The lips conjure the trinity which can be heard, not seen,
which hands may manifest to eyes what ears have heard, not seen.

The lips beget belief so faith may be what it's not been,
until the hands may work that faith may see what's yet unseen.

The trinity, no man may see, composed of just three words,
enters into the darkness of the heart which none have seen.

"I love you," radiant, divides the dark of night from day,
the corners of the heart, illuminated, then are seen.

The trinity, by lips conjured, embue a godly breath
into the breast of one long dead, the miracle is seen.

Though life begins, it too must end, eventual the death,
if hands then fail to manifest the trinity, unseen.

But if the hands bring forth the words to prove them to the heart,
then death is thwarted, life remains and paradise is seen.

(C)2013, Christos Rigakos

ask me to rate my pain on a scale of 1 to 10,
   and i'll give you a crippling number.
  an above-10 number.

ask me to look the boy who no longer loves me in the eye
and i'll shy away. i'll avert my own eyes.
i will walk by him as if we are strangers,
       and i will feel the seams on my heart pop open,
one by one.

ask me if i feel like breaking
   and hurting.
ask me about the emptiness in my chest
        and the grey behind my eyes. ask me if it hurts my heart to beat.
    ask me if my blood is still in the habit of quickening when he's close.
ask me if i regret anything,
and i'll tell you that i regret everything.

      ask me if i love him
      and ask me if i want him.
           for those, i won't have an answer.
           only silence. only thought.

ask me if parts of me hate him,
  and i'll tell you about the low burning in my belly,
         the hating-blaming-burning
and the ******-up way it makes me feel.

ask me if i miss him.
i'll tell you that i am hollow.
i'll tell you that my whole body, my whole heart, is nothing but missing him.
i'll tell you i might just blow away
   without his love to anchor me.
i'll tell you that i feel absolutely empty

and it will be the truth.

I do not have
time for the
   harvest moon
   tonight

Shot in the
    light of achieve-
         (meant all the world)

filibuster then, fill your heart until you've
     busted, down and rusted and
            caked with regret
  
  never stand between yourself and
        falling, or love will grow hot like
   shower-heads turned too far, like
       grainy distorted sight streaming out our
                  smiling ears, ceaseless cerulean

    (I'm dull gold, and you
       said you liked polishing)

The astral umbilical cord which tethers flesh to soul,
in Death is torn, the spirit soars, the man is no more whole.

In life when man is put away outside the city gates,
untethered by a scornful wife, his spirit bears the toll.

Untethered, man may roam the paths of cemetery aisles
as dead, yet spurned by those in graves--the living corpse's role.

As dead in spirit, living flesh hangs rotten on its bones,
yet breathing still it can not qualify to rest in hole.

Though charitous among the living offer food and clothes,
I only seek from those I've lost to fill my begging bowl.

Declining shelter I have chosen life under a bridge,
that I may watch my loved ones from afar, their ugly troll.

Where love is life, a loveless life is spiritless corpus.
In my decay in search I stray to find again my soul.


(C)2013, Christos Rigakos

i knew a girl, not well, but i
          knew well enough to be
a floating cloud upon the sky
          when need arised to see
if some temptations had the gust
to move her into someone's ******
          and as it were i rained into the sea

(C)2013, Christos Rigakos

In my graduation t-shirt,
and it fits right,
she finger-and-thumbs
the switch on my desk lamp.
Lights on.
And I'm getting too thin.
It shouldn't fit right.
"No, no. I want it dark," I say.

"Tell me what's off limits."

Her eyes, big and wet with bongwater,
wash over me. I'm pebble. I'm allowed.

"Why?"

"I want to know what's off limits
so I know where to set my goals."

I believe in love, even at first sight.
Just not the eternal kind. And I love
her when she says things like that
because I created her. And when
you create, and the creation reaches
perfection, all you want to do--
destroy. Hammer to head. Crowbar
to Parkinson thighs. What's off limits?
What's off limits? What's off limits?
I can't stop.

Before I respond,
with adolescent delight
she tears me open by the pearl snap.
She lifts her arms up.
Surrender? No. She's a sycamore.
I'm the wind.

Body bare and body scattered,
congregate at the inosculation
of her trunks. She's a sycamore.
I'm the wind.

Wavering.
Leafless.
***-addled.
And the breeze doesn't do it.
And the seasons don't affect it.
Gale force insanity.

I climb her branches.
Beard wet with her.
She wipes her off.

I climb her branches.
I can't stop.

Grows into me.
Trunks entrap.
Elevated, she.
And I, well, I

stumble.

Hit the wall.
Concrete, everything.
I press her against it
so hard, she turns to waste
and passes through.
I press her against it
so hard, I can't stop.

Autumn acorn fingertips,
a river emptying to ocean,
and she asks,"Is this off limits?"
as she turns me sharply
and my back collides with the wall.
"Is this off limits?" she asks as she
pounds her head into mine.
"Is this off limits?" she asks as she
claws my face.
"Is this off limits?" she asks as she
licks to heal.
My will says yes.
My flesh says no.

I can't stop.

it charged at me, this muscled bull enraged--
its flaring nostrils snarling, snorting breath,
a steam--unleashed from some unnoticed cage,
and trampled hap-strewn bookbags to their death,

along the closest aisle 'tween students' desks,
while on its beeline path straight toward me,
she, by some scalding fury magic hexed,
transformed into this vile monstrosity,

with hands-turned-talons grabbing clump of hair,
my side-yanked skull and body followed suit,
i tilted right and toppled with my chair,
'pon impact with the floor i faced her boot,

hot breath screamed to my face and singed my eyes,
obscenities, growled expletive assaults
so pummeled ears while spittle mixed my cries,
lambasting accusations showed my faults,

for i had done some very taboo thing,
was loud or spoke some word unwittingly,
and so was hung to die upon a string,
while lashings of her rage whipped welts on me,

after my execution was complete,
she buried me, my grave a league so deep
in homework, i was crushed before her feet,
and made a slave for all the year to keep.

(C)2013, Christos Rigakos

I will not end for you, no.
I will begin, and I will keep
on beginning.

I will lick peach juices from
my fingertips like mama's milk
dripping from the ****. I will wrap myself in
silk sarongs and stay that way for days,
marveling at the texture of my own skin.
I will run naked through the rain and
liberate myself in knowing that
what will happen will happen and
there is no safe way out. I will sit close
and listen. I will breathe water lying still
in a stream. I will eat poems for
breakfast and I
will slowly learn
how to die.