some nights he wonders
why his fingers are
lonely branches in the
breeze, why no thing nor
person is tight around his
waist, why his college acceptance
rate is a charming 1%.
he knows it is just a
mirror — he walks
closer anyway and
pretends he's in love,
says it won't be like
this, that only he'll love himself
forever, that only glass
separates them; he believed
every word, so he leans
forward and kisses those
cold lips tasting of
breath, musk and never;
the universe was cruel but
this was nice, he thought.
he left his lover without
saying goodbye, knowing
someone would always be
waiting for him.

the way sweat
lingers on my
eyelids makes
me wonder if the
sun loves us all too
much. the world is
a crowd and he is
not a river—just a
hailstone tailed by
blue. twice a week
my eyes watch for
opportunities encrypted
in that spiral pattern; i've
only seen it's crystal
shadow. my light shines;
i love too hard;
the sky begins to drip
while I gaze; we melt; i
wish i could be moon.

Dreams from the ocean.
It hurts to talk.
Living is the strangest concept.

Holy River,
to see you
flowing
is to see
Brahman,
with eyes
fully open.

Plunging
into your
sacred self
is to be
forever
embraced,
Ma Ganga.

Torrents of
hard karma
came soon
thereafter,
like a curtain
of biting hail.

Searing pain
of surgery,
and doomed
love, nearly
choked me.

In all that
time, and
beyond
conscious
memory,
my body
was carried
upstream
in your
loving arms,
forever
protected
in you,
Ma Ganga.

When the last strained
chord of the parade
blew sour and home sounded
good again and all the trash
was meticulously placed
on the floor there was
a bottle rocket peeling
past the grim-faced throng

to adorn ribcages
with a scatter of sparks
the desperate stink
of burning hair wafted

all was transgressed
and now the walk
of shame.

a swig of honeyed
gin and all was
right again

until next year