I went there without you.
I followed rivers to their oceans
as another after another cigarette
hung from the corner of my mouth.
I sat underneath a Seward sunset
and argued with God about
how I didn't want to die
and He kept telling me to
give living a try.
So, I met Satan in
San Diego, and we took a
walk down the Pier as I
folded origami.
I told him I was afraid
of death, but he was distracted
by blondes in bikinis,
so I threw the crane
into the water and watched
as it was devoured by the tide.

I sat with Jesus in Gethsemane
and asked Him if I had a bed in Heaven.
In return, He asked me to stay awake with him,
but the Klonopin was kicking in
and I was too tired to watch Him weep.

One day I'll probably stop writing.
The world would run out of things
to write about.
My mind would run out of things
to write about.

And a terrible lull will linger
over my head.
Probably apathy.
Probably cyclothymia.

I'll leave myself out of everything.
I will only listen to the sound around me,
not the sound that's coming from me.

I am awake.
I swear I'm awake.

The choir girls on rooftops sing
songs of thanksgiving in
harmonious gleam
while the children dance
in vibrant gyrations
underneath the olive trees.

A fire burns while people cheer and chant,
and folk songs flutter like ash.
The sparks fly as burnt wood collapses
and the king takes his throne.

He addresses his court
with eager voice
that echoes across the fields
and all eyes and ears are keenly fixed
on his majesty.

He speaks:
"My people, my friends,
my enemies, my lovers -
from all lands far and wide -
will you open your eyes
and see your live like this?

There is no bloodshed or death
and I can see your lungs expand with each breath.

Now, please fill your cups
with the strongest of wines
and let music ring
with the loudest of chiming.
Let peace fill your souls
and love cloud your minds.

Lay down your swords,
pax et concordia
for love is the strongest of wards."

I recall the rustic leaves,
and the sound they made when crushed
under skateboard wheels,
as they settled around the half-pipe
and the worn rails of Peter Pan Park.

Youngsters,
with their colorful helmets and their
better-safe-than-sorry knee pads,
kicked and pushed their way across the pavement
and pumped their fists in the air
as their boards reached the other side.  
In this Neverland, the kids wanted adventure first -
the tea could wait at home for a little longer.

But, as dusk settles,
the pirates emerge upon the asphalt shores
in fleets of tinted windows and loud exhausts.
These pirates, still adolescent in their own age,
bicker and fight until a hook pierces skin,
blood spills upon the crisp leaves,
and a boy - with naiveness still glistening in his eyes -
becomes another boy who would not grow up
in the Never Never of Peter Pan Park.

I was never afraid of ghosts
before I kept seeing your face
in every mirror I passed.

The past kept you silent.
Locked you in a casket
and buried you in a pile of
faded photographs and
ink that bled recollections
across blank pieces of paper.

Now you are the thunder
that comes after lightning;
you are the shards of glass
after each mirror b re a  k   s.

Train 1
What happens when
you throw hard candies
at the passengers of a double-decker bus?

What happens when
you yell "*****!" at the ladies
on a yacht circling the downtown canals?

What happens when
the sky-deck of the tallest building in the U.S.
puts pavement over its windows?

What happens when that seagull
perched upon the chained buoys
turns into a swan?

Train 2**
What happens when
my father gives his last cigarette
to a homeless man begging for change?

What happens when
the lovers on the loop line
never disconnect lips?

What happens when
the buildings collapse into
the great plains again?

What happens when
the cameras of tourists
lose their capabilities to capture this moment?

I dreamt I had potpourri for supper.
I had candle wax for dessert.
I walked home on a Persian rug.
and I slept on a bed of blueberries.
It was neither cold nor hot,
dark nor light,
war nor peace,
free nor trapped.

I dreamt I was swinging on a wooden swing
hanging freely from Orion's belt.
Waves of something.odd and something.frightening
splashed on my bare feet.
It was neither cold nor hot,
dark nor light,
war nor peace,
free nor trapped.

I dreamt I climbed onto the back of a Chimera,
and flew over Peloponnese.
And saw the splendor of Olympia,
and I thought I saw God sitting His throne.
I reached out to touch His hand,
and fell to the depths of Oblivion.
It was neither cold nor hot,
dark nor light,
war nor peace,
free nor trapped.

It just was.
And I awoke to the reality of gravity.

You're becoming and comely.
My elixir of redundancy;
the effervescent efflorescence
of my eloquent pretentiousness.

Whatever.

I try too ******* hard to impress.

The wind erupts -
you've frozen up
and curse the Cold North
with outstretched arms to the sky.

Oh, how I straightened my tie
and left the warmth of the South
to find your eyes, full of doubt,
staring into themselves through reflections.

"Let go," I say.  "Come inside."

Through all folly
and all anger,
you're frightened here.

You yell:
"How can I start again?
It's all a dream to me now.
Inside is cold, too.
I cannot let go."

Goodbye is inadequate,
but how can we say enough?

So you depart,
I watch you set off.
You sail on rivers,
you float on seas.

I'll be the light in the fog
if you decide to row home.

And busting forth,
I found a new Joy.
I was called out of this darkness
into this glorious Light.

A firefly. A firework. A kaleidoscope. A galaxy of flames.

I will not be cut down and be scattered
among the legions of sand.
My roots will grow
deeper.
My palms will flourish;
my heart strengthen.

The writing on my soul
will never be vandalized or destroyed.

For where your treasure is,
there your heart will be also.
There your heart will be also.

Saudade)
This is a division;
a dissection of blood cells;
a severance of the colors on a canvas.
Separating waters - Moses' staff in the air.
We are singing parting songs into each other's eyes
because we are slurring our words across the pavement.
One final moment slips through the palms of our hands,
flows through the back of our minds,
and calls our hearts to break.
This is goodbye.

Retrouvailles)
And, after all of this,
I will see you again in
the brightness of dawn,
the twilight of dusk.

I will see you again in
the blossoms of Spring,
in the fervor of Summer,
in the colors of Autumn,
in the snowflakes of Winter.

I will see you again.
This is hello.

In the waiting room,
I watched two little boys
play with shadow puppets.
They transformed their hands
into figments of imagination
under the ghostly sterile lights
as doors swung wide
and gurneys and white coats
escorted the suffering
into rooms dressed with
pleasant paintings of peaceful woods -
placed on wall that have seen
far too many flat lines;
windows that have heard
far too many last words.

I try to count the stars.
A vast selection of fossils.
C'est la vie, leviathans.
You burning orbs,
you want to comfort me?

I lay sheepless.
I'm a shepherd
who lost not one sheep,
not two sheep,
but the whole of them.

She walks next to me
like she'll walk next to me
forever.

Sleepless dreaming -
Where slumber does not lead to
vision does not lead to
nightmare or wonder.

Unreal City -
Where each headstone,
covered in moss
and shrouded by fern,
sharply reads:
"THE HORROR!  THE HORROR!"
And those whose souls
still cling to their withering bodies
speak so placidly about The Buried:
"Oh, Mistah _____?  He dead."

Sleepless dreaming.
Where cities crumble into the ocean
and giants buckle at the knees, yelling:

"Shantih!  Shantih!  Shantih!
"Oh Lord, where is The Peace
that passes all understanding?"

The pain settled
in the marrow of her bones
like termites feeding on timber.
The pain battled
with the beautiful thoughts of her mind
like a prize-fighter pinned against the ropes.
The pain dragged
her youth and her innocence

and tossed her off a twelve story parking garage.

The grief stole
the satisfaction of life from his control
like a gust of wind upon candlelight.
The grief fogged
the gleam of hope in his eyes
like factory steam blots out the stars.
The grief shackled
his energy and his spirit

and bound him to a hospital bed.

...why couldn't they find a hand to hold?

The fisherman tells the sea
that he promises to weather its storms.
The sea tells the fisherman
that she promises to carry him
to adventurous lands
upon her leeward waves.

As for me,
I promise we will be okay
as the winds blow the shingles
off our tiny, little house.
I promise we will be okay
as we follow the maps
and navigate the roads
while the radio sings static,
our hands clasped together
at your knee.

I promise that the rain
will radiate diamonds,
that reflect the gleam of your eyes,
onto the shores,
into the sea,
onto me,
and especially onto you.

We will find hope inside the clouds.

I was perched
high above the busy market streets
in the stone wall trees
across the street from your favorite cafe.

You took a seat in the patio
that overlooked the sightseers
living in the moment,
and the photographers
trying to capture the time that was moving too quickly-
knowing this moment could last forever.

I morning light was radiant
in your dark brown hair
like a glimmer of concealed hope
that you and I both share.

I glided down from my arboreal
with my wings - blemished and fragmented,
yet cheerful and warm -
dancing in the warm sea air.

I landed on the rooftop
and I sang to you,
like you've always imagined me doing.

You smiled. A sublime sight to see.
And you closed your eyes and listened,
and breathed,
realizing that time is moving too quickly,
but knowing you can capture this moment

and make it last forever.

A moment left of silence
A calling of all the hard times and good poems
Chasing insects, living our years
Bleeding the same blood we have
I'm one more lonely boy in the heart of the sky
We're swimming in endless space

A moment left of madness
Flooding the same paths we've walked for days
Calling Jesus, falling on floors
Sleeping in the same winter clothes
You're one more broken girl in the eyes of a wolf
We're swimming in endless space

Let's pack our stuff in boxes
and watch the snow fall into place

You must make a decision,
but you are suffocating
and time is running thin.

It's as if you are an astronaut:
one hundred feet away from your shuttle,
and the oxygen tank on your back
is empty.

It's like you are a captain:
pulled under the abysmal blue water
as your ship of the line is submerged
and your legs are tangled in the sails.

But really,
you are a young boy sitting a park bench
next to the girl from the schoolyard
with whom you fell madly in love.

The decision you must make:
Are you going to kiss her?

Reach the shuttle with mere seconds to spare.
Free yourself from the ******* of a sinking ship.

Let the neon lights speak for themselves.
They'll sing my eulogy, I know that for sure.

"What a bright man he was,
always making sure we illuminated the downtown sidewalks
for the boozers and the streetwalkers to see.
See? He wasn't so bad after all-
he helped ease pain".

When you bury me,
bury me with my favorite drink,
and nourish the soil with *****.

The bitter cold came
quickly; it arrived on
the brittle fangs of snow in
October, falling before
Halloween ghouls or the
Advent of December.

We locked ourselves in
that Sunday, watching
it coat the sidewalks
while the little one
knocked blocks together
in front of the fireplace.

You sipped coffee,
crossed-legged on the floor.

And, I swear, no
August heat has ever
made me feel as
warm
as the bitter cold
that came quickly
in October.

Your son sat on your lap
while you waited for the bus
to pick you two up.

Do you remember?

It was a cold December afternoon,
but the moon was already out.
It was rising as the sun was setting,
do you remember?
Both giants were reflecting off of the bus stop glass.

You had your son in one arm
and your bag on the other.
Your bag dropped, remember?
I picked it up for you, remember?

The bag spilled onto the sidewalk.
Your journal and wallet and camera, all of it.
I picked up the contents,
gave it to you when you stepped on the bus,
and you smiled.

Do you remember?

I said you had a radiant smile,
then the doors closed.

Dear, do you remember?
...dear, don't close your eyes now.
Please remember, dear...

do...yo u . .   . re me mber   m    e   ?

We are under a tornado warning.
As I look outside my window,
it appears we have reached the calm before the storm.

The ghosts are occupying the sky,
yelling and firing their guns.
Tears falling upon the heads of the breathing.

I only want to see the sun.
I frantically claw toward the sky.
But I am showered by a million little specks
of a war only Mother Nature understands.

I could dance.
Swing my body under a luminescent streetlight.
Feel my shoes and socks become more and more heavy.
Until my toes are unable to move.

Or maybe I should be more cautious, more vigilant.
maybe I should protect myself from
"life-threatening" danger.
But maybe I deserve it.
Maybe this is the perfect storm for me.
Maybe I shouldn't act like I am comfortable at all.

No more acting.
We have reached the calm before the storm.
Now I'm ready for my curtain call.

A thin, glistening sleeve of rime
refracted the rays of sunrise light
into a bright and shiny morning.

I stood tall amongst the resonance of the
distant hymn of birds,
trying to conceal my
quivering knees.
I took a breath of
the anticipation in the air -
the breeze preparing itself for
the coldest season of the year.

I'm in motion now,
realizing that time goes on,
but unable to comprehend that
time is going right now.

Yet I have my Compass
and I have my Map.
I will sing melodies of hope
for the wind of Winter to carry away.

For I am convinced that
the distant hymn of birds
is the melody of hope
you, too, sing into the wind.

Soon, each of the things that I cherish the most,
like pottery formed by my hand,
will fall from its rest on the eye of a needle
and breaks into pieces of sand.

If I cannot see when the moment arrives
when something so fragile falls
from its balancing act on the tip of a pin,
will time delay for me at all?

stare at nothing in particular,
but they imagine hands that once
embraced their own.

And that nothing in particular
materializes into
everything those eyes want to see -

another moment to hold those hands
and look into eyes that do not grieve at all.

This boat,
sailing on these synapses of rivers,
was leaking badly
and was starting to sink;
my old oars could not take me ashore.

But an immaculate current,
conducted by a divine crescendo,
pushed the waves to land.

I finally slept on the shore
and light shone through the fog.

I smoke every cigarette in the pack
long enough that the filters melted
and my lips blacken
like the nightsky,
when you stepped down
the granite staircase
in a burgundy bouclé dress
that radiated brighter than
the chandelier overhead.

All we ever had was enough.
Now I smoke to remember
the nights when the fog
followed us home
and the music of us
slow dancing in silence.

I pack my bags
and I leave my keys at your door.
You hold me close and you whisper:

*"What the hell are you waiting for?"

Seven demons out at sea,
the ones I casted out of me.
The tide washes them away
and I pray that they find decay.

Lust was swallowed by the sea-
a failed act of *******.
Greed fell pray to crystal blue
hoping the ocean would make do.

Gluttony, and empty man,
tried his hand at Leviathan.
Envy felt its resentment
and dissolved for mere contentment.

Sloth sluggishly found his rest
in the ocean's sufficient breast.
Wrath destroyed his dreadful cage
and his happiness spilled his rage.

Pride found me in deep pleasure:
My satisfaction - his leisure.
He drove me to the great wave
where six deadly sins were enslaved.

I went there without you.
She first spoke to me in the Tower
after poetry and drink.
We discussed broken hearts
and unlovable souls
and how waiting can destroy
even the deepest of loves.

She said I was the lark, ascending
(but the ground pulled at my feet).

She was beckoned toward
a city halfway around the world,
where the markets are always open
and the oceans are always warm.

We still rise to the same sun,

I told her through a screen
as she traveled through
narrow streets on a city bus.

We still fall to the same moon,

she said back, shrouded
in the morning mist.

The waves
collided with one another.
A genesis, in grief and ashes,
seemingly outside
the gates of hell.

The screams
of new birth
suspended me
in the air.
As thick as tree branches;
as crooked as their twigs;
they fastened around my hands,
and I soared high above
the disharmony.

Wavering, incomplete.

My life
flashed before my eyes
and I saw you
standing amidst a red sunrise.
"Don't wait," you said.

"Don't wait."

The world of my spirit
was freed from the shackles of my flesh

and the skies were reborn.

The neighborhood hawk glides
gracefully over the dead ground.

He soars through the smoke of
my morning cigarette
My burning reminder of regret.

The hawk feels no anguish in the
haze
My haze.
That funnels above the dead ground.

I was born amongst
neon lights and
bristling palm trees
on the scorching, receding beach line.

I am my mother's only one.

Several years spent
in garages rented out
by owners who felt sympathy
for my mother and father.

Many miles roaming,
sleeping in the backseat of cars
against my father's body -
all 125 pounds of him.

I am my father's newfound drug.

My mother and father
would take me back
to the receding beach line
while my mother weeps softly
and my dad smokes his last cigarette.

I am a life worth reverence.

and it will flow like oil.

It will grip like a lion's jaw
sinking into the flesh of my neck.

Nothing's about to change.
The vicious cycle of
reminiscence to
recession to
unresponsiveness
is a gift that just keeps on ******' giving.

Until I have nothing left to give.

I'm finished.

The Mill sits comfortably among the sea of red.
Unwavering, unyielding, and thriving.

Cafe Espresso and oolong tea.

The booths are occupied with
reminiscence of the glory days,
contentment between mothers and daughters and sons and fathers,
appreciation of music and art and literature.

All the while sunlight illuminated
the scarf and the starfish
of the girl across from me

as our minds were slowly revealed to one another.

we wake up in sun-drenched rooms.
we sleep to faint, nocturnal tunes.
and we roll in glorious as the clouds
with a lullaby of sound -

the sound of the rain.

we wait in hope of brighter days,
as we watch the tree limbs sway,
and we're onto whatever hope we can find
that sleep under these blue-washed skies.

we fall soft like autumn leaves.
we're swept on by a tranquil breeze,
we land upon the puddles and streams,
and drift away to bigger seas

to the sound of the rain.

A cool summer breeze
sent your hair past
your eyes.
You opened your arms,
looked toward the heavens,
and the sunlight
illuminated everything
that I fell in love with.

Then you grabbed my hand
and we ran toward the waters.
You kicked off your sandals
and rolled up your jeans.

I followed your lead,
and it was the best
decision I've made.

We are the ones,
cast from the warmth and into the cold
where lungs break down
and hearts are left for the wolves.

We bloom in the chill now.
Like a hellebore bursts
from the banks of snow.
We have arrived
where the exiled
were bound to go -
we've packed The Tinguit Inn
and there's no vacancy.

And yes, oh yes,
we remember you,
tugging at our bound wrists.
We can see your eyes- -
your damnable dark eyes,
twist the chains around our necks.

Gendarme, what say you?
Where are your comrades now?
Where are the revolvers
you issued them as you said

"Just in case of an uprising..."

You know, son,
we have a history of
slitting the throats of our cousins
over a handful of stolen grain.

Imagine what we do to a thief
who robbed us from the sails
of our Mediterranean Sea.

Look at the sky!
The plateau and,
beyond,
our land that stretches to
the shorelines!

We are the exiled
from the Tinguit Hotel,
and yes - you will pay.

*Tu paieras.

He lays in his bed
under a thin layer of dust
and ash from his cigarette after cigarette.

The sheets tremble above his breath.
His chest cracks and crumbles.
His heart's an inferno.

He ricochets between
anger and self-pity
and denial.

Two days ago
she left without a word;
slipped from underneath
the covers and buried herself in
bottles of *****
before crossing the street
to the vineyard.

She weaved together
the branches
and kicked the stool from underneath
her bare feet.

as he watched from the window.

He knows she will come back.
She will untie herself from those
grapes of wrath
and rest her head
against the pillow next to his own.

A division,
a spot of bother.
Part the waters, Moses.
We will wait here and clench our teeth,
for the dams might break
and destroy this city.

This town is slurring its words all over the pavement.
These columns of stone and fountains of gold
won't last forever.
(Selah)
Don't blink,
because I'm trusting you'll keep watch with me.

Kyrie, eleison.

You're a river...

You sat along the fire.
You saw the light -
your self.

Your self ought to know
it's over now.
It's all.

Your sigh's alone -
Your soul.

You sat along the fire.
You saw the light -
Your soul.

You're so far alone,
you're full of life -
your soul.

You sat alone by my side
the fire burned
radiantly*.

The cathartic release
of weeping on the kitchen floor.
Hands on top of head, screaming

"how much longer will this last?"

I remember it well.
That naive kind of love
shared through anonymity
when, in fact, I knew it was you all along.

Things haven't changed very much from then,
have they?
We still write
but with a more
colorful
vocabulary.

And with this
I vicariously replace my virtues
with violent vibes and
vaudeville-esque veneers.

I try to become more mature than I was back then
with these words
that fill these notebooks
that ooze
adventure and joy and sorrow and hatred and lust and violence and praise and thanksgiving and trust and disbelief and doubt and
hope
and pain.

My truthbox is full of letters to myself.
Letters that wouldn't fit in an envelope
to send to you.

So I let you read them on that schoolyard bench
under the lamppost.

Did you pay attention to detail?

The dissonance feels indiscernible now.
My favorite bench became home
for both of us.

You didn't scorn,
rather embraced me from the beginning.
And the sky opened;
the stars glowed only for you.

Watch them glow,
watch them sparkle for you.
(I bet you didn't know this was for you)

Only poetry was being written.
A screenplay coming to life.

Avant la prochaine fois, manquer,
avant la prochaine.

I asked him to play the riff he wrote, out of a spark of brilliance, on his guitar.
And as I close my eyes,
his finger pluck away at the strings
as softly as my grandmother passed in her sleep.
(I knew she would love this sound-
she was always a sucker for guitars)

I close my eyes and hum a melody.
He closes his eyes and strums.
And for a moment I am with her again,
clinging to the last bit of memory I have left of her.

I finally get to tell her goodbye.

We never spoke words,
we only compiled songs.

We understood every connotation
behind every tune.

The way I look at it,
a mixed tape is a poem.
Each song is a stanza,
every note is a feeling,
and every emotion
is in perfect likeness with the one who sent it.

She sang a cappella
so loud that the love
and her personal
Via Dolorosa
in her words
and in her melody
floated tangibly out of her lips
as if it were the
walking-wounded soldier's
letter to her
that she received many years ago.

"I miss you, darling.
I'm coming home soon,

I promise"