defenseless dreams
surrendering with silence,
unsuspecting seas surging,
beckon the limp body,
forever tranquil,
afloat the warm waters of
freedom.

The still explosions on the rocks,
the lichens, grow
by spreading, gray, concentric shocks.
They have arranged
to meet the rings around the moon, although
within our memories they have not changed.

And since the heavens will attend
as long on us,
you've been, dear friend,
precipitate and pragmatical;
and look what happens.  For Time is
nothing if not amenable.

The shooting stars in your black hair
in bright formation
are flocking where,
so straight, so soon?
--Come, let me wash it in this big tin basin,
battered and shiny like the moon.

In an apartment on 53rd street
A fire is burning
Out of a keyhole &
Into a cigarette.

Smoke comes in walls
& is heavier than rocks
& it takes an artist
To hate oneself.

Moon-faced Serbians sipped
Drain-O from sandals
While red-lipped nomads
Gazed & sharpened their blades.

A fat lady walks in &
Before she can say
“Burger & fries”
There are spears in her ears.

The body is dragged to the
River by sheepish failures, but
The boxer knew what was afoot &
Had removed all the water from the river.

But no-one cared because a riot had
Started in the streets
“Flay the feminazis,” they chanted
“Pour molten oil on the devout,” they screamed.

& all the flat-eyed artists
& all the drag-queen mobsters
Danced around the fire like evolution
& an ape got in the middle of it.

His fingertips calloused
His elbows like spears
His eyes w/ more blood
Than white.

Richard Nixon or
A Richard Nixon costume
Entered stage right w/
Boxing gloves & cocktails.

They would throw children
Across the fire
& artists on the other side would be
Waiting w/ nets & knives.

But then tear gas came
& they cried & their
Tears were like the eyes that
Glinted at them.

Out of a keyhole &
Into a cigarette.

My thoughts stretch like
Centuries. They pull apart
And snap and make my body
Little more than a vessel

Of something or other. I feel
Flesh as if it was the bottom
Of a mossy pool. Or something
Else I know not of.

They stretch like mothers.
Bending, breaking in pieces
For the hand of what will be,
Forgetting what is and

What was.

I strain like a tendon. A fragment
Of an atom. A multitude trying to
Understand itself, over and over.
It’s over.

These streets are postcards.
Moments of my youth,
My loves.

Each park bench enveloped within,
Licked and pressed to
My forehead.

Return me to those times.
I want my streets back. My memories
Present and my friends
Still readied for me.
Pour moi.

Pour me another drink
Whilst I forget the ones I had.
Red wine has long since replaced
My blood,

My skin; gone stale.
The streets press in on
My chest.

I can’t breath for the dizzy memoirs,
Yowling at the moon in
My brain.

The simple sway of a tyre swing,
You and I,
The chains.

The simple fog of your ice machine,
You and I,
The cider.

The simplicity of you and me,
You and me,
The years.

These streets are ghost ships now.
Bounty once abound, now gutted.
Do not tease me with your platitudes
Oh town,

And just let me be on my way.

I am clean and empty
I took my fathers advice
Slowed it to a crawl and
Now I hear the song hidden among silence

Cicada
Teach me the song
For *** and darkness
I whistle all along the notes
Rhythmic sweet and somber
Tones envelope

If I could once
Just once dream
Of hands so delicate caressing
The chords of sinew dance once more
As eyes so graceful lull me onward
Into darkness
Unafraid

So now I lie again among
The brambles gazing o the stars
A crescent moon caught so
Who am I to dare this fate?
What eternal price must I pay
To gaze upon such beauty

you will know she is a poetess
if she likes to wear long-sleeves
long-sleeves that hide the scars
long-sleeves that hold her bruised arms together
long-sleeves with a slit near the shoulder
where she tried to wear her heart
(but poured it out in ink instead)

she will have long hair
or walk like she does
because hair is memory
cutting it is like erasing yesterday's you
restyling it is like recreating you.
her hair will have leaves in it
and leftover twine
from the flower crown she wears
or if she is the daring kind
her hair will have silverdust
(proof of how close her words
got her to the moon)

if she smiles and laughs
and never shows pain
she is a poetess
because a poetess writes her hurt down
in free verses and half-finished sonnets
and she cries not on a boy's shoulder
but on paper where her tears are caught by
the swooping syllables and dauntless denotations
making her words come alive
(because where there is water, there is life)

if you meet a person and assume she is a poetess
check first her palms
(if she will show them to you)
they must show no sign of ink
(for a poetess is sometimes secretive)
no, you must be able to trace the constellations
along the creases of her palm
smell the rocket smoke
and see the nebulae dotting her flesh
where she managed to catch stars.
congratulate her
and maybe, she will lift the hem
of her long pearl blue skirt
and show you the wings on her ankles
and if you're lucky, she will tell you story
upon story
upon story.

if you are able to tell a poetess from a person
and you find her,
keep her.
keep her close to where
the drums of your soul beat from
keep her next to your dreams of sailing and pink seas
keep her in the mental list you keep
of people you will never, ever leave
(and she will keep you, too)

when she dies,
wrap her body in a white Ilocos blanket.
use no coffin.
let the earth swallow her up
(but don't let it swallow her words)
tend to the fire she left you
plan to set out on a quest
to look
for other word-weavers
because it is impossible to live without
these storytellers
then go back to her writing desk
touch the last thing she held
and look for a hole
a false drawer
a hidden key
anything that keeps.
and i promise you,
you will find
more poems.
and if you spread each page out on the floor
its letters will rearrange
and form your name
and point you to a poem hidden
in a pocket she sewed inside her coat
and the first line will read,


"how to tell if she is a poetess"

I delivered
19
chocolate-chocolate chip cookies
to your house the other day after midnight
because it was you nineteenth birthday and you hate that day
above all other's
so I decided to celebrate
by making you junk food even though you're on a diet
and just came from a late night workout
and you'll ask me why
I care about something so much that's not even that special
and I'll tell you it's simply because
"It's your birthday!"
or
"Why wouldn't I?"
but really
truth is

You're going away and I haven't decided how I'm going to deal with that yet.
You're going away and I haven't been able to write.
You're going away and this may be the last
time
I'll see you on your birthday.

So take the **** cookies and say thank you,
because I baked them while I was crying over missing you
and tried my hardest not to let the tears fall in the batter.
No one should have to taste sadness like that.

Don't be mad at me because you're bitter about your birthday
and you can't stand it when people show that they care about you,
because you don't know how hard this is for me.

I bet you never even thought how hard
it will be for me
and that's why I baked the cookies.
That's why I'm so upset and that's why I'm begging you
to come outside and just kiss me on your birthday
because I've been counting how many kisses I have left
before you're too far away to feel me.
Just give me all you've got while we still have the chance.

This is going to be hard enough when you're gone
so don't make it so hard now.
Just kiss me and eat the cookies.

Oh,
and happy birthday.