I’ve found religion in your smile.
Trusted the way it curves, practicing
the lines in my mind with delicacy,
ripening your image until it’s sore.
Your throat baptizes me,
replaces the devil of my intentions
with sweet, rosy breath,
curling my inhibitions until they dive
back into me and I express my very desires
openly on a blanket--
and it’s no sin
because I love the way your spine stands
like a perfect cross, carrying me
to the vision you have of a better me
than what I used to be.
I’ve prayed for your thighs in naughty ways,
but you’ve taken my hands,
folded them into shapes I can’t comprehend
and kissed my fingertips until I was crying
out of confusion and catharsis,
finally understanding what it feels like to count
people, you, as a blessing.
I see God when you make instruments
out of blades of grass, or how that strap
slides off your shoulders when the wind
graces the moment with a whisper.
He gave me an angel disguised as a woman
with too many pillows on her bed and coffee breath,
but you pull me from point to point like taffy,
slowly, lagging, molding me into the gift
you never wished for. I, bestowed at His feet,
unwilling found a soul and a heartbeat
louder than any of my unforgiving words.

Sometimes it was as if she sipped chlorine
from little bottle caps with yellow nails,
tilting her skeletal neck back,
balancing it on a vertebrae that popped
through the top of her pastel blouse.
Really though, she ate media on sandwich bread;
believed anything in bold with twin quotations.
She was a hint of a woman, blue eyes. Translucent,
fair, a suggestion haunted by her own demons
that she dreampt about after I stayed up, waiting
for the sleeping pills to kick
in. After the baby came she obsessed
over her thickness, was confused and destroyed
as she called it by the miracle I laid in the crib
every night. Old photographs weren’t memories,
just reminders of how she used to look.
She would scream, explode with frustration,
when the baby wouldn’t stop crying, begged
Why doesn’t she like me? But it’s hard to hold
onto a ghost, sweetie. So she swore,
and she swore that tomorrow would be better,
she would get better. But I know
that once again I’ll make her a breakfast she’ll never eat,
rock the baby back to sleep,
and loop myself around another sunrise
just to feel warm again.

my heart
like a small drunk boat
between two coves  
with no oars,
like the the top of a match stick  
ready to be lit

my heart
like a bustard
wandering on the mine fields of regrets,
like  seagulls
lost on the fingers of
a fool poet

my heart
either will get lost on these flows
or resurrect on these ebbs

poems like no words
is my heart

A hot spring
In the midst of Brooklyn
She walked in
An empty basin
Porcelain!
Suddenly rained
The water moving
Rage!
No wind to sail
No sun glare
Raveling black fiber
Ravened the rain
Stabbing through
Skin!
Awakened millions
Thirsty pores
Two hands walk
Ten fingers
Doing push ups
From head to toes
Bubbly bubbles
A bouquet of cloud
Smells of utopia
Rinsing off!
The curtain opens
Crinkles
A middle aged woman
Leaped out
A naked trickling rain

My passport says I'm 1.89
Metres tall. I carry pallet jacks
Up stairs at work.

I can bench press 130 kg
On a good day, about 30 more
Than I weigh.

I can punch through three layers
Of sheet rock, still I just
Picked up my cat

And held her a good while.
Because I needed
A hug.