Alone


Unfolding...

I am mourning before the dawn
unveiling
crumpled bedspread sheets
a hollow space
where comfort once found
your slumber deep,
I find an echo
of your breath
as my tears interrupt
a yawn / a stretch

while trust feels like a home
invasion,
a **** save for the flesh...

I am a trail of moisture
upon the cheeks, the searching
throughout a graveyard home
yielding empty halls,
bleak,
of no fruition / a tomb;

I am the ache within
Darkly,
My harsh and sordid
imagination / disambiguations
roaming
To thoughts of you
in someone else's fever
a slicing cut that opens
and equals that pain

unleashing avalanche of blood
but it's only a crimson thought
which floods,
again & again...

I’m in that home, now
kept unkempt
like the dust on portraits’
sepia gloom… and
the sound of bare feet
clapping
hardest upon wooden floors

In a saloon
lacking conversations
without a care taken
of why / from where / or whom

I once had strength
which waned
Like the more ocean waves
punch the cliffs and shore,
my reserves began again to drain.
I collapse into bed
On pillows, I lay.

I am the hope which wants
what lived once before
Loud out-cries' / begets prayers
to ancestral sky
fearful hearts and minds
life alive yet
Afraid
to die….in due
Time
            I am a tomorrow of love yet made
inept of any trust
I have been blind told to break...
            (My iron will to rust)
I am alone
since gone are the yesterdays
you romanced such secrets
with escapades
(grinders found in spades)
I am the hush that must escape

never getting to know
the calligraphy & the colors,
all the facets of love's very face,

unfeeling
replaced
I am a violin
from some distant space,
far and away
a wish
a yearning
as California’s burning

Asking kindly

Love me
if only
for the sake of today
for I am
lonely...
for I am the light
each night

unfolding...

the onion in father's hands didn't have time to cry,
with his fist punched it on the corner of the table, spread salt and
ate it with sheep's cheese,
(like the builders of the pyramids, my dad was paid in onions)

the onion in my mother's hands was sweet and made many leaves,
spring after spring she shared it throughout the village,
people were wondering: how does not bring tears,


every time I have an onion in my hand I think,
to clean it with my hands,
cut it with a knife, or
punch it with a fist,

the onion in my hands
is waiting

I was always infused by the quartz of time
I balanced love in separate hands ; cut , aching , refusing to heal

Happiness was measured out one grain of sand at a time
My measuring cup runneth over

My thoughts are bleached  bone white .
But I have preserved the marrow of my ways

I am the walking cacti
that push rocks in the sand creating the trails of tears that never reach the ground

I am desert
Full of the emptiness
that exists on the face of clocks and time

I am one grain of sand
The silence of the wind
I have no foundation
I'm tendered to my whims

~
This isn't happening
all of the sudden
we need to close the beaches
and call in sick

Don't cry again teargas
it's not your fault
don't get hot there gun
you gave it your best shot

Song and dance, weekend warrior
soothe your soul
with a little radio friendly fire

The forest can be petrified
the sea wild
working without a mask
is both, you know

It's quite out of this world
but you haven't
really seen outerspace
until you've had DayQuil
with dissociatives

Then you take hot trips
to odd places
like an international
convenient store
where they're always
out of Africa and milk

I wish Monday mourning
would go jump off a bridge
I wish taco Tuesday
would become a festive holiday
nevertheless, our girl Friday
is always good for the job

The weight has lifted
the wait has (week)ended
the search for
my socks and sanity
can now kick off
~

When she folds into me and weeps,
The world of empty things falls into me
Like the wetness of July in antiquated Rome,
Mother of tears, Mater Lachrymarum, in Forum stone,
The rain-addled veneers of Octavia’s portico.

Gather up these black sickened bellies of ruins,
Turn them out to make hunger the den of the skies,
Let the cracked whisper of each monument and temple
Breathe as Caesar, in unending stillness like a bare road.

A road is the sadness of seeing our beginning
But knowing love its far-off end is foretold.