Oh some ol’ day these bones, these bones will bid my body bye.
They’ll watch me melt into this earth like ice in mid July.
I can’t think of a reason or a rhyme for all the mess
Except to live a life that might prepare me for the rest.
‘Cause some ol’ day these bones, these bones will rise up once again.
They’ll dance like that ol’ prophet said and jump up with the wind.
And on that sunshine morning these ol’ bones are gonna shout.
Escape with God to glory, all the trouble here without.

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

I know the tongue
Behind my teeth
And the skin across my ribs
I know the peaks and valleys
Of my protruding knuckles
And the hair behind my head
I know the rising
The falling of my chest
And the scarcity of my whiskers
I know the eyes
Open to wonder
And the callous of my feet

I do not know the fear
Behind my cowardice
Or the judgment in my eyes
I do not know the depth
Of my ego’s tangled roots
Or the necessity to please
I do not know the anxiety
Grinding my bones
Or the lies of my heart
I do not know the color
Of my citizen soul
Or its longing for company

I need a toothbrush or two forefingers
long enough to coax your love from my throat.

This one will not pass quietly.

I sing our song to the music of drums and chandelier splinters/
of thousand-year oaks yielding to the wind.

Have you ever heard your heart break clearly?
It is less like 808s and more like breathless tears.

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

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.

How long has it been
   Since you were held by more than your bones?
   Since you were touched by more than fingertips
      on their way to someone else?

How long has it been
   Since you warranted more than a passing glance?
   Since your charm and luster drew them in?
   Since you last felt romanced?
   Since you were judged by more than your title?
   Since earnest eyes, full of patient desire,
      asked you to tell your story?
   Since gentle hands last turned your pages?
   Since you gave all your secrets away?

How long has it been
   Since someone asked what you were worth?
And tell me,
   What was your answer?

Reflect her,
if you dare,
over the translucent image
of summer rain.

Hold her
long after her coffee is gone
and the walls are reminiscing
about the days of her scent.

Hold her,
if you dare,
after the rain is gone
and someone else's face
is staring at your obsession.

I won't blame you.

Walked in like B flat
Slow music playing
Heels clicked like staccato
Dress cello imitating
Blue notes sunken
Drunken with the motion
Of the left right sway
Spin, dip, heads floating
River more than ocean
She never stands still
She don't shoot the breeze
Heart-breaker, shoot to ****
Then she transposed the thrill
B harmonic minor
Tango, stomp, clap
Somebody shot the dress designer.
Violence in the night
Gasoline on the floor
Swift step matchstick heels
She adores the
White
Light
Like coconut cream
Musicians bathe with the moon
Sleep with its beams
Play until the world
Seems to burst at the seams
Set fire to the rivers
Inhale the steam
Descend with the fifths
Never rest on a trill
Cut the drums, spotlight
Let her transpose the thrill

Mother Nature,
green-thumbed,
with eyes of purpose,
with floor length gowns,
went about her morning gardening.

Singing to her crops of we,
the skin of her feet tracing mountains and reefs,
granting rain to the thirst farmer patch,
her scent driving men to humility.

Lungs filled sharp as she winced her eyes,
at the sight of blood she grit her teeth.
The urban thorns were growing now
and choking blossoms of unity.

Remnants of her song now ghost,
the sky grew dark as she approached.
She snipped, with hurricane-force sheers,
and trimmed Louisiana's coast.

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

I haven't found words
que encajen a tu ser
I write poems
llenados de palabras de tu alrededor
where your flowers bloom constant
sin pensamiento de lluvia

float my body over the sea of stones
the sharp cold nagging of the senses
grab me by the tongue and turn me inside out
set me free by way of the wind

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.

hues of you paint vivid the walls of my forest
tree by bony tree you tint me
ever to be called by the color of your name

i am tracing prophecies
on the scroll of your skin
forming my own words
over your tattoos
proclaiming you
invincible
fearless
free

Raindrop rhythms
Bebop
Lightning in the night
I heard a
Grumbling
Mumbling
Something
Coarse
Double pane brokers
Negotiate the storm

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.

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.

Twelve handlebars and six left feet
Plow their way through arrogant Spring
Catching mouthfuls of melodies that swim the air
Stuffing twenty-two pockets with laughter
     Spitting seeds of care
     From cherry-stained lips
     Into the gulfs of ever afters
Slinking their legs and elbows through rafters
To spy on the honesty present in dreams

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

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?

I promise to respect you
No matter what’s revealed
In assonance and in rhyme
In form and free verse
When you look to me for courage
I will lend a steady hand
I promise to persevere
No matter the position of the moon
In syllable counting and soul scraping
In haiku and villanelle
I will cherish the time you lend me
In frustration and in ease
I will wait for you
I promise to give you my all
No matter what I think I have left
Innovation and exercise
In reaching out and introspect
I will keep nothing for myself
But give to you freely
All that the spirit and bone of me
Will allow me to give

It is nearly spring
my laughter told me
time for those hidden
to rise

Time for the heavens
to cry without reason
the season of frivolity
and game

Time for those silent
to sing with new passion
for the earth to fashion dresses
of green

Time for the giving
of names and embraces
for the faceless to turn
and be seen

Time for the secrets
read only in sunshine
to unwind the concept
of fame

It is nearly spring
my itchy soul told me
time for those hidden
to rise

Pull them from their soap boxes,
these poets,
these preachers,
these dreamy-eyed sleep wreckers,
these shivers in the night.

Their words are made of anxiety,
this shaking,
this thunder,
this stirring of the water,
this pungent drone.

Tell them we are sleeping.
We do not wish to wake.
Tell them that our ears are filled
With mud from the stomach of lakes.
Shut them up, whatever it takes.

Drown them in the current,
the walking,
the awake,
the heavy-footed neighbors,
the bare-hearted teeth.

We the people,
floodwaters rising over Kansas City banks
and marketplace levies,
are channeled into rooms
the size and shape of shadows
to be given direction,
to give direction;
waiting our turn to be
churned through turbines.
Our mass is growing stagnant
by this massive
****; This feels like surrogate thinking.
Our water is wasted on greco-roman men
chopping up districts into blues and reds
dividing and conquering the ocean.

When I speak,
It is not so much for you
As it is for me.
Every word,
Echoing in the ballroom
Between my teeth,
Sets my jaw to dancing.
Sibilant whispers
Tickle the tip of my tongue,
Kissing the hiss
Of sunlight on daisies.
The hum drum of mountains
Growling at the ceiling,
Like a kitten purring
Against my nose.
Oohs and Ahs,
Medicine for my cheekbones.
Such ointment as vowels
No doctor has seen.
When I speak,
At times when no ear is listening,
It is not so much for what
As it is for how.
Every word
Stretching time,
Composite peace.

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.

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.

I can't do drugs like these doctors,
these stone faced professionals,
who take walks in the forrest
like a notch on their belt.
I can't close my eyes like the civilized do
when someplace near them is crying.
Somewhere I heard an old voice say
that our eyes are made for drinking,
that our skin is made for fingernails,
and our tears are meant to sting.
I can't sing when my eyes are open
because of the whirlpool's game.
I can't speak when there's music playing,
but I can scream at the fiery bumblebees
who mistake my ribs for their cage.
Alive, to me, is a word in motion:
our world in motion.
My body emotion
ransacks my neurons
and their electric chair.
I am slain, wide-eyed, at the sight of you breathing;
each wave eroding my shore.

Wherever we are
On this wildflower road
Leading where it will
Take notice
We will never return
We will always look back
Let this be a memory
We carry in our pockets
Now that we are
And what we are is wonderful
Naming the flowers at our feet

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.

If I could convince you of one thing,
I would convince you that you are worth it.
These arms are much to short and far too weak
to rip through the curtain of time,
but if I could convince you,
I would brush hours with my fingertips
and leave palm prints engraved on the days you didn't feel loved.
Reaching back, up to my elbows in  pools of your story,
sifting through the silt built up at the bottom,
twisting knobs and turning dials
until every time you heard his voice or her voice say
'you will never amount to anything'
instead played back
'you will never stop amounting.'
Spry young saplings, planted at the river's edge,
you will never stop growing.
You will always find strength when you lift your branches to the sky,
be it deep in your roots,
you will stand taller than northern pines,
taller than sycamores that split clouds with their leaves.
Believe me now more than your memories,
you will do so much more than survive.
I would spill this pain I see melted in your eyes.
With all of the righteous fury a sinner can muster,
I would destroy those times you were told
that it's never ok to cry,
that you must live like prisoners inside your own bodies
with emotions covering up the windows more and more each day.
If I could convince you,
I would swallow every steel bar you've ever known,
Giving you back your mother,
Giving you back your father.
I would fill myself with cages
if you would know that you are free.
You are free to live life as you have seen it in the trees.
Stand tall, and drink from the rivers of love
so few are willing to share with you.
In turn, share your rivers with those who also believe.
I would not erase the pain you have suffered,
for I would not dare touch your strength.
I would ask, that when you feel the wind,
like the breath of God, stirring through the trees,
that you would stretch out your branches and weep.
Water the ground that has brought you so far,
embracing every waking moment
that you might never again live in dreams.
If I could convince you of one thing,
Change your mind about time,
showing you that you are both past and present
staring boldly into the future,
I would convince you that you are worth it.
Whatever "it" you could imagine "it" to be,
Know that it will never measure up to your leaves.

Would you be angry if I howled?
You awaken sleeping fires inside me
more primal than modern words can express.
You look as if you are dressed in the moon
with Orion around your wrist and Leo on your neck.
Such pendants chase the pedantry of speech from my mind.
There are no steps in your stride.
You move about teasing laws of inertia,
kissing gravity on the cheek
as if to acknowledge his feeble attempt.
I have searched all of time and space for you
and you have found me speechless.

Would you be angry if I howled?
Threw my head back and let loose my lungs?
There is a wind in your eyes that stirs my soul.
Sentences that made sense not two minutes ago read:
is the moon you pretty as not as... what?
letters strewn across my tongue fall into my throat
you are a category 5 lunar storm
coating my eyes in moon dust and shine.
There is no man in me so eloquent
as to answer the ancient beauty I have seen in you.
All I have found is a cartoon wolf
with his heart popping out of his overalls
and his eyes on fire with the moon.

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.

I woke with your laughter pounding in my eyes.
It was as if I had swallowed a grapefruit whole
and my breaths were determined to defeat each other.
Your name never did sit right on my tongue.
Your tongue, however, is another story.
I miss you with five of these useless senses
and I find myself dancing around your shadow
in dust you kicked up when you spoke our confession:
This is not meant to be.
How many of those fifteen hundred moons
did you look up to with longing?
How many stars witnessed our passion,
and on which of them did you wish to be free?
I can't look at you without tasting envy
of whoever will one day be home for your skin.
It is coating my tongue,
filling the awkward places where your name used to be.