinkling sepia eyes
and repose in the contours of your body
chiseled with conviction bold
i will trace lines traced long ago
and discover you anew
lilting auroras behind these tired eyelids
sweet aubades of clotted maple cream
embroidered into the
buttery cashmere shearling
of Your lush being
knotted, blistering lilac and rose
in this churning ****** sea
of flames and sculpted ice
bold sensual soft
caress but never kiss
it's five a.m.
and i still can't sleep
we're out of time
there's no stopping what's to come
but the taste of jasmine white tea
still lingers on my tongue
i'm still shouting to the void
and playing piano in the brazen dark
Jan 25, 2021
Jan 25, 2021 at 11:56 PM UTC