When the universe
And all her baby stars
Souped down

In clotted clumps
Tightly wound in
Golden-plummed roses –

This is when the sea
Ascended, and all your
Mother’s tribes descended.

(In a pop,
Not a bang.)
“Red paint and crushed

Blackberries will drip
Like plasmic syrup
Down your arms and

Into your bellies.
You will hear the Earth
Sing a lullaby,

Soft as clouds making love.
Our canyons will rupture
And we will bathe in the gush

Of purple-blue paper water.”
But then the sky exploded.
And pellets of dusty snow

Climbed down
And pierced my flesh,
Froze my core,

And numbed my Native voice –
Hushed my sweet mother,
Dyed my ancestors’ blood

To match the soiled snow.

there was a blanket made of rust
spread on the couch made of stone
that was when i had no flesh

back then i was made of glass
and my bones were made of blood
you can imagine how ridiculous i looked

but that's how things were
i watered the plants
he picked the weeds

that evening, i developed a callous
on the insides of my palms
the glass melted away

the blood hardened and i was born
the king gave me his crown
the water turned to vapor

there was an orange light on the wall
it reminded me of your *****
and the way she talked about Vermont

no, i have never been to Vermont
no, i have never seen you as an animal
no, i have never been alive before

you are softer than the sound of the shofar
when i woke up in the rain-stained parking lot
and saw your knees in a puddle

there was a blanket made of teeth
spread on the couch made of sand
how was your trip to Vermont?

i can still remember what your
distressed denim
jeans felt like
beneath my
beating pillow
fingers and how you swore
you saw the Moon
in my throat
you said you spoke to Him
when you kissed me deep
and He told you
that even a great white shark
has a great soft heart
and that even a lion
will bleed when it is met by
a twig
but not even the Moon will tell
you that when i felt your leg
and touched your mango
knee I fell in love with the
tree that beared your fruit
so sweet-nothing salamander
when i see your sweet-nothing
smile i will count sheep in your
teeth and pull the hairs
from your chinny-chin-chin
and i will huff and puff and
blow your ******* *******
house down
and i will plant a mango tree
in its place

I. Constellations have gathered
about a point
of implied dexterity,
within which they drip
through a cerebral fissure
and onto the summits of
Spanish hills and the young girls
teetering
in red lace gowns.

II. Sun drops have gathered
into a morphing of
hallowed radiance,
into the glitter
sprinkled
on the tabletop of the ocean,
and gently caresses
the face of the oak leaves
while asking if they will dance
just one more time.

III. The nightingales have gathered
around the bottom
of the brightest sycamore tree,
and here they whisper,
pleading
with the Earth
so that She may recede,
to present fresh soil
from which they came.

IV. The bricklayer has gathered
in front of the fireplace
as the shoes on his feet
pierce the carpet with crumbled dirt,
he is a man of very few words,
they say,
but as the firelight twitches
and scatters
within that artificial cave,
he has found the words
to ask himself:
how long will the fire burn?

call me when your flight lands in Munich
and we can discuss
how the cinder blocks
standing stationary in the walls
like cold queen's guards
meet so seamlessly
they touch so cleanly
never a crack, never a pore

call me when your flight lands in Tampa
and we can talk about
all of the clothes on the floor
folding and crinkling
discontinuing continuum
they haven't been touched since July
and when you call,
we can talk about how they
make my room smell like
gasoline

let me know when you land safely in Munich
and I'd be happy to go on
about the smell of the parking garage
equal parts old rain and new exhaust pipes
and the open air
underneath the moon; so close
that I will grab it out of
the closet sky
and give it to you instead of saying:
        I'm so ******* sorry

let me know when you land safely in Tampa
and we can assume the position
of conductors
of a grand orchestra
of lost crickets and cracking bones
of the dogs barking at
spilled black ink
and chasing the painted Sun
and maybe when the song is over,
we will clean up the mess
and be able to fall in love
with nothingness

make love to a poet and you will feel
everything
all at once
as if the earth’s core
has shattered
and all the planets have been stretched into
long ropes
and intertwined
along the milky way
make love to a poet and you will feel
as though each verse
is inside of each panting moan
and as though each rhythm
is within each twisting ******
and your body will become numb
as it contorts
to turn existentialism into a heart beat
make love to a poet and you will experience
every word ever created
by each mouth brought to life
grazing your bare flesh
with each centimeter of their fingertips
meeting the quivering abdomen
and although every word is with you in this moment
you will beg the universe
to let you speak them
because when you make love to a poet
you become one
with a language
one unspoken and one the vice
you will melt into song
when you make love to a poet
all the love that ever was
or ever will be
becomes trapped within a single drop of sweat
and all the fear
that was summoned for the world to share
becomes confined within each sharp gasp
make love to a poet and you will feel the
creation of a galaxy inside of you
the stars will cling to your veins
and they will dance in your blood
and the planets will be caught in the gravity
of your lungs
and so you will breathe in moons
and breathe out aries
and asteroids will blast through your throat
for the rest of your being
if you make love to a poet

How wonderful it is to know someone twice
How beautiful it is to remember that twinkle in their eye
Or that song in their throat
And how lovely it is to have a second chance
And at the frame of the daylight,
How amazing it is to already know the mouth and the nose
Of someone so familiar
Because in a world so unfamiliar,
How wonderful it is to have company