Said the aloe to the agave
Neighbour
here in a foreign soil
the old world meets the new

Said the agave to the aloe
they forget
once we were related
can hardly tell the difference still
the human eye is quite deceptive
and what to say about the human heart . . .

Said the aloe to the agave
my blood turns to heal the ill
my fibres pulp to an ageless skin . . .

Said the agave to the aloe
my blood turns to a song and dance
my fibres pulp to a rope and cloth . . .
but what do the humans offer us

Said the aloe to the agave
not much

The sky resembles the robin's eggshells
                                                      scattered across the ground,

a blue so seemingly infinite                     yet fragile,
cracks running between understanding and madness

       complementing each other

as divine truths in their own right
to conquer my mind,
to unhinge the doors,
making it unnecessary to pick rusted locks

      letting thoughts fly free,
                                       releasing love out into the horizon.

If frozen within caged snapshots of mildewed expectations,
      it will surely die,
                 but even so,
  I was willing to strangle it by holding on too tightly.

    
    Until I saw the sky and eggshells today


      Peppered clouds reflected on the water,
                                            paralleling speckles on the eggshells,
                                    remind me of the freckles on your face.

  We need to be wide-open-free,
                                                we need to fly,
         without focusing too ******* shells of yesterdays.

We need to unclench our fists,
unclench our tongues,
explore the vast blue peppered sky
                                                
                                                      on wings of letting go....

so that we can once again feel with purity,      
so that we can hold each other ever closer.







05.24.12

Momentary lapses of shyness within pretentiousness the size of a non-la-hat
offering shade from the sweltering sun,
confused the boy still residing beneath an
exterior of brashness. A wooing of rose or
lotus petals? Did she not enjoy such frivolity?
What of a bard letting words slide through
the air like silk, for I didn't possess such
romantic poetry.
__

Instead, I embarked upon a journey of false-heroism, took a bullet, figured it to shape me
into a man. I showed off the wound, blood soaking through the bandages--you seemed far from impressed by this display of stupidity.
Yet you played coy, bending over,
letting sunlight play through a thin
summer dress, highlighting inner thighs,
lines arching up into a dome of dizzy-
delirium so sensual it almost appeared sinful.

At night you'd undress before a naked
window, let shadows flirt across moonlit dew.
It was all I could do to keep eyes averted,
instead, living on dreams of unwrapping gifts
under the influence of feverish waves,
even though I never forgot to take quinine.

And after all the games, I had only to stay
still long enough for you to complete another sketch, take its lines, breathe together a new poem, unleashing torrents of words into my ear. A funny sort of unconventional, tactile courtship. You wanted for me to listen,
to test my patience, and once your head
was emptied out, heat arose from the bloom, enveloping me in soft petals, vanquishing
my fever, with a different feverish embrace.
Your eyes almost felled me with their complexities of virginal innocence and a whorish lust. The thrusts,
lips and fingers, the blended push-pull
of rhythm and wild abandon
caused me to lose myself long enough,
to find your soul drifting alongside my own,
amongst the stars that had always been shining amongst the light already written
before our birth.