If you could be quiet
hang your beliefs by the door
sit down beside this poem
that leans in
to whisper:
“right now at this very moment
even before I finish this sentence
someone is dying unjustly,
or hungry, or is not you—
privy to these squiggles
I form with my mouth,
because reading is as alien to them
as poverty is to you,
there is something terribly wrong
and absurd about this life.”


If you think about this too hard,
like I do…sometimes,
breathing becomes awkward.

For words full of crumbs,
from its seams.
Here is “grace”, full of lint
and “courage” and some thread
of “hint”
Here is “purpose”—
take the proffered “tender”
the bit that it fell with..

oh that is “breathe”

*take it.

ʘ ʘ

It is not a predatory glare
If I stare too long
If I peer beyond the orbs
you look out from
You see I wish to sea
this depth that is you
Knowing you are not this form
That sputters polite niceties
or spills venom echoed
from some second hand villain
you’ve read somewhere
from a book
from a song
from a movie
from these lands that contrived
your form, clay, mulch of evolution,
a scab, cast off skin,
wound of a pulsing stone.
This is NOT you,
just as these words are myself
more than this form shall ever contain me.
More than a giant pebble in a vast universe
cease to be itself without fire:
the sun.
More than a slim stalk of colors,
is not the fragrance:
a flower.
More than a flap of wings,
is not the flight:
a bird.

are hardly even there
and if they are
they mostly stare

If you give me a promise
however wrapped with earnest
and ribboned with bliss—
I shall think it’s sweet
but still insist,
*you keep it.

when you dream tonight
of doors
find the one
*marked by a secret
that cannot be read
but throbs
it is the very heart
of everything
awake
in
your sleep…
come in
find us.

If we were the kind
that does not abide battering
another
mind-heart-soul
into these futile rocks
of fate that lacks the faith
to fight back
and ward from its face
the blows of blatant truth
we should have recoiled
from such massacre
not walk into it
we should have said look:
this paradise of sweet
you offer will poison you as well
we should have pushed the plate away
from such mindless generous banquet
we should have recognized
what became of us
many mirrors ago
such love is a generous drowning
where even if only one chose to swim blind
still pulls the other
but such is not always the sight you hind—

my love today
I am going to be kind

What my words wish for
is stare right back,
and make skin
the aching lack,
and make sinew
the fact
there is you.

There is a little boy knocking
‘pon the fence enclosed garden.
“Let in”, was such implore
to what stalwart warden—
guarding rows of verdant plumes,
yet complacent to the escaping
flowery fumes.

There is a pain-skinned man
‘pon the fence enclosed garden.
“I shall break in through yonder burl!”
Bit he with tongue full maddened.
Shaking all life curled underneath,
trembling the roses praying for teeth.

What took the words
so quietly in their sleep?
More room for that
we both gave tears to keep.
This happy monster
feeds within to sate (we weep)
cousin to ecstasy, kin to hate.

The new age is of the empath
those with eyes on their skins
who hear the words beyond the words
silence amidst the din
the song inside the song
The tender-eagle-eyed
roar of the sighs
sons and daughters of lions
alien to fear
servant to love
patriot to the true

The wild natural law of the universe
from micro to macro
hear its call and slough off
the callus of what broken
you still carry
leave behind yesterday’s appendage
to the feasting jackals of impending history
their story is destined to end

she knows the secret room
where the hurricane keeps its eye

this knowing~



*—Poems in “She” Sharp

we started with light
blind from the beginning womb
imprinted with invisible memories
of inherited eyes, mouth, smile,
bundled as an offering
to the random grasp
of circumstance
mothered to be mothers
fathered to be fathers
monstered to be monsters
preyed to prey
to dust, to dust
womb to tomb
there is just this next day
same as the next stepful taken
what other choice
the feet has a left and a right
you step on one
the next step follows
same as the morrow
same as the next breath
layers and layers of what follows
some know, some wait
but always
the shadows comes in late

she imagines a morning
rain knocks with its small hands
upon the window
louder than rain in the sills of her mind
she sees herself heating water
it is just water
not a wet scarred day
that blistered her memory
she picks a fruit from the bowl
it is just a fruit
it carries no histories of war
from foreign lands
nor scent of discontent
it snows
it is just snow
no ghost grasps her cold hands
under the knitted icy mantle
of its forgotten season

no ghosts came beseeching
that she remember
each name, each face, each leaf,
or countless shores
her faithful boots still visits
in reminiscence
she is a house no longer fit for haunting
perhaps such morning finds happiness
sauntering in with dainty paws
like a long lost cat
coming home

She sits by the window sill
waul by the wall
singing him back home
because she has no thumbs
to open a can of tuna.
Evolution has been remiss
to her kind in this regard
but flea is well aware
this lack is compensated
by fluffiness, dainty white paws,
and eyes that glistens
ever so moistly
(looking at morsels mostly)

I emerge
fish scarred,
drenched in silence.
A new genus.
Evolved.
Breathing the still
palpable air.
Careful not to drown,
from the scent of noises.
I live now in a land of doors.
I can choose to live behind any of them,
thousands and thousands of them
different versions
same outcomes.

Love is an otherworldly beast,
a most welcome burglar.
It softly feeds upon your heart,
then sweetly asks for your jugular.

goodbye 60 heartbeats
3:04 says you’re gone
and never again
along with gunshots..
..trailing hopscotch..vroom
of a busy going somewhere..
last breath..first breath..
..wonder of a falling sky..
..a tear..some misbegotten fear..
..something thought forever..
..a trailing whistle..adios 3:03 PM
..you took with you
something sweet
my heart can’t relinquish
to a new minute
but had to
I am not too keen
at the new 60 seconds
you left me
that I can’t be quiet in

Life is a manor haunted by doors
All of its rooms bore my tread
Life is a manor haunted by doors
but there is this door, she said


Dolores paced al-through the nights
with dread in front of the door
Dolores paced al-through the nights
this ill-fated dark Dolor


No lullabyes can lull her to sleep
some mornings bereft of light
No lullabyes can lull her to sleep
for there is a door, she said


*My darling, darling, darling girl
daughter it’s all in your head
My darling, darling, lov-ed girl
your mother weeps in her bed


Oh mother mine allay your tears
to-morrow shall find me fled
This manor with rooms a-plenty to yield
but there is this door, she said.

summer was a good book
a break from daily chores
bare toes curled on grass
willing the earth to purr..

my mind cannot don the dawn

you wrote, your comma gives me coma.

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.

The right hand that harkened to soothe thy brows
forsooth vanguards the left that spells thy ruin.
She came to thee in nakedness ‘ye saw,
thy yellow grin played her like a clavecin.

Whilom vase filled with posy gently care,
thy indecision maketh poison alack,
from its petals sith thee became a hare
thy hands darketh the ink already black.

A sweven verily haunts the fortress,
swith as the horns of a centaur bleed her
to her I swore fealty my naked mistress,
my lance revealed thy realms of plunder.

In the blood thee spilled, made mirror, there lay,
reflecting a portrait of vile beasts and a man.
The creature that ‘ye bade devour thy prey
is the wolf that one day shall swallow the sun.

thank you for not being accessible
that i have to run mountains
thank you for being both the run
and the mountain
thank you for being the pain
gracefully not inflicted
thank you for being both the pain
and the grace
thank you for being the light
that chooses not to blind
thank you for being the darkness
that chooses to see
thank you for being both light
and darkness

thank you for the cruelty
of your kindness

for that
i am forever

c h a s i n g       b e a u t i f u l

The rhubarb rubes hoo chose
across the damask must
aghast, in deed amidst the loss
now read without the malice
wsst

( can be read like it flies or it lands )





                                                          ­                              ’go…

                             ­                                               ’you have to’…

                                                           ­      when it says:
                                                           you have to let go,

                                                     like a bird
                                               treat my memory,

                                         wild and free

                                 like a creature

                  that thirsts

    …that lands only when you weep

I, pod
blessed of this age
that bequeaths me the power
to give each day a soundtrack
An imp out on a digital rampage
click
the trees barely had time to be leafy
click
gotcha! random bloggable ***
curled asleep is a poem
subtitled in dusty letters
tomorrow is another playlist
the unhappy will all dance
everybody is gonna dance
when I go out the door
to face my i-world, I, pod
hit it!

Once upon a time flesh was my lover
and I was wrapped in its sturdy density
    held together by the epidermis                      
                    made mobile by                          
                    
         my army of Vertebrates
to stand tall
       and strut
                    when possible.

Vain was the brain
                    the cerebrum conspired with the nerves
                     to move me to its bidding
to walk, to run, to coit


         and afterwards do some grocery shopping
                                    
                     the heart was worse than the brain
in its dramas and insinuations of love

         that made the poor gastrointestinal tract
a home
         to the alien and willowy creatures

                                                      such as butterflies
                  tsk

and I
         am shaken
                             to my very core

all my molars and incisors grinding itself
                             for its beauty is its pain
The brain was betrayed
                  by its own Amygdala he he he

Yes, I remember all the mechanisms working
                                         In their own tiny kingdoms

          serving the benign John or Anna or Sarah

even if it just a simple task of jacking off
                              if you could picture the neurons
                                                            stretching elastic to                    reach

                    that mental part
                                        where both ****** and fear reside.

Still in the end when the earth eats you whole
                    like the predator it really is
all that is left is me


                    bare bones


a proof of greatness or mediocrity
                    stark and irrefutable

                                        even if vanity denies the meaning of my bareness,

by inventing the soul.

( this poem can be read like its feather shape or horizontally to and fro )










              I
             go
             to fly                                                                                        so that I believe    
             so light                                                                           above
             with treads                                                          its plumes
               as wispy as the                                        so unruly shed                                                
                  feathers I collect along              an angel feathered
                        path cloven with grass    and mused mayhaps
                           autumn starts early for those angels