have you ever looked at a word
looked at it again
and read it as if it were your first time
reading that word
as if all the other times you wrote "night"
the letters were somehow
different

I saw your picture on my nightstand
I don't believe we've met

Tomorrow I will write.
Tonight I will bleed,
Silently,
With a stomach full of table saws.

I guess I sort of started planning a life with you
and the hook that hurts the most
is the one swallowed the deepest
but I don't really know how far down it went
because I didn't know I went down that far
I have spent nights with search lights and helicopters
trying to figure out where I love you from
and the closest I've come is a pocket tucked next to my soul
maybe that's why you said you needed space
because I am in the business of swallowing hooks
and you're in the habit of running

I fear I might one day roll down these hills
without so much as a dimple to stop me.
Erosion is a powerful force of nature,
even more so of human kind.
These honey-tongued vipers with sandpaper suits
have quite the moving picture show.
Narrow shoulders offer far less resistance,
and it is easy swimming down stream.
I fear one day I will have filed my edges
to the point of no return.

Wife beater and faded jeans,
******* on the end of a straw.
Big tent circus, jumping through rings,
giving his excuse to the cops.

House full of magnets, face full of metal,
Pinball queen, she's the star of the ghetto.
But never can get that make up right
so the light tells tales of the yellow-bellied devil.

"Officer, please, I'm telling you the truth.
Swollen knuckles really ain't much proof.
We were drinking that 151
and I think she lost a memory along with the tooth."

Wife beater with faded genes
slurs words in the back of the car.
patriotic lights and he's off of the scene,

and she misses him already.
Stockholm girl took blows like confetti.
Every day's a party when you're married to the hulk.
She says he ain't so green in the morning.

1.
Because you are lonely too. And you know what it's like to spend hours waiting for a notification that someone values what you say. Verification that some of the people in your box of friends still walk through your forests waiting for trees to fall.

2.
Because you didn't understand the metaphor and so it must be deeper than your reach. Because people who appreciate poets are more approachable than poets themselves, and are far less likely to spend Saturday nights alone.

3.
Because the words look like family. Because when they pass your teeth it's as if your heart joins in chorus, and their syntax wraps cozy round your shivering bones. Because their eyes look like yours and because they know how to cut you, but don't.

4.
Because you are in love. And if a raccoon tore a hole in your garbage bag, ate last week's green chocolate cake, and returned it to your porch shortly after, you would see poetry in it. Because poems look like pies through rose colored glasses and it's really hard to find a bad pie.

5.
Because you hate this poem but won't tell me. Because our relationship hangs on your approval, and you know I'll expect you to make me feel ok about writing this. To tell me people don't appreciate real art anymore, and that's why no one else has responded.

6.
Because it doesn't rhyme, and there are numbers separating the stanzas that force you to read the last line slowly. Because it references Facebook and so it's something you can relate to. Because it's cliché enough to be memorable, and a little out of the box but still inside mine.

7.
Because you know why I wrote it. And you know that seeing your name beside it will be all the consolation I need. Because their is loyalty in a signature that even our forefathers acknowledged, and because it's the best way you know to take sides.

8.
Because the last thing you liked was McDonald's French Fries and you're looking to diversify your portfolio.

9.
Because you want me to remember you. Because we haven't spoken in years outside of birthday wishes and silence is a hard habit to break. Because neither of us is sure who the apology belongs to but because you're willing to take a step on faith.

10.
Because you know the impact an echo can have on its target. Because we all scream from stages built with fearful hands. We carry microphones in our pockets on nights too quiet to sleep and purge our lungs of their angst. Because this cave can not be empty. Because words are not like family unless they are spoken by someone we love. Because some nights all I need is a name to believe I still have my own.

Most of all,
I hope I always wonder.

That I will always feel small
in the presence of nature.

That I will always find ideas
that frustrate me.

That I will never let my confidence
overreach its bounds.

That I will love a little deeper
each day that I breathe.

That I will always remember
where I come from.

That I will never know exactly
where I'm going.

There is honor in this death
I know many who have left on hooks
lesser things for their lesser looks
somewhere I'm sure their music is canned

and what had I planned to do anyway
another season of the same old spawning
taking pride in my dorsals
and endlessly running from teeth

but this is Jiro
and I am tired of running
the last taste of salt passes through my gills
I have lost my fear of teeth

I only hope I can fill him
and his insatiable craving
for perfection


*Jiro, famous sushi chef in Japan

There is dust on the shelves
and more shadows than light to allow them.
The floors are awake with a moaning
that crawls down hallways my feet avoid.

Why have You brought me here?
to this place of introspection,
to my untouched furniture and silverware,
this place where scarcely a mat is welcome.
Why have You brought me here?
There were lists of reasons I hid the key
behind the smiles I wore as diseases.
This museum of wounds and clever bandages,
of wars and fears and organs broken.
My face looks foreign in the picture frames.

These are doors that scare me;
That stare back boldly with eyes like nights
when you find yourself without a moon.
I am embarrassed to say I will need a guide.
I could not tell You the bedroom from the pantry;
it has simply been too long.
The walls have shifted and carpets moved on
to cover some fresher stain.

What You mean for me to find in these piles of relics
is beyond my understanding.
But if I am to go on, then my knees will need convincing.
Speak to my infant soul, Dear Friend.
Convince it to sit down with me for dinner
and let some light in through the drapes.
Open the doors that divide me from You,
and make me a place worth living.

Suffer the stories to come unto me
and I will rewrite their endings,
heal them from their self-reliance,
and teach them new words to sing.
the melody will find itself
wherever their tongues may take them.
tell me a story, child,
of the roads your feet have seen,
and the tears your pillow collected,
because I'll bet they match my own.
I have built a you a home,
with stairwells that turn
and chandeliers and wind chimes,
where your smile paints the walls
a different color each day.
come and I will live in you,
and you will live in me.

weighing options like avocados
firm in the palm of my hand
is the moment just ripe?
or does it belong under the cupboard
another day to breathe

I pull the present into my nose
and search it for signs of future
pull it over my tongue
wrap tonight in a paper bag
another day to breathe

come
lover,
tell
stories.
break
evening
quick.

tell
evening
brea­k
stories.
come,
lover,
quick.

break
lover.
come,
stories,
tell
­evening
quick.

The elephants are dancing on the ballroom floors
prim as pachyderms can possibly be.
They are flaunting their tusks jovially about
and stepping on no one's feet.

The charlatans trace enigmatic scores
with their heel-toe trot around the beasts.
Each dip, each spin, a calculated route,
graceful and ever discrete.

Their skin, I've heard, is full of sores;
chafed by every whisper and nod.
The music is fading and shoulders are tense
listening to the hardwood creak.

Don't get me wrong;
I count it all blessing,
This one track mind,
The endless company.
I always deliver what they come seeking:
That sharp taste of thrill in the ceiling of their mouths.

I suppose every life has its ups and downs.
Each person their silver,
Each person their cloud.
But I have inhaled the heavens deep into my lungs
And they have made me sick.
They drift, seemingly, wherever they please.
I can tell you this:
I have never tasted the same cloud twice.
Each second they grow.
With each gust they float
Away from the moment's cares and all its trivialities.

I can still hear them,
Well-meaning enough to make me doubt my sanity,
'You are built for speed' -now go where we tell you.
'You are full of surprises' -that we planned meticulously.
I am stuck in this groove and it is nothing I can dance to.
The DJ has fallen asleep
And I am slowly blending into the wallpaper.

The first time I heard them screaming
It was like wedding cake and cannons,
Like listening to your son speak his first word
And recognizing it as your name.
They love what I do.
I hate how I do it.

I dream of stretching my long body across the sky,
Taking flight like a paper dragon,
Chasing rooftops and mountains,
Rolling down hills as soft as a mother's cheek.
There are words I long to write on the horizon
In script as wide as it is deep.
There is so much more i have seen than i have smelled.
There are screams I can give you
That wave their arms like white flags,
Waiting to be plucked from gardens
Just outside my reach.

I have been burying my anguish in the hearts of wooden trusses.
They push back against me when I am feeling down.
'Chin up, there go those screams again.'
They taste nothing like cake.
One more 3 minute episode.
I have been showing you reruns of smiles for the past two years,
Have you noticed?
But who is the servant to question the master?
I will keep my head down,
Drive the track I've been given,
And pretend I still enjoy the sunrise.

I wish I could keep from sleeping.
The dissonance of waking to the same routine
Is Schoenberg to my ears.
Every night it's the same thing:
My eyelids kiss this day goodbye
And it is some glorious tomorrow,
When I will finally get my chance
To scream.

"It's happening on a day when the DOW industrial average was already down 175 points."
- Adam Johnson, Bloomberg Television, covering the Boston Marathon bombing


One by one she piled them,
bodies and fragments,
broken and tattered,
onto the golden scale.

their hands and feet,
swollen with innocence,
fell lifeless as the eyes
of their adjudicator.

where is your soul,
Lady Liberty?
where is your god,
oh, Freedom?

cold gears creaked
as the balance swayed;
songs of the hand
that guides the machine.

what is the stock price
of flesh these days?
and does our ignorance
provoke or appease you?

Boston, it seems,
is filled with heavy streets.
Inciting the terror
of empty pockets.

When our death tolls
read like itemized deductions,
something has gone terribly wrong.

There is a doorway through which
life and death both passed,
shoulder to shoulder,
exchanging nothing
but a moment's glance
in silent accusation.

Death defeated,
Life restored;

Behold the thorn-crowned,
bleeding door
rising from futile tomb.

Go Tito, Go Tito
Go Tito, Go Tito
Go Tito, Go Tito
Mata los timbales
Go Tito

Go Tito, Go Tito
Go Tito, Go Tito
Go Tito, Go Tito
Mata los timbales
Go Tito

Oye como va...

the neighbors voices climbing out of windows left and right.

Is that you Tito?
Put down those pots and pans.
Make better use of those hands.
Don't you know those hands were made for working?
Follow your father to his factory grave shift,
Make razorblades to sell.
We'll always have hair on our faces.

Is that you Tito?
Knock off that racket.
Here I am trying to sleep
And you've got my feet to moving.
The night was made for dancing Tito,
And dancing was made for Harlem,
But that's bastante on a Wednesday mijo.

The young king packs up his studio,
Whistling dixie like she's never been whistled before.
Twirling the melody from royal lips,
Showing her how to use those God given hips.
Where did you find that groove you in your neck?
And do the words Puerto Rico still give you the chills?

You have walked on too many streets in New York City
And the Afro-beat is shacking up with the Cuban.
You can hear their children playing in the barrio allá,
And aquí they're blowing horns of imagination.
Make those wooden sticks tap your telegram, Tito.
Let the world know about this message brewing inside you.
They hate.
They yell.
They love to see you dancing,
But your ankles told you that wasn't right for you.
Your hands never have been able to keep still.
Maybe it's because they feel the future.
Do you realize where your bridge will lead?

You are the future Tito.
Do what you got to do to be where you got to be.
Play in Uncle Sam's band but don't you go to Normandy.
Follow your hands back to the big apple,
Take a bite out of this place they call Juliard.
When you sleep at night are they still screaming…
Go Tito, Go Tito
Go Tito, Go Tito
Go somewhere where the floor is on fire
With the fusion of jazz and samba.
Make it bigger Tito until it looks like it did in your dreams.
Pick up those sticks and mata los timbales.
Have the decency to wink when they name you king.

What is it that you mixed in that ***?
Your alchemy giving birth to new species.
Have mercy Tito.
Your music is feasting on the ears of the public,
Your hands are drumming on the ecosystem.
They call it salsa, and you laugh
Because they can't taste the carne.
Shine those pots and pans.
Tip your hat to Spanish Harlem,
Where windows stay open to let the dreamers dream big
And the red brick walls are soaked with memories.
Babarabatiri Tito,
Teach the world how to dance.

Go Tito, Go Tito
Go Tito, Go Tito
Go Tito, Go Tito
Mata los timbales
Go Tito

Oye como va...

a legend.

Come and rest a while young soldier.
Lay down your arms and sleep.
Your bones have battled your blood
has battled your lungs have battled your kidneys.
Come, take refuge, and weep.
On days you feel like the lines in the sand
originate somewhere in the palms of your hands
and trace your every vein,
when you can't shake the shellshocked feeling
of blood cell battle cries,
before your eyes wander distant,
come dream a while of peace.
Even God rests his mind once a week.

And on the road back to your body
that looks less like home
than where you you've imagined yourself to be,
stash a few visions of tomorrow in your pockets.
Eat them like candy.
Wake with the taste of hope on your teeth.
That golden-ventricled soldier you left standing guard
has picked up his drum once again.
March on to the rhythm of his faithful resolve
with a the song of revolution on your lips.
Rise up young patriot.
Fight tooth and nail.
Wear your flag on your skin.
Take aim at anything that tells you
you were born to be less than free.
March on into the morning,
each step taken
seizing peace.

I falsely remember gondola rides between the faces of your words
The sea that held them together harmonized with the serenade
You are Venetian by association.
You are an artist because of the tune you left humming in my ears

Thomas Thornburg killed a man last week.
Shot him in the chest from his front porch.
Said he had it coming, but he didn't know why.
The white-haired prophet/executioner.
The confession was perhaps surpassed in the news
by the miracle of Tom finding the the trigger.
Thomas Thornburg brandished 104 years
of what he hesitantly called life.

When brought before the judge he denied representation.
"Never had nobody say nothing for me."
When the gavel struck, Tom raised his hand
and took with his age, his permission.
"Your honor," began the old man's graveled voice,
"This here is not a fair trial."
"You ma'am," he pointed to the woman in blue
who shifted her feet beneath her juror's chair,
"What did you make of Stalin?"
"And you," to the well-groomed 20-something with hair,
"Where were you when they bombed Hiroshima?"
The judge began a sentence he was forced to cut short.
"Ma'am, I imagine you might recollect Duke Ellington,
but I shook hands with Scott Joplin,
and had more than my share of drinks with Fats Waller."
"Mr. Thornburg," said the judge in a patient tone,
"is there a point to your interrogation of the jury?"

"Find me eyes, judge," said the stolid man in lowered tone
"that have seen what I've seen,
that knew life before world wars were named.
Eyes that have watched generations die
and everything change but politicians.
Find me a man who has had the displeasure
of waking up more mornings than there are in a century,
and I will call THAT man my peer."

Tom then turned and, on the weight of his cane,
shed the last of his living tears.

It takes courage to be born in a grave
where the earthworms caress
and the night is like day.
But where two or three are gathered
they will burrow deeper yet,
pressing the earth to their faces.

It takes gall to bite the mouth that eats you,
little rocket ships
who never left the ground.
Launch your cultured pungent taste,
for if you must go,
go loudly.

Daikon, Cherry Belle, Easter Egg,
Black Spanish, Red King,
you are conquerers.
Digging away until the sun comes to find you,
blushing in myriad shades
of fearless ambition.

It takes integrity to never leave your roots.
Break bold and crisp,
candied keg of gunpowder.

Row, row, row
your heavy heart,
tired arms.

Row your doubts,
your fears,
your tongue,
should it ever pronounce
your failure.

Row strong,
row steady,
to the rhythm of the moon.

Stir the surface of the stream
and watch the ripples
dance and play.

Life is but a dream,
they say.

Soul,
you slippery thing,
where are you?

Could you be hiding
under the confidence
I placed on my good intent?

Are you lost in the mouth
of one of the many
applauding faithless men?

Have I not built a palace
with room enough
for all your gold?

Why have you left
without word of warning
and turned this quiet cold?

Soul,
you forsaken thing,
where are you?

I have bought the world for us to share.

frozen in time he was quite the spectacle
thick rimmed frames traced rigid lines
projected from kaleidoscope eyes
sharp with the corners of unknown dimensions
caught hot handed
both in expectation and reminisce
so awkwardly present

most nights
he spins fairytales
double-dipping moons in molten watches
skewered with his arms
      these wooden poles
stirring the coals buried in ashes
he steps lightly.stomps
dances with the rings of saturn
then rolls like thunder
chasing Zeus's sore words
zig-zagging down to earth
ooohhhh…..
he may not melt hearts with that shoodoop
  that bebop
but they break for his habit of
making promises

he who holds time in the cave below his tongue
which now juts left off the reef of his lip
slip into
trip - - - skip
fall.into.this.
go mad for the pitch of his sweat
glaring at the spotlight
Dalí
painting worlds in the moments
between your ears and soul
he is god to their populations
and their hymns excite
rhythms ignite
visions of hard candy
tumbling your teeth smooth as river stones

he does not belong in a gallery
no high tipping wine sipping city slicker big wig
should ever feel comfortable in his blast radius
he makes bombs from tribal instruments
wigwam concoctions
set to test resting souls for pulses
paradiddle defibrillator
triplet stent for arteries
he is tall
and now thin
pressed against the wall as if under interrogation

splitting breath from its carbon
asphyxiated by the frame
he spells his words with motion
I find him
mute

Chase my voice through clouds of sulfur
convince it to let me burn it alive
parade it down broadway to light up the corners
starved of recognition

Tie anvils to the tips of my fingers
light them also on fire
it wasn't really the cigarettes
so much as the flames of sacrifice

Ignore their judging eyes
invite them into my home
whip my back until it bleeds for their religion
go to sleep with the smell of incense in my throat

The air is charged with eminence.
Red-bellied birds lose their song in the wind.
Just when will the sky crack open?
When will the screaming turn to tears?
Send the drummers running
and, before their sticks hit the ground,
give face to wide-eyed fears.

I can smell you from my window:
Amalgamation of mushrooms and clover.
Just when will you crack me open?
When will my primal state lie bare?
Strip me of city sophistication
and, before the drummers come running,
wash me well beyond my years.

I locked eyes with the street last night
and it dared me to turn away
turn from the injustice
inequalities
ignorance
move on to some romantic scene
that lives outside the grey

I wrapped its cold wet skin
around my neck and began to shiver
as the rocks began to scrape
scratch
slither in my veins
as one hundred unknown faces
paddled their way down river

I tasted grief and empathy
and the mix was all too vile
more bitter than any sympathy
symbiotic
synergy
gears were painting machinery
cranking out disquiet and bile

It was then I found its corner
and the music it seemed to breathe
and despite my hesitation
hysteria
hellish intent on fiction
The asphalt smile began to grow
and pave my mind at ease

Did you know, Alexandros,
that when you chiseled her hips
you cast aside the confidence of her sisters?
That when you decided she would be
just that much thinner,
you held a century's breath
and cracked ribs with corsets?
Did the name of Venus
conjure lust in your soul?
Is that why you tore off her robe?
Did you know, Alexandros,
that with your steady hand
you changed the shape of beauty?
Did you wrestle it from the hearts of homely mothers
and press it down to fit your mold?
Or did you steal it from your youngest daughter's smile
and replace it with vain ambition?
Did you cry when she told you she was ugly,
that your sculpture had transformed her to swine?
Was it then that you fell into your lover's arms until they broke?
Did you know, Alexandros,
that stone is a poor canvas for beauty?

Bumble-bouncing
       off the hardwood floors
Tickling feet and
       feeding the evening
Our sides were split
       from waist to shoulder
The purple laughter ca
                                         s
                                           c
                                            a
                                              ding
Our faces painted red
       and our lungs collapsing
Determined to shake
       the earth from its axis

Tilt a little more to what seems right
Tilt a little more toward family

she was born to bend this way
her muscles sing through the air
wrapping physics round her finger
handspring, handspring, tuck,
plant
her equilibrium ponders life and its meaning
every twitch intentional
every smile framed
if life were more like summersaults
and less like crashing planes
if the truth were always inside your ears
and the applause came only when you landed safe
if, when you fell, there were always a dozen friends waiting
to lie to you about gravity
maybe she would tumble beyond the mat
into rumors of spiraling fates

You are not beautiful, I say,
but beauty.

You are the standard by which I judge the skies
on crisp winter evenings that flow with milk and honey.

The lilies, as they peer from their silk pajamas,
aspire to one day be placed in your room.

Your eyes are the song the meadowlark sings
as he bathes in the mid-summer's heat.

The forests blush vibrant, then whither away
humbled to be called by your name.

You are not living, I say,
but life,

that I should have you all of my days.

Come Atlas,
Let me help you.
Your shoulders must be awfully weary.
I can see fury coursing through swollen veins,
Your own body now quivers at your strength.
We believe you.
How long did it take you to convince your flesh
That it was capable of lifting the stars?
That your bones would lock dense
And rise up as armies,
Warring against the moon.
Titan,
You are old.
The silver in your beard is pulling at your chin,
****** out in the wind,
Splitting seas of doubt.
Do you still gaze at Olympus with ire?
With the bulges of wrath now coating your limbs?
What was given to you as a burden
Has become your pride,
Your nobility in the shame of defeat.
How tightly your fingers are gripping the sky
As if to keep it from leaving you lonely.
Are you lonesome Atlas?
Do your brothers still come to see you?
Your skin is stretched taught
Over what I imagine are diamonds,
Compressed over the span of millennial pain.
They told you you would break.
They laughed when you trembled,
Both biceps and faith.
You are petrified from you ankles to your relentless brow,
Flexing even to the corners of your heart.
In what year did your knee give out,
Leaving you in the position of perpetual homage?
And did it hurt in your soul or your back?
You are defiant at your very core
And have born your battle scar alone for so long
You have become a most magnificent island.
But the water is rising Atlas.
Let me help you.
My legs are spry and my heart just as fierce,
But I am willing to suffer the curse with you.
My feet have been planted in this earth as yours
And I have often felt the weight of the sky.
Share with me your story as my sweat runs free,
One ear to your thoughts and one to heaven.
Let me see what you have seen from this valley,
And shoulder to shoulder
We will stand.

She was every captain's secret,
Five hundred fathoms deep.
She haunted and charmed the waters so,
And chased the dreams from your sleep.
Her ghost was known to plague our nets,
To dance across the ocean waves.
The bloodied corpses of her children fled
To the beaches where they would be safe.

That night her body, titanium clad,
Punctured the wall between our worlds.
Her arms, a strange bewildered dance
As startled, she uncurled.
The gaul of those men who found her!
Breaking into her home!
She had run from every advance they sent
But legends never die alone.

So few of our men indulge in mystery.
So few embrace the unknown.
Most seek to banish the fear and wonder
And so legends never die alone.
They are prisoners chained to mortal bodies
And drawn from the depths of the sea.
Her eyes, I swear, had pearls of tears
As I watched the Giant Squid flee.

And then it was time to live again.

After so many tombstone day dreams
and chills from winter's breath,

After closing living room shutters
and doubting fragile steps,

After plucking the penultimate feather
from Hope's avian breast,

Spring came round that corner swinging,
and what was there to defend?

I was angry when I saw her dancing.
She had no right.

Just last night she danced with me,
turning blues to pomegranates
and stepping on the seeds.

She walked through my corridors
(dim lights, bright-eyed)
painting the walls with broken expectations.

She whispered like a secret
she was now laying bare
at the tongues of anxious barbarians.

This morning her hips repulsed me,
churning smiles from grizzle
and burning coffee beans.

She had no right.

Sweet intoxication
flowing through my eyes.
Don't let me down,
don't let me down
until the other side.

I know you hide the best of you
just beyond my reach.
Sweet intoxication,
tell me your name is peace.

Cover the lies with blankets of morphine,
ecstasy and bliss.
Surely if there was a heaven to have
it would taste something like this.

Plunge down like you did again,
fill my veins with the rush.
Sweet intoxication,
you are never enough.

The reason that mutes the murmur of my lips
for the silence no one near me forgets
is the ******* of my heart.
Without knowing,
of what would it speak?
Filled with words,
the hollow cap peeks
into the muscles and bone.
Flesh for a kingdom,
thought for a throne.
The heaving poet sleeps
not sound,
not silent,
but there at 3:15.
Spilling his spiraling
tic toc dreams
between the pallid sheets.

It has taken this long to distill my memories
easing them into the world of potability.
It has taken too long to distill my thoughts
and they have, every evening, gone sour.

The best poems
are never shared.
They are written
on the insides of our eyelids
and each one reads
'You are beautiful.'
I cannot speak your poem.
I am still learning to pronounce my own.
The language of the God
who penned the phrase
is foreign to my wandering tongue.
But I read it.
Over and over again while I sleep,
stumbling over the words,
making mince of all His poetry.

I wish we could be genuine.
Touch our hearts with our fingers and hold them up to the light.
Paint murals where the shadows once dreamt.

I wish we could be bold again.
Scream with the intensity we did when we were born.
Find what we desire, and pursue at all cost.

I wish I could be broken.
Set fire to this barrier wrapping my limbs and chisel into the bone.
Mine what I know lies deep within.

I wish we could be genuine.
Flush our faces with insecurities and hold more than each other's skin.
Let our tears and our laughter mean what they meant.

The hours are seldom heard passing
But pass they do
In sleek fitting jackets and earth-toned shoes
Down the streets we never imagined
Each step shaking the air between itself and our ears
As if trying to wake the earth from its dream
Screams we will never hear above the raucous laughter
We haven fallen too far, too quickly to sleep
Each sunrise breaking dawn for empty seats
Swelling with glory of which we have forgotten the taste
There are goosebumps on my tongue well worth remembering
There are apple pies and turkey dumplings
The sound of leaves breaking beneath my feet
There is a chill in the air only the hours know
It is the air I have learned to breathe

I am swaying in circles:
knees locked, eyes glazing,
tasting each second as it splits on my chin.
there is time on my shirt sleeves.
there are dancers in my grin.
there is the semblance of someone else
looking within.

I am stitching myself
seamlessly, one-handed,
into the fibers of horizons and moons.
there is a music of planets.
there is *** in its tune.
there is the new-green innocence of a bride
and indefatigable groom.

I am what I have always meant to be;
Though my teeth and tongue betray me,
Though my hands twist knives in my back,
Though my love falter and compassion cease,
Though my utmost effort be found wanting.
There is a lion inside these ribs
Ambling about the graveyard.
I am every intention and ghostly footprint
I would have left in the sand.
I am every word still chained to my gums,
Every tear I have not shed.
I am the music heard in the empty places
Between my body and those I love.
I am always more than you see of me,
More than the expanse of my limbs.
I am forests of sycamores and birch,
Whitewashed and shedding who I was,
Becoming who I mean to be.

It's a stunning place,
this sunny place,
night on the brink of day.

Swaying sideways,
tip the soldier,
let morning carry me away.

Still clothed in heavy
midnight robes, the steady
dawn has made its way.

shatter my bones.
this love
must
be more than a
flesh wound.

I shiver
at the thought of you;
your voice
strumming my spine,
still broken.

Sweet sleep
do come.
Rest within these weary eyes.
Rest and let tomorrow come.
Broken and torn,
tattered beauty.

let us then digress into the earliest of pleasures
let us cover ourselves in dirt and grime
may we throw our tantrums well

let us then digress into the earliest of horrors
let us come to the edge of that tranquil pool
may we refrain from weeping at our reflection



it is so strange
this brilliance covering itself in mud
this gift bestowed to the broken
these blessed who break themselves at the sternum
these free and bleeding souls
those much too lost to ask for directions
those helpless meandering
beautiful minds

Strike quickly
evening is looming
press down your fear
till it burns in your belly
hunger you will call it
strike quickly
the air is wet with intoxication
drink down your trembling
till it hums in your chest
music you will call it
strike quickly

Bahia,
I drown without waking from your dream.
Like silk you slide down over my eyes
and it is dark as it should be.
Should we,
before the dawning of demasiado,
tip toe accross the waves
to dance in the streets,
I believe you will have convinced me
once more,
beyond the shadow of doubt
cast by the swaying trees,
to sink in your arms as you sing to me.
Bahia,
dulce Bahia.

Her quaintness was saturated with 'sweethearts' and 'honey,' bespeaking the youth of my face. I have let its hair grow free for three days now and the bare patches are starting to show, but it seems I have not fooled her. No. I have not fooled myself either. My teacher shoes feel a half size too big and my feet are sweating profusely. I wonder if God made summer for the lemonade or the perspiration. In three years I will have developed a label for this period of my life. I am currently three years short of expressing myself properly and I fear this will always be the case. What do men do in empty hotel rooms? I kick off my shoes to watch them bounce bluntly on the carpet I have seen somewhere before. There is a poor imitation of jazz playing in the lobby and I'm positive someone has mistaken it for the real thing. It leaves a weak hope I will fool them too. Maybe most men are pretending.