Picking, lacy clouds from April skies
to make a bouquet of wildflowers,
I get tired of leaning and think of was

Disappointed,
since when did I decide to
hide myself behind insincerity?  

Made, my wish come true
by writing one more poem on
dull riots of burning willows

Distraught,
twice-born within
seven days of this in a hotel
of days like a passing shadow

Pitied, myself for being so
for having such a weak
and childish heart  

Humm, in the marketplace  
I patiently pick out the perfect
moments from a basket of kiwis

Surprised, by ten years roamed
of letting days go idly by
while I stay perfectly still

Faithless,  
compiling my work
of brushing grass and prose,
not caring anymore about fame

Mindless, my shutter snaps
another beautiful day that’s mine
and I quickly pin it on my wall

Wending,
without a word,
I fall from April skies

Once I met a six-faced man who spoke
Of an ancient curse which lullabies  
And as we drank Suntory whiskey
He spoke of the hidden law of numbers
Which spiral and regress in a dance

Looking away from his lotus eyes
He continues to talk to me of the filth
Which overgrows in our greenhouse  
And how interminable poetry refuses
To yield to death’s, his, ambition

We drank to the thrashings of beauty
And to diminishing lilac which sleeps,
As he smoked his last cigarette he
quickly made valleys of early morning
making the sky a burnt orange-blue  

Realizing then I was wrong
To be holding on to distraught words
And trying to find answers within
The complexity of decision trees

Learning then that I didn’t live again
To be cursed by money or wishes made
That I didn’t live to be cursed by fame
Nor to be cursed by the respect of poets
That I didn’t live to be cursed by her love
Nor the curse of your inevitable arrival


As my memory of him fades

I hold my velvet tongue
and watch it flare
in a merry go round
it dies on hardening lips
I watch my decaying echo
flutter in rapture
and cascade molting air
and as I regress
into silence

Somewhere out there in the  imagination:

Roams a smiling fool many called Rose
Who was too fond of living to believe any
of their heavy words carelessly thrown    .

Spending his years traveling through
collected winds and holicly written
predicates onto bank receipt papers        .

Who didn’t need a heritage or a name
to remember to live again among
The scattered rushes and highways        .

and only the trees understood him
And his undying need to grow shapes
and shadows from nothing                        .  

Somewhere out there in the dozens of
breaking lilacs that speak in silence    
lives a smiling fool called Rose               .

how you feel against mine
and how your neck feels around
Around my teeth and the marks I
Inevitably leave you with

And so barely and so tiredly your voice
carries over into mine and I feel like
I am slow-ly dying in a heaven that
doesn’t exist but that does exist

Trembling and stroking and flamily
You hold me until I cannot stand it
Anymore of the eternal back and forth

and forth and back we make our song
that is sincere and true and beautiful
in a lilac of color and wind that
protrudes from our moving muscles

And I being so careful in our breathing
between ourselves making nothing
nothing matter but the nerves chasing
and traveling in again and again in