To be pure and not made from this world,
First, is to forget conditions
set to define the very I am, as I am known.
There will be no name to disturb my silence,
no words to call what I eat or divest,
everything I touch will not be known
but tasted or sniffed.
My eyes will not understand
the intention of tears
so I taste it
and its salty familiarity
will make me realize there is a sea inside.
Laughter comes from the same house
where the braying of grief is heard.

Words will sound as crickets sounds,
or leaves rustling, I fail at distinctions
being neither good nor evil,
no urgent need to grasp at clues,

Hungry,
I shall consider devouring you.

On such nights
my friend
when pain blooms
like a hot red flower
inside you, look up
and chew the gristle
of a bone white star.

While remnants
of a south breeze,
waft smells of life, death,
wars.

Graves are laid
Dues are paid
Farewells bade

Poetry is made.

Love an thy be brief:
a fire; doth ete
the flames it mete
and chars the meat.

Love an thy be long
a river; e’er
rampant as air
and never err.

Take a daily sup of sea,
one for staring,
one for tea.

Look into maliceless eyes,
bellsome laughter,
daisy wise.

There is yet a place to heal,
shun Catatonia,
will to feel.

A quiet waits inside a storm,
A flower blooms
betwixt the thorns.

you wait like a fisherman
in the edge of what lakes
for not just any fish,
a specific terrain underwater
a definite current,
that makes such and such
hardier, skin rainbower, sleekier,
don’t say it’s fat
or long, and it’s enough
what feeds its meat
what horrors did its fins run off from,
what did its unblinking eyes stare at—
is what makes beautiful
that is why you crouch
and wait the wait of ages,
if you die of hunger
it is a worthier death
than to eat just whatever bites the bait.
The beautiful is worth the wait.

From the lurks of inky murk
we were, fell from the healthy surface
where the breathing, living dwell, oblivious
of our plaintive hurl. We curl,
a pained recoil.
Clasped by that which tricked the light
out of our essences.
Far too long, such smothering
dark blanket.
We must brave the glare,
a limb out,
from these grasping shadows.
We will be back one day
(We, the light forgotten,
dark begotten)
with light to smite like a javelin.
We will win.

There are always Hannas in wars
wars existed before her name—-
like clay, was shaped by mouths
in different lands and vernaculars
—-ripe in the kiln,
to be shattered by the killings

Hanna

was whispered by fathers
by mothers, torn from a sister,
a brother…

There was a war without Hanna,
she left
and took the battlements
between her breast
like a secret

and learned that it could
fence a garden.