Life is my current lover.
I swig her ephemeral taste from my cupped hands
worried as the golden, shimmering liquid rushes through
creases and cracks in my jaded hands.
Her mood varies through my stages;
at times she is of doting temper and roseate kisses
but when love evades her, most often than not,
her calloused hands damage the pearly flesh in tender
places,
and discontent paints a surly mood as she digs her crimson
brush against the canvas of my self.
Life is my inconsistent lover,
sometimes doting but most often than not abusive.
So I vowed my eternal devotion to Death.
We escape under the dark canopy of starless wings;
a tryst.
I eat of the forbidden feasts in the Kingdom of Hades,
grains of scarlet pomegranates staining my chapped lips.
Death has promised me perpetuity.
But until Life decides to release me from her capricious temper,
I shall long for the wintry, rainy comfort of my drowsy affair.

sometimes, i just want healthy relationships
                              and even though they might look crazy
~us waking up ****** and taking 10 am trips to the grocery store
to buy a bottle of wine and some flowers
for a trip to the park downtown
                   where we'll play our version of rugby while
the sun hits the color of your eyes just right
and the perfect song turns on, maybe led zeppelin
           and we'll run like children through a sudden rainshower
all the 1.5 miles to the borrowed car, with cassette records
of our mixtapes to each other when we first hit it off
all strewn across the console,
                 toweling each other off and saying **** it
driving ******* in rain spattered shorts home to our flat
blasting music from stupid-loud speakers,
         cooking souped-up ramen noodles with fancy appetizers
before we leave the stove on because we were too busy kissing
or feeding the dogs the treats we bought at 10 am
      while we swallow our wine with i love yous
and yes this is a healthy relationship
one where you don't expect anything but life from me
                     and me life from you
where there ain't nothin' but lovin' and real **** between us.

The letter I never sent,
I write my valentine on my beating heart,
And send a perennial prayer,
That you could know without knowing.

Petals on your doorstep,
But no signature,
Pink Rosehip on your bedsheets,
Spying through your window blinds,
At someone I invented.

A label that travels as my desperations move it,
How I value the sick,
The unnatural,
The corpse and the comfort.

The will to pull me off the train,
The weight of every station,
The ommitance after the deprication,
And the awkward silence after the cosmic joke.

I lust for that iced libation,
The roseate water of ivy and redemption,
A clay to fit inside my insatiable skin hunger,
A welcomed error of continuity in my own beliefs,
And my perennial prayer,
For an ardent antiphon.

-Unabaitingly, The Romantically Inept

Vows have I made by fruitless hope inspired;
Of night, my slaughtered Lord have I required:
Restore him to my sight—great Jove, restore!”

With faith, the Suppliant heavenward lifts her hands;
Her countenance brightens—and her eye expands;
As she expects the issue in repose.

What doth she look on?—whom doth she behold?
His vital presence? his corporeal mould?
And a God leads him, wingèd Mercury!

That calms all fear; “Such grace hath crowned thy prayer,
Thy husband walks the paths of upper air:
Accept the gift, behold him face to face!”

Again that consummation she essayed;
As often as that eager grasp was made.
And re-assume his place before her sight.

Confirm, I pray, the vision with thy voice:
Speak, and the floor thou tread’st on will rejoice.
This precious boon; and blest a sad abode.”

His gifts imperfect:—Spectre though I be,
But in reward of thy fidelity.
For fearless virtue bringeth boundless gain.

That the first Greek who touched the Trojan strand
A generous cause a victim did demand;
A self-devoted chief—by Hector slain.”

Thy matchless courage I bewail no more,
By doubt, propelled thee to the fatal shore;
A nobler counsellor than my poor heart.

Wert kind as resolute, and good as brave;
Thou should’st elude the malice of the grave:
As when their breath enriched Thessalian air.

Come, blooming Hero, place thee by my side!
To me, this day a second time thy bride!”
Upon those roseate lips a Stygian hue.

Nor should the change be mourned, even if the joys
And surely as they vanish. Earth destroys
Calm pleasures there abide—majestic pains.

Rebellious passion: for the Gods approve
A fervent, not ungovernable love.
When I depart, for brief is my sojourn—”

Wrest from the guardian monster of the tomb
Given back to dwell on earth in vernal bloom?
And æson stood a youth ’mid youthful peers.

Yet further may relent: for mightier far
Of magic potent over sun and star,
And though his favourite seat be feeble woman’s breast.

She looked upon him and was calmed and cheered;
In his deportment, shape, and mien, appeared
Brought from a pensive though a happy place.

In worlds whose course is equable and pure;
The past unsighed for, and the future sure;
Revived, with finer harmony pursued;

In happier beauty; more pellucid streams,
And fields invested with purpureal gleams;
Earth knows, is all unworthy to survey.

That privilege by virtue.—”Ill,” said he,
Who from ignoble games and revelry
While tears were thy best pastime, day and night;

(Each hero following his peculiar bent)
By martial sports,—or, seated in the tent,
What time the fleet at Aulis lay enchained.

The oracle, upon the silent sea;
That, of a thousand vessels, mine should be
Mine the first blood that tinged the Trojan sand.

When of thy loss I thought, belovèd Wife!
And on the joys we shared in mortal life,—
My new-planned cities, and unfinished towers.

‘Behold they tremble!—haughty their array,
In soul I swept the indignity away:
In act embodied, my deliverance wrought.

In reason, in self-government too slow;
Our blest re-union in the shades below.
Be thy affections raised and solemnised.

Seeking a higher object. Love was given,
For this the passion to excess was driven—
The fetters of a dream opposed to love.—

Round the dear Shade she would have clung—’tis vain:
And him no mortal effort can detain:
He through the portal takes his silent way,

She perished; and, as for a wilful crime,
Was doomed to wear out her appointed time,
Of blissful quiet ’mid unfading bowers.

And mortal hopes defeated and o’erthrown
As fondly he believes.—Upon the side
A knot of spiry trees for ages grew
And ever, when such stature they had gained
The trees’ tall summits withered at the sight;

The clouds as I see them, rising
urgently, roseate in the
mounting of somber power


surging in evening haste over
roofs and hermetic
grim walls—


Last night
As if death had lit a pale light
in your flesh, your flesh
was cold to my touch, or not cold
but cool, cooling, as if the last traces
of warmth were still fading in you.
My thigh burned in cold fear where
yours touched it.


But I forced to mind my vision of a sky
close and enclosed, unlike the space in which these clouds move—
a sky of gray mist it appeared—
and how looking intently at it we saw
its gray was not gray but a milky white
in which radiant traces of opal greens,
fiery blues, gleamed, faded, gleamed again,
and how only then, seeing the color in the gray,
a field sprang into sight, extending
between where we stood and the horizon,


a field of freshest deep spiring grass
starred with dandelions,
green and gold
gold and green alternating in closewoven
chords, madrigal field.


Is death’s chill that visited our bed
other than what it seemed, is it
a gray to be watched keenly?


Wiping my glasses and leaning westward,
clearing my mind of the day’s mist and leaning
into myself to see
the colors of truth


I watch the clouds as I see them
in pomp advancing, pursuing
the fallen sun.

We walked under a canopy of pink
Looking beyond the cherry sky,
When our hands met I caught your wink
Made my little heart fly,
In the boulevard of blush we kiss
Under the green giants drizzling coral mess.

I peeked into your coffee brown eyes
As we walked under the street light,
Glowing like a jar of fire flies
Smiling radiant and bright,
Your fingers sketched my face
Kissing me without leaving a trace.

Who gave thee, O Beauty!
The keys of this breast,
Too credulous lover
Of blest and unblest?
Say when in lapsed ages
Thee knew I of old;
Or what was the service
For which I was sold?
When first my eyes saw thee,
I found me thy thrall,
By magical drawings,
Sweet tyrant of all!
I drank at thy fountain
False waters of thirst;
Thou intimate stranger,
Thou latest and first!
Thy dangerous glances
Make women of men;
New-born we are melting
Into nature again.
Lavish, lavish promiser,
Nigh persuading gods to err,
Guest of million painted forms
Which in turn thy glory warms,
The frailest leaf, the mossy bark,
The acorn's cup, the raindrop's arc,
The swinging spider's silver line,
The ruby of the drop of wine,
The shining pebble of the pond,
Thou inscribest with a bond
In thy momentary play
Would bankrupt Nature to repay.

Ah! what avails it
To hide or to shun
Whom the Infinite One
Hath granted his throne?
The heaven high over
Is the deep's lover,
The sun and sea
Informed by thee,
Before me run,
And draw me on,
Yet fly me still,
As Fate refuses
To me the heart Fate for me chooses,
Is it that my opulent soul
Was mingled from the generous whole,
Sea valleys and the deep of skies
Furnished several supplies,
And the sands whereof I'm made
Draw me to them self-betrayed?
I turn the proud portfolios
Which hold the grand designs
Of Salvator, of Guercino,
And Piranesi's lines.
I hear the lofty Pæans
Of the masters of the shell,
Who heard the starry music,
And recount the numbers well:
Olympian bards who sung
Divine Ideas below,
Which always find us young,
And always keep us so.
Oft in streets or humblest places
I detect far wandered graces,
Which from Eden wide astray
In lowly homes have lost their way.

Thee gliding through the sea of form,
Like the lightning through the storm,
Somewhat not to be possessed,
Somewhat not to be caressed,
No feet so fleet could ever find,
No perfect form could ever bind.
Thou eternal fugitive
Hovering over all that live,
Quick and skilful to inspire
Sweet extravagant desire,
Starry space and lily bell
Filling with thy roseate smell,
Wilt not give the lips to taste
Of the nectar which thou hast.

All that's good and great with thee
Stands in deep conspiracy.
Thou hast bribed the dark and lonely
To report thy features only,
And the cold and purple morning
Itself with thoughts of thee adorning,
The leafy dell, the city mart,
Equal trophies of thine art,
E'en the flowing azure air
Thou hast touched for my despair,
And if I languish into dreams,
Again I meet the ardent beams.
Queen of things! I dare not die
In Being's deeps past ear and eye,
Lest there I find the same deceiver,
And be the sport of Fate forever.
Dread power, but dear! if God thou be,
Unmake me quite, or give thyself to me.

Over the horizon, lost in confusion,
came the sad night, pregnant with stars.
I, like the bearded mage of the tales,
knew the language of stones and flowers.

I learned the secrets of melancholy,
told by cypresses, nettles and ivy;
I knew the dream from lips of nard,
sang serene songs with the irises.

In the old forest, filled with its blackness,
all of them showed me the souls they have;
the pines, drunk on aroma and sound;
the old olives, burdened with knowledge;
the dead poplars, nests for the ants;
the moss, snowy with white violets.

All spoke tenderly to my heart
trembling in threads of rustling silk
where water involves motionless things,
like a web of eternal harmony.

The roses there were sounding the lyre,
oaks weaving the gold of legends,
and amidst their virile sadness
the junipers spoke of rustic fears.

I knew all the passion of woodland;
rhythms of leaves, rhythms of stars.
But tell me, oh cedars, if my heart
will sleep in the arms of perfect light!

I know the lyre you prophesy, roses:
fashioned of strings from my dead life.
Tell me what pool I might leave it in,
as former passions are left behind!

I know the mystery you sing of, cypress;
I am your brother of night and pain;
we hold inside us a tangle of nests,
you of nightingales, I of sadness!

I know your endless enchantment, old olive tree,
yielding us blood you extract from the Earth,
like you, I extract with my feelings
the sacred oil
held by ideas!

You all overwhelm me with songs;
I ask only for my uncertain one;
none of you will quell the anxieties
of this chaste fire
that burns in my breast.

O laurel divine, with soul inaccessible,
always so silent,
filled with nobility!
Pour in my ears your divine history,
all your wisdom, profound and sincere!

Tree that produces fruits of the silence,
maestro of kisses and mage of orchestras,
formed from Daphne's roseate flesh
with Apollo's potent sap in your veins!

O high priest of ancient knowledge!
O solemn mute, closed to lament!
All your forest brothers speak to me;
only you, harsh one, scorn my song!

Perhaps, oh maestro of rhythm, you muse
on the pointlessness of the poet's sad weeping.
Perhaps your leaves, flecking by the moonlight,
forgo all the illusions of spring.

The delicate tenderness of evening,
that covered the path with black dew,
holding out a vast canopy to night,
came solemnly, pregnant with stars.

My soul whispered a secret to my heart,
It spoke of spilled blood upon a rose,
Rouged lips within the garden,
Drops of crimson liquid blush.

[CHORUS]
Nature’s beloved colour is green,
So red speaks of originality,
Blood is a passion,
Scarlet bleeding from thy own,
A claret sun dawning beyond,
Sanguine stained skies.

When the little cardinal sings sweetly,
A doorway opens I never chose,
Visions of a bloodshot key,
A lock rusted with dried blood.

A glimpse through the keyhole,
A pale forest awaits on the other side,
Showers of cherry blossoms,
Falling upon the snow.

Red berries bloom under crystal snow,
Glints of sunlight touch down,
Sparks of fire captured within,
Just beyond this rubicund door.

[CHORUS]

The dreams I am allowed,
Burn and scar my will,
When the door swings open,
Of its own accord.

Damask petals on the wind.
How warm and gentle that spray of blood,
Like a hundred tender kisses,
And the golden keys to Heaven.

I glimpsed the gules of true heraldry,
A suffused spirit at the dawn of memory,
Imprisoned by a cage of vermillion frost,
Warmed by a glass of spiced wine.

[CHORUS]

A roseate palace at the end of a long walk,
Painted titian by my tear drops,
Caress a florid complexion,
Carmine not my own.

Roan stones dusted,
By the fall of Angels light,
Make-believe incarnadine carpet of,
A mirrored auburn dusk.

I settle back into the maroon night,
The darkness flushed by concealed art,
Bay canvas touched-up with unreal imagery,
Indifferent to the passing of my former life.

[CHORUS]

Rubies fall from ruddy clouds,
These gems are not for me,
Reddened glass has come to pass,
The moment of my undoing.

[PAUSE (Epilogue)]

Red is not for me,
Red was not meant to be...

At the dawn of a new day
During the morning's first blush,
I sat with Sentiment.  
Who was in the past,
And at this time, wonderfully affectionate.
You see, Sentiment and I,
Have always been companions,
When we were together he'd always hold my hand and
He always held tight when he held that hand
To show, I won't be abandoned.
"You're sweet." He said
He bowed his head and added
"Sweet as roses."
You can imagine my roseate cheeks then,
Suddenly flushed with the pigment
Of a high-colored rose.
And my smile fighting to be as wide
As the world and all the emotion felt
Between the lovers
And the lovers who couldn't handle
The cards being dealt.
But not sentiment and I.
I look towards him,
I smiled as I replied,
"Nothing is that sweet."

This poem comes from a dream.*

Sun—as February ordains it
roseate—early
twisted inordinate—in gray blanket
Snow has sifted to the pockets, wrinkles
the cuff of his woolen cap

An old hand rubs stubbled cheek
Snow flickers and falls again
in a dazzle

As he groans and stirs—
sparrows sing
As he struggles to sit—
sparrows sing
As he exhales into the chill
he considers the lilies of the field
Their luminous curling petals rise
steam or hope?
or just white smoke
wandering from the tiny fire
He sits a while to listen
to sparrows bickering in the bushes
then bursting into song

They have their audience

Across in a court of broken glass
and toppled stones
a room— still partially intact
Kindling gathered
Marta melts snow for tea
peeling potatoes in her lap
Stops to blow on hands
Marta’s heart—decent, visceral
like her hair—bun, kerchief
like her words—few in the failing
like the wounds of her smile

And Mikhail—harnessed
to the sounds of service
Orderly rhythm in ruin
hush    hush     hush
of a broom stroking cobbles
Mikhail—his hands wrapped in rags
old warrior  
now, restorer of places to live
Stops, removes his cap
squinting sunlight into the channels of his face
Then turns toward unsteady shuffling behind him

“You shouldn’t.”
Tears interrupt
reaching for the broom
“You shouldn’t do this for me.”

“No, no, Holy Father. It is little thing—
a little thing I do.”