Golden morning breaks –
New life, encapsulated
By shadows, illuminated.

You can smell the earth
So much more clearly
After rain.

A turn down
An unfamiliar lane.
A new path, hiking
Vast forests of pine –
They are breathing.
Dry needles and thistle aplenty;
Watch for the sharp
Prickles and barbs.

Leaning into the pain,
The imperfect afternoons:
Blissful at times.
Dissolving into rich
Orange hues.

A forge of blue metal
Lays cooling, tonight.
Souls clenched tight;
Entrenched, dug in.

A white flag raised –
Prematurely, perhaps…
A surrender inside
That vacant stare.

Twilight sits inside
Your sinking eyes
As I look to the sky.

The light dances lithly
Amidst the clouds,
While a solitary
church bell sings

As birds
And the horizon
Seem inextricably tied together,
Chasing that freedom together
To far away places.

I write with the hope
That these words will spring
Tendrils, climb up from seeds
That lay inside your heart.

Grow up over spaces
That have gone dry,
Turned cold.

Morphing from brown
To green,
In those neglected crevices
Of your being.

4 little steps to one.
8 little steps to his two.
Rustling leaves, and
A full harvest moon.

The price of walking late at night,
Or early in the morning -
Freshly spun cobwebs,
Dew on your shoes.

Little leaf shoots,
Springing into view.
Stillness, and quiet
That honors the day,
Frames the fear and
Freezes the anxiety,
Transforming them into
a vibrant Matisse.

Expressions of self are
On the way. Freed from
The frenzy of coffee brain
By fresh air, and nature.

Because each meme has value,
and brought together,
they are profound.
All tasks have a purpose,
All things have a sound.
The woosh of the wind,
The crackle of dry leaves.
The crunch of cold
Beneath my feet.

This is not a straight path.

This path is cyclical -
Living one day at a time,
One walk at a time,
These moments are mine.

Does writing a poem change the world?
Does happily ever after exist?

Are the finest gold coins worth the price of rare pearls?
Can you know true love from a single kiss?

To truly experience symmetry,
Do you have to stand on top of the fence?

Is our universe governed by chaos?
Will it all one day make sense?

I float backwards in time  

to a day when I knew my way,
where I found a place; no longer
haunted by thoughts, felt those
dark clouds drifting away.

And as I close my eyes,
I imagine the sky.

Peaking over the rusted metal
stands to the leafy ground below.

In the distance, the point of a citadel
stings, as church bells ring.

The search for solid ground -
for knowing without garishly showing,
for dreaming without sleeping;

This balance that eludes
the most agile tightrope walkers.

The shadow of a guardian,
the one behind the nostalgic lens.

One day, these two will be
more than good friends.
More than just cousins.

Brothers, perhaps -
Yes, they will have
their struggles.

Red-coated anger.
Green and grey envy.

But this bond
must not be broken.

Still searching.

Can you patent the sky,
Or parcel the sea? No,
I believe it belongs
To you, and me.

Getting farther
and farther away
from the shore.
Past the coral shelf,
Where a young boy
absorbs the warmth
of a peach cobbler sky.

With small feet kicking,
tiny bronzed toes momentarily
meet the tangerine sky-line;
Until the horizon cools
to a blueberry hue,
dusted by drops
of indigo dew.

Below the surface,
rocks, boneless creatures,
and bacteria seem so simple,
lining the bottom of a
soundless cerulean world;
They need only hydrogen
sulfide to survive.

Inside, mute and alive, these
parallel forms of symbiosis lie,
in a microcosm and macrocosm
of biorhythms which might never
be fully discovered, or recovered.

A nature of smooth,
yet callous motions
swirl and calm.
Too infinite to know
compassion, this place;
Where one predator strikes
through a layer of dark at its prey,
while another chokes on a piece of plastic.

At times, it’s difficult for the boy to see,
through the veil of the deep blue drink,
where a gulp of air and a gasp in brine,
leaves him floating amid the liquid line.

Still, he seeks – the constant baptism within his reach,
And with the torpid flow of the tide to teach – he knows,
Evolution and Being exist together, at his sandy feet.

A black puppy chases
His mestizo mother up the beach.
A few adults sit sipping Corona Extra,
In lazy hammocks.

Down below, lithe legs
Scramble for solid ground
Along the supple, dark, surface,
Chasing a mini black-and-white ball,
Until it finds a home between
Two pieces of driftwood.

The pull of the sea is strong.
You can almost feel it from
The tables above the shoreline.

The coast seems chancy,
But beauty hides the beast, and
The waves get their chance to throw
The crimson-burned bodies
Around for a time.

Black sand covers all, as we lay,
In a melted pool of jade,
Of perfect temperature.
A one-legged Civil War vet stands peering out
At the ocean, perhaps wondering why

The sky is gray.
Two nuns wander into the horizon.
The vet doesn’t move his focus from the sea,
And the nuns keep to their path.
Did I remember my camera?

Bundled up, and stomping through
arctic white snow, listening
to the Love Below. I look
out on the Maid of the Mist,
the air surrounds my cold cheeks,
numbs them like an icy kiss.

Who could truly be so dumb,
brave those falls in a barrel
run? Ripley’s has me unnerved
believe it or not, the same
nervous rush I feel, before
the ***** from a booster shot.

Then after awhile, we are off
to dine in neon towers, where
we spend hours, soaking
in the bath of a night-time
sky. The glint of flush colors
reflecting against buildings.

The sounds of water raging
amidst mouthfuls of moonlight,
it looks like the world’s been staged.
But back to rest in a spiral
hotel, it’s been a lively day;
Where we pull up the covers,
and that’s where we will remain.

It is time to sit out on the dock.

A flash, just under the surface, and
Reddened faces are frantic again,
Focused on fishing out that rare specimen.
A fillet of words will simmer above the fire, tonight.

Did you mimic famous styles,
Or make lightning a memory?
Have you added new layers of brick
Atop the older ones?
If you’re inspired, will you write it down?
Did you hum atop the mountain’s side,
Or summit the crests in time?
Did you get lost around kaleidoscopic corners?
If you did, don’t worry.
Coroners will make you look nice.

Do you want a gravestone when you die?
Will your last thoughts be for our country?
Is your blood red?
Is your paper white?
Is your ink blue?
Does your pen beg to bleed through sheets?
Will you remember what teachers said?
If you did,
Will it matter?
If you didn’t,
I hope that you brought a tape-recorder.

Two weeks in the sweltering heat of El Salvador
Sweating out the familiarities of home
A windswept airport parking lot
Speckled with miniature palm trees.

Open your eyes,
Dust off your ears,
And let those worries evaporate
Into the atmosphere.

Embarking down a little dirt path,
Where years of civil war
Unleashed their wrath.
Subtly, a foundation shifts
From the Miquon woods
Towards a smaller rural community
In the altitudes.

A laid-back game of soccer
In the oppressive 115-degree weather.
Against the firmness of dried brown dirt
Frantic feet are light like feathers
A history is present here
A common ground
We both hold dear
It’s clear,
The passion is sincere
Above all
A Spalding ball
Replacing Plymouth Meeting Mall
I, them, we, thaw
Once feeling cold
Now living raw.

A flash of colors
Mirrors a Macaw
The blend of people
A game will draw
With warm legs kicking
One draws upon
More natural law
A hand exchanged
For faster paw
Metamorphosis leaves
Humans in awe.
Who’s watching us?
The Eye of Ra

I feel awake
I think I’ve heard the bugle call.

Motown mojo hops down
Through speakers,
While neon lights
Flash smiles.
A cool, green liquid sits,
Untouched in a lean glass.

Mellow lights give
The place a quiet class.
Amid the pulse of an
After-midnight entourage,
The clamor of
Celebratory laughs.

What’s going on?

Two birds fly by
On the way down South,
Where dancing tunes
Can be heard,
If you listen just right.

Down there, it’s a maze.
I’d rather stay up here,
And park myself
In a trouble-free simplicity,
Letting my mind wander…
Off the beat.

A shift.

Gazing out the window,
And past a yawn,
The fuel of the night
Is far from gone,
Because I can dig
Marvin anywhere.

My attention predictably
Short-lived, I become engrossed
By a bead of dark whiskey,
Which lies upon a neighboring seat
(An elegantly tall bar stool,
Probably made from a cherry tree).
And it’s there I am reminded,
It’s always been the night I seek.

To live as a shepherd,
Tending to sheep,
Watching generations of life
Procreate, eat, and sleep.

Thirsting for waters
Which remain deep.

Wishing to be
without constant
Strife of the tongue,
Or ill-begotten promises;

Because a heart and a mind
That aims for maturity,
Is sometimes caught
In the current, midstream.

Have you missed the youthful lesson,
Standing in front of your passage?
Or the evening ensemble in the park,
A summer sonata before dark?

Travel those distant roads
my friends, but keep your circles tight.
Become an itinerant preacher, for a day.
An action for an action -

And give yourself time enough,
On the hands of the big clock -
To think tranquilly and observe,
Without conditional thoughts, or words.

Imperfectly,
I stand before you,
A man. If you can’t see
All the things that I am,
I’m not content to hang around
As the retirement plan.

I’ll never boss you around,
But that’s not because I’m weak.
It’s because I have the security
To let you be you,
And me, be me.

I stand on my own two feet.
And I don’t ever base my self-esteem
Off some meaningless number
Of late night creeps.

I’ve searched my own deeps, for
A healthy conception of masculinity -
And this is a long-term investment scheme;
So I ask, can you appreciate what patience means?

Without games, on an even plane,
No cliché lines or insincere sayings.
You can always find another “strong-type,”
One of those paper-thin cut outs
From the book of male stereotypes.
Still, truth untold,
We both know -
It’s unconventionality
That makes a diamond
In the rough.

I have learned that
Determining a diamond’s cut grade
Goes well beyond
Simple measurements,
Like width and depth.
To determine
A diamond’s worth,
You have to test
Its light performance.

Even if a stone seems
To have color and clarity,
You can tell a real diamond
By how it catches the light,
Disperses evenly across the rock,
While a fake becomes almost transparent
As saturated light moves through it.

In another poet’s words:
Some [folks] recognize the light
But they can’t handle the glare.

I’ve also learned that appraisal of a diamond
Is determined by its own proportions.
You have to test for symmetry.
Does it seem to be high-grade carat
While you’re around?
And karma, karma, chameleon
To cubic zirconium,
If you’re visiting
The other side of town?

The thing is,
I’m not really here
To expose other contradictions.
I just want you to listen.

I want to talk to you
About how chivalry is not dead.
Look you right in the eye,
And tell you why. Talk
About how romance
Is still very much alive.
So, no more wind-whispered cries,
About how good manners have all but died.

Some might call such confidence conceited,
But I’m not recarving any hieroglyphs.
This type of affection is ancient,
So help to embrace it. Engage we -
With extensive emotional foreplay
And intellectual tongue-kissing;
Way before incense and candles get lit.

And tonight?
Let’s try starting over
With a night out on the town.
The recipe is simple: good food and
a place that's quiet enough for conversation,
maybe a jazz spot, if you’re down.

Or maybe, we could catch
A late-night flick
That really makes us think.
And when we’ve talked ourselves dry,
Neither one of us
Would mean a goodbye,
So we’d retire homewards,
And unwind.

Because I do want you,
The right way.
I want you,
And I want you to want me, too.
I want you to want me,
Just like I want you.

Nevertheless,
No stress for you,
Or for me.
If these rivers are meant
To find their way to the sea,
It should happen, naturally.

He’s come to ancient plains, again.
Wide and open, high and dry.
Unrolling before his misting eyes,
He feels the tug of ancient ties -
A primeval sorrow,
His gut rarely lies.

Breathing the landscape in ...
He imagines America,
Before settlers arrived;
A life under
Different skies.
Oh, how they tried
To disguise
Their insatiable eyes.

Twisted, and tainted,
By treatises and lies,
Used for desire,
And profit designs;
Parceling the land,
That sour reprise.

But beneath
The ringing cries,
Of culture broken,
And shattered lives,
A wisp of her soul resides;

In stories told,
And countryside.
Places where nature
Remains untried,
And no realtors
Have thought to subdivide.

Outside,
It’s another crisp,
September day.
Afraid to trust you say,
So both our steps
Are cautious, guided.
Still, it’s in the little gestures,
The intimate silences,
That I can see
(We could be care-free).

Remember when we
Cupped our ears to
That crowned shell?
We heard different things.
You heard the ocean breeze,
I heard the sea.

And I guess that I’m caught
Between the physical trappings
Of your moon, and its
Gravitational pull.
So I swim:
Under your sleeves,
Inside your jeans.

In and out, with the tide,
We continue to sway.
Dazing away this lazy
Sunday afternoon
Between the sheets.

Gently, I pull my left arm,
Which is wrapped
Around the elegant,
Dark curls of your hair,
And move you closer -
Hoping to ensure
More secure Z’s.

With your sleeping head
Upon my chest, and the steady
Rise and fall of your breath,
Your sleeping beauty
Radiates trust, and volumes
Of a colorful world, eclipsed
By the shadows surrounding
Your waking words.

“Can you move over a little, please?”

You didn’t seem to notice my adjustment,
And something about this minor detail
Shakes my mind from its lethargic ease.
After a minute or two, you’re back to sleep.

And I begin to imagine -
What thoughts are drifting around in
The gray areas of your resting head?

I’m sitting above some soil,
Is this my backyard?
No, my neighborhood is
Many miles from here.
Scores of sounds
Jump down
At different decibels
To my excited ears.
A Mexican Sun bronzes arms,
And the sky continues to stay clear.

Am I grateful for the sky?
I am grateful for the sky.

Trees plus breeze
Equals a faint whisper
Amid muggy heat.
I wish I could translate each leaf,
For the forest keeps
A language of her own.

I would like to leave my mark on this earth -
More lastingly than the Red River Maple tree,
Who leaves only a passing shadow on the ground.
And as some twisted Acacias talk about how
Long they’ve been around, I’m not so naïve,
So their noise dies down.

Just long enough
To hear my thoughts
Echo, and echo,
And stop somewhere.

Sweat beads drip down
Onto a parched porch.
Soon, the moisture is gone,
And a taciturn timber terrace
Smiles as if to say;
“I am the Sahara. I am dry.”

Shifting my gaze
Back to nature,
I center my senses,
On these different woods,
Which breathe without fences.
A gray catbird picks away at the ground,
Searching for some nourishment.

An Inca Dove ***** by noisily,
For stealth has never been his game.
A cardinal flits across the landscape,
Not staying long enough for me
To fully appreciate his crimson splendor.

A motor car rumbles by,
But soon the forest’s natural
Symphony drowns that sound.
A strand of a spider’s web
Drifts by, stealing my eyes,
For moments.

Signs of spring, of summer, of September,
Live in this place. I wonder if
My yard is blooming, too.

All the way to Zion,
She hung from the
Tip of my tongue.

She was the right song,
At the right time. That’s
What I hoped, at least.

I loved her accompaniment;
The kind that was as fine
As a San Francisco sunset.

She invited me to eat dinner,
And I said, “Yes, of course.”
Because I had never been
To her place before.

She said she lived somewhere
Off the North Juda Line.
We agreed to meet
After work, at half past seven,
Outside of the Market
Street subway stop.

I knew that I didn’t have
Much time to waste.
She was the type to leave
If I was late.

Sure enough,
By the end of the day,
I got delayed. I was still
In the office at eight.
I called her twice,
But she didn’t wait.

I tried to catch her
At the next stop,
But my feet were slow -
So there I was again, caught.

I knew the perfect song
To sing to Celia,
I was just late
On the chorus.

Free to amble because of
My missed commitment,
I walked further down
The Embarcadero,
Until I heard some Cuban dudes
Playing a familiar old song
In the SBC Park, just below Pier 38.

I recognized it immediately -
Such a beautifully simple melody:

Yo soy un hombre sincero, de donde crece la palma
Yo soy un hombre sincero, de donde crece la palma
Y antes de morir yo quiero cantar mis versos del alma.

The funny thing is, for a while,
I forgot about everything.
I sat on that bench, and listened.
The song had that old wisdom to it,
Something that you can’t really explain,
You just feel.

Eventually, I decided to
Walk out onto the pier.
I got to thinking
About Celia again,
How mad she must have been -
Send in the clowns.

And just as I
Started to sink -
You know, really feel
Bad for myself,
Someone tapped me
On the shoulder.

I turned to face
The unsuspecting person,
To let them know that
It was the wrong day,
And I was the wrong guy
To be asking for directions…

And there she was,
Right in front of me.
“Take my hand,”
Celia quietly said,
As the lights on the pier
Danced to the sweetness
Of her voice in my ears.
I laughed. She laughed.
And there we were -
A little bit lost together.

Far down the line
But my skin will stay café
The dark side of a lunar moon
Casts shadows upon my face
But the light shines down and diffuses
A fusion that I embrace
I look back at time
I look back at space
The line I walk
I’ll keep my pace
My ears preserve
To speak with grace
And make some sense
Of muddled race
Sharp is my tone
And so I brace
For those who cry
“You have no place”
I’m springing forth
From ancestral base
An intricate weave
Of familial lace
From within my core
Beats resonate
My soul resounds
Like deep, rich bass
A load I can carry
But tedious weight
My calm brown hair
I’ll never hate
With open arms
Receive my fate
I wish I could aid my earlier brethren
Slaving away on that Southern estate
I am not done…
Will I be too late?

Watch Bush.
Watch him push,
Metropolitan moods
Farther towards
The Atlantic and Pacific.
What issue was the key?
Gay marriage to be specific.
Forget our foreign policy,
Although the future looks horrific.
Ask all our allied countries,
Our president’s terr(or)ific.

He’s watching our country’s back.
(A side note: Reasoning for attack;
Some big weapons in Iraq).
This war is justified,
Our government’s convinced of that.
But waging full-out war
On a country and all its people,
Where only terrorists act?

If my sail has gone downwind,
Please advise me to tack.
But I strongly believe,
Our reasoning’s that wack.
I wish our president had the nerve
To bring our soldiers back.

It was a brilliant diversionary tact,
And advisors guessed well on how
The United States would react.
Bring fear and resources to the forefront, while hiding the facts
And legislatures and voters have a worthwhile contract.

So while I’m sitting here, still trying to figure out
Why we can’t implement more help in Somalia or the Sudan
Our leader has emerged on the world’s stage again,
Yelling “Can I get encore, do you want more?”
And ethics continue to slide off track,
While our diplomatic virtue fades to black.

Bush Jr. won the election “fairly,”
It’s clear for all to see.
But it’s sad to watch how easily
Politicians, Fortune 500 companies, and lobbyists
Have learned to exploit our Democracy.
An adept political machine,
Our government has no trouble raising the green
For our defense budgets and campaign schemes.

And it seems we forgotten about
Rescuing underfunded education,
How our country hurts collectively as a nation.
Left most of New Orleans’ poor and down-trodden
To the heroic efforts of local police, the coastguard and firemen
(At least those who weren’t part of the 1300
Which the water levels reached higher than).
And it makes me wonder,
Like 7 years ago, on the 11th day,
In the ninth month of our calendar year:
Through the wake of another major
Catastrophe and time of tears,
Did we miss the lesson, again?

See, we’ve made it a routine
To apologize after the fact -
One overzealous scream,
And the media makes
A joke of a good candidate,
Sorry, Howard Dean.
John Kerry’s record,
“Too sparkling clean.”
But accusing ANY politician of flip flopping
On the world’s political matters,
I hardly call that keen.
“We” had many grounds
For initially invading Iraq,
But to this day, have any been gleaned?
Our President lost 90-9,
In Washington D.C.

The President Elect
For 365 more.
In fact 365,
365 times four.
And with a majority in senate,
A “mandate” (a.k.a. a wide open door).

Time to get some things changed.
Instead of patching up wounds,
Of countries estranged,
With all the ambiguity of the election,
And the issues that ranged,
One thing is certain -
The President reigns.
Under the heat of the world’s glare,
Our burning Bush remains.

First some dots,
Then some roads
That form a knot.
I watch above
A lush green spot,
A modest farmer’s plot.

When seatbelts click,
I feel the drop.
My stomach sinks,
Completely fraught,
From the futile battle
With luke-warm Fresca,
My bursting bladder
Is quite distraught.

We go down,
Then there’s a stop,
Through a gust of air
That is hot, we walk.
With movements like, a robot.
We take wing again,
And turn back the clock.
My headache is gone,
But my ears have popped,

This is a red-eye plane.

No sleep leaves
Him sleep deprived,
He hides beneath
His drooping eyes,
And comes home to dwell
Within the silence of the night.

Before spreading across the bed,
He places his patched jacket
Above the ground, on a hook,
To hang, suspended for the flipside.
A glance at the clock tells him it’s three,
Plus a quarter turn to the right.

It’s always before dreams, it seems,
That he feels the need to pull
Out pen and paper, to write.
Very soon, he knows,
It will be bright.
And lights will shine in,
To wake him up, again.

Sometimes, though,
He likes to pretend,
That there isn’t an end,
To this nocturne world.

So while he…
His, mind dances along the moon,
With a little more wandering,
His thoughts seem in tune,

To a jazzy
Twilight atmosphere,
And he hears -
The quiet orchestra
Of his thoughts,
Amidst the dark.

For a short time,
He’s moaning with Mingus, absorbing Etta.
At last, his sleep has come along,
As he dips into the Milky Way
Until his thoughts are gone.

Restless nights.
Shuffle my deck,
I don’t like my hand.
Where is my queen of hearts?
This game is lonesome,
And I’m tired of
Playing by myself.

We want answers,
And we want them now.

Generations scrolling down together, receiving
Informal lessons from sometimes qualified strangers,
Impulsively living, giving status updates,
Proudly showing the world pictures
Of all the places we’ve been -
Twittering to gain followers, digitally devoted,
But consistently losing the edge,
Heading back to Starbucks to refill.

Welcome to the 21st century,
Where life spills into the abstract,
And we consume with the click of a button.
You’re only a copy-and-paste away
From a satisfactory translation,
A GPS away from your next location,
One computer screen freeze
Away from total frustration.

Just ask a teacher, they know exactly
Where the future lies, somewhere
Between a child’s wandering eyes
And flippant commercials, there is
Utterly, complete concentration.

What’s the solution?
More time preparing
For entrance exams?
Creating more diverse
Lesson plans?
Either way, students will
Still quote Spongebob
And call you a square.

A distrust of details…
Ample amounts of reporting,
And eroding authority;
More freeze-thaw cycles,
Upswells, dead zones. Early signs
Wash up onto the shore, as the
Earth’s core continues to warm.
Hurricanes play mercilessly with
Uninsured lives, and earthquakes
Evolve from tickles to fissures.
Snow disappears from
Whole mountainsides.
The floodgates HAVE opened, temperatures ARE
Rising; Perception is always partial
but there’s plenty of evidence, regardless -

When we start to question the record-keepers
And legislators, those omitting parts of history;
People who willingly walk into the sun, selfishly
Sidestep the natural order and equilibrium of all things,
Exactly where does that journey end?

I think, somewhere around the place
Where we start to forge our own histories,
Or indifference begins.

War bots modeled after x-box controls,
from the high to the low, maintaining.
Apocalypse Now, Captain please,
a pale face knotted, one last swig of Jim Bean.

Revolution is live, no cutting these scenes,
everybody plays soldier, till the bullets
start to scream. And Death hums by, shrieking
ancient lullabies, two blinks of an eye, while
Cerberus snarls, “Don’t you know the smell
of warm gunpowder perfume?” If not, son,
You’ll know it all too soon.”

Hold your breath as it floats up your nose. No slipping here -
By nightfall, this valley’s grove will be flooded with other throes.
Excuse the rows of strangely contorted bodies that lie, resting,
and the bloated brown-streaked limbs, homeless, getting more
lost amidst the bellowing desert sand. Enjoy the silence of
the boom, the momentary reprieve from green noise,
******* up the sinking cries, an empty vacuum.

Watch for the ambushers, too – waiting by the roadside;
As familiar grins with tattered teeth flicker fake smiles,
and land mines sparkle under feet, fireworks on the fourth of July.

Que sera, sera.

Aloft, suspended thoughts fall.

Should I let all rest, so easily?
Ruminations of her memory
Whisper quietly to me.

Soft as though a gentle breeze,
And still she brings me to my knees.
I wish I could ride this zephyr home,
But she rests for nobody.

Consistently erratic,
Her signal’s often static.
I tweak the receivers to get the picture,
Remaining non-pragmatic.

She lives present for a moment,
Then she’s gone for eternity.
Sparking up my strongest affections,
Smothering them delicately.

Should I stay and drift this love supreme,
And further stretch my bluest dream?
Or let rationality reign alone,
And spit me upon the sea?

A bedrock, and a mountain stream.
A summit, and the soothing breeze.
A quiet forest where I can climb
Between dark clusters of trees,
And think about eternity -
This is what you mean to me.

What a puzzle, this infinity
That passes between souls.

Still, I remember.
I remember, because I choose to -
And as I eat sweet cake,
I think of you.

You, the dome above my thoughts,
The palace that quarters my soul,
Adorns my armor with robes.

I pray, every day that our roots
Won’t be touched by the cold,
And that I may keep the privilege
Of your company until we are old,
Because you are a reflection -

Now, I watch every step that I take,
Each excuse that I make.
You are my mirror.

A shape shifter.
A transformer.
Everything you fear.
Change.

The unknown is
a scary place,
a scary thing.

Do you know who I am?
Do I know who I am?

Would someone please show me
which home is my place,
which family my own,
which lines I should trace?

Every contour on my face,
every word that I utter.
It is all you.
And that’s scary.

Why does it scare you?

Because I am a stranger, and your homie.
Your son, and your enemy.
I am all that you were,
and all that you will be.

You want to embrace me
as your child, your kin.
But I’m different, a little
too complicated to fit in.

You wish for things to be simple,
the son whose identity is set in stone.
So I travel these unbeaten paths alone -
As you close your eyes to me,
a child who barely knows part of his family.

I look to you to help define me,
and still you refuse to see,
even as your memory is stirred by me.

Your mind pushes me
to the back of your head
but your heart won’t let
you forget who I am,
and so I’ve grown,
the invisible boy,
soon to become
the invisible man.

Some days you simply wonder,
and life seems more an illusion, and
all those heavy questions drive
your mind into diffusion.

Your reason screams “yes,”
while your sleepless conscience
tells you otherwise.
So which is telling truth,
and which is telling lies?

As you struggle to pick,
you start to realize,
you’ve made a wrong choice -
a part of you died.
This choice about me
could never be wise.

So which shall you follow,
your heart, or your head?
Don’t be too quick on the take -
You might make a worse
nightmare of your bed.

To see the unseen
is a complicated thing.
Many have said that
with knowledge comes pain,
And I assure you that
seeing me has consequences.

So you whisper, “ok”
Your curiosity parched
For the knowledge that quenches,
As it tugs at your core,
A million tight wrenches.

I will see you
Is your tardy demand!
And a transient being
Lifts his transient hand.
Where this unveiling takes you,
You intend to land.
You’re facing your demons,
You’re being a man.

So who is behind
the mask, you ask?

It’s me,
An interracial boy.
A melting *** of culture, and color,
A child who won’t accept the word other.
Not molded from one sole identity cast,
Destined for eternity to sculpt my mask.

I guess that it’s time
to find a place in the sky.
Have you ever been so tired
of trying to ask why,
that you just began running,
and you never looked back?
Chasing this forever
down abandoned tracks.

Life is but a country club.
Weren’t you invited, dear?

Intelligence quotients and aptitude tests,
sorted by layers of filters and ciphers,
to justly court the consummate lifers.

Are you qualified?

The waiting list is growing,
and the company is getting anxious.
Shall we take on some new members,
or watch the squirming a little longer?

Think about it this way,
if you aren’t qualified -
You can always try upstate.

What a lovely estate!
A half-smoked cuban cigar,
and a watchman at the gate.

No, you can’t trust the man
who got lost in his mistakes.

He is untrustworthy.

Do be a doll though, Cindy,
and send a nice postcard.

This man that moves in front of me,
He must know something more than I.

His steps are sure, his limbs are spry,
He’s not afraid to say goodbye –

To the noise of his native metropolis,
Or the bumbling bees amidst Versailles.

He’s searching night and day, of course,
For the summer song of the harvest fly.

See me, I’m just an average guy,
Who spends his time in the countryside.

So as I stumble on concrete streets,
The city beats in warm July;

While the traveling man’s gaze on the fading sky
Obscures his view of the lonely cowpie.

The bottom line: You've sold.
Not because you’re not
with me, more because
you’ve settled, low.

No more soliloquies on jerks;
either accept that type,
or leave them alone.
For the record, these are just my thoughts,
letting my dome roam, like Tony Romo
on a fly pattern to T.O.

I would say this -
If you want to talk about Man,
and his naturally DOGmatic nature;
collectively, women might take
some of that responsibility.
Because there are scores
of nice guys out there,
playing the scene.

There are just as many
men who can’t see past
The tip of their own sh*t,
And plenty of girls
Who enable it.

So nice guys take the rap, all the time,
for another brother’s crimes!
I’ve been there before,
trying to play heartbreaker
when I was only playing myself,
so I guess that I can’t play
the part of Pious Theophilus.
I’ve come to find out, even
Augustine of Hippo had dirt
(I guess we all do).

Just feel me on this one:
It’s a learning process, and
if he doesn't treat you right;
give you everything
that you're worthy of,
then you’re the fool
for sticking around.

That being said, I’m not hitting you
with a completely unsympathetic frown.
Ultimately, the point will stand,
that where his soul lies down
is the beauty of a man;
and all that stuff on the exterior -
Well, let’s just say things
aren’t always as they appear.

It’s a cycle, Juliet - and Romeo has been frustrated.
Right now, I'm speaking with grown-up sincerity;
and I know, sometimes the little boy manages
to creep his way back into the picture, but
believe me when I say that I am trying,
it’s a complex mixture.

So when I whisper sweet something’s up
to your moonlit balcony from below;
tell you that when I’m with you,
I can feel myself grow;
or shower you with the
praises that you deserve,
and try to make you glow -
All I ask is that you hear me,
and believe me.

And believe me, I see -
Other cats are going to keep
jacking authentic styles and flows,
keep a strut in their walk,
and talk low over the phone.
Remember though; he can only
quote Shakespeare so long -
before you and he realize,
he’s just singing
another man’s song.

More importantly,
I want you to be happy.
Because I adore
the way you smile,
how you push
the long strands
of hair behind your ears
when you laugh.

And I know that
a lot of the time,
if you get drunk,
or decide to get high
(for the first time),
that you come to me,
reach out to me.

The sad part
of this story -
I won’t be.

I’m not your knight
in shining armor,
or your Cinderella plan.

You have to love yourself
before you can share
with someone else.

A dream deferred,
is a dream unheard.
I'll always prefer
to dream.

Your kisses,
mixed with salty tears.
A word – or two, or three;
spoken naturally.

We know
it’s a bit early,
but are thankful
just the same.

As I get out of the car,
I drop my Nano.
I think I’m realizing
how deeply you
have made contact.

It pains me to see you drive
away; so I turn my priorities
from the work at my desk,
to extract the warm tea
that brews in my breast.

Love is bold, just ask the axis.

When you smile,
let me know that I am
the object of your affection,
I learn to fully appreciate
the meaning of grace;
And grateful joy runs
through my veins.

Amidst the blemishes,
you manage to find me,
between these reds,
blues, and greens.

Below Orion’s belt
He will fly.

Sailing in on the evening breeze,
Through a clustered cloud of E’s.
To the timbre of a stammer,
Above the cedar trees.

A wish for lips to seize the soul is filled,
Without tongue, or a love-****** kiss.
No, this moonlight drifter need not sneak
To steal your attentiveness.

Raspy cool, birthed on a cool train, a Coltrane,
Flickering inside a steel blue horizon.
A stray bolt of lightning
in a darkening jar.
Did you see it?

Condensed droplets of jive crystallize
As sight spreads with a ****-crow sunrise.
Shadows yield to spots of sunshine, and
The hum knifes through atoms of air,
Awakening the Early Ears.

A fulfillment, furnished.
A drip, a drop,
A drip and a drop,

Arranged in pairs of sinking threes -
The details of an ensemble’s dream
Infuse the day’s reality.

And with one last vertical dance,
Time slips back to a simpered trance,
As basso continuo leads you home,
Through a lonely mountain pass.

A zephyr is crowned,
Sitting atop a morning cloud,
To culminate, an unfettered kite,
A lazy bird in flight.

Inspired by Allen Ginsberg’s Love Returned.

Tonight, there will be no merging onto
The wireless info web highway-
She returns, with smiles,
From thousands of miles,
To honor unresolved promise.
No longer anonymous, humming
My love song to someone in particular.

I weave my way across the margins,
Through a web of puddles and pebbles,
As puzzle pieces of sensual treble resonate,
Drizzle amiably down on my burgundy umbrella.

And she evolves, a silent tempest
That swells in the warmth of the night.

Is it the unaffected loyalty,
Or the sweetness of her smell?
The strength of her autonomy,
Or the completeness of our honesty?

As we peel away protective layers,
I hope that we remain,
Two connoisseurs of romance,
Who continue to slow dance.

Staying learned and childlike,
Earnest and mild, like
Students of truth.
From the thoughtful naiveté
Of maturing youth,
I offer my blessings to her.

It’s fitting that she, lovely
As a coveted Viyella,
Seems free of material expectations,
Or ring-around-the-rosy words.

So all that’s left to do-
Make our cozy escape, and find rest
Inside this departing Acela.
Calmed by the self-propelled motion
Of our northbound locomotive,
I consider a future inside fifty-two sunsets,
And finally set my sights upon
A sound, stone bridge.

It’s as though her auburn words,
Along with the acute angles of her smile,
Are anticipating my every beat.

I wonder if she knows that
Her eyes, a mélange of the
Steel blue Merrimack, below
A tall granite overpass, loom
Over these familiar train tracks,
A painted Methuen sunset.

Come, join me.
Down to dine,
From the towers
of your mind:

To a feast
in the present,
where there is much
to be enjoyed (besides
the fading hourglass).

Forgive the past,
Forget the future,
And live in this
moment, own it.

In the dark, silent room
The enlarger projects a negative onto a base sheet,
Where long-fingered hands place a contact print
Inside the developer, and wait.

In the dark room,
The smell of fix permeates the air,
And a young man can’t help but stare
At the image sharpening before him, slowly.

In the heart of the dark,
He sees the delicate dimples,
The gentle contours of expression,
The healthy shine behind her eyes.

Blacks, whites, and grays
Hide the color of her skin,
But he can still feel
Her glowing cheeks,
Feel the heat escape from
The flat dimensions

Of the paper,
Because, when words become unclear,
And stop speaking to each other,
He focuses his attention back
On the solemn beauty
In the picture.

Beloved, shimmering satellite.
You pour down dutifully into the night,
Through hilltops and valleys alike;
Impressing a calm, inspiring fright.
Quite heavy sometimes, while other times slight.
Pale and present, smiling upon the world
With that pleasant, Cheshire grin.
You leave me feeling warm, again.

O Moon, doubly resplendent
From your infinite place in the sky.
You share the solar-system with the stars,
And patiently listen as an anxious puppy
Whines from his lonely domain.

Radiantly, you reward
The midnight lover’s stroll,
Fulfilling the task at hand,
Until a rooster crows,
And the Sun steals your show.

Anticipation tiptoes from table to table.

My Jelly Roll Soul
Sets sail for Alice’s rabbit hole.

In front of a hushed, hip crowd,
The music condenses into a scarlet cloud,
And originality speaks aloud.

A trumpet sounds,
A subway car rumbles underground,
Signaling all the cool cats
That it’s time to get down.

A virtuoso teases black and white keys,
Shaping notes with subtle expertise.
The closest I’ve ever seen, man come to mastering machine.
Slowing the frenzied, fractured step of the East Village above,
To E’s. Legato ease.

Optional Z’s
Leave many without sleep,
For who could snooze
At times like these?
The alto-sax
Is bending C’s!

Just listen in, on that wailing bassoon,
Who howls to the moon.
It might be noon,
Up there.
But that’s up a flight of stairs,
And I’m enjoying my jazzy state of affairs.

There will always be time for Nostalgia in Times Square.

Since representation
Is often labeled
Ungodly, pardon me
For my sins.

At the worst times,
Spiced thoughts accompany
My empty, double twin bed,
My crowded head.

Her aroma is
Rolled up inside my covers,
Like the smell of earth
After hard rainfall.

She has a way of
Tangling my dreams,
A citrus flavor of tangerines
So subtle, and present.

The **** sweetness that
Won’t leave your mouth,
Even if you taste
Something else.

How lovely is a full-blown crush?

Like hot cider
On a chilled December day,
It can be so delicious,
And scold your mouth.

I watch the warm,
Vaporous breath become visible
In the frosty air of the holiday season,
And walk from place to place.

I feel the cold of my belt buckle,
Hear the crunch of frigid under feet,
And know that
Winter is now.

I try thinking my way into happiness,
And out of loneliness,
But it’s not quite for me,
And I find myself listening to Chet, again.

Of all the places
To lose myself in contemplation,
It’s not so bad here,
Under the pull of this crescent moon.

Inspired by Emily Dickinson’s Life.

As the clock strikes
midnight in a perfect world,
they only want to know one thing:
What does your soul look like?

In the beginning, three sat together
in darkness, sweating and chewing miraa,
talking of unlikely things and dreams
while ******* down Tusker.
It was refreshing to be nobody,
soft baiting the line
and wasting time
gambling shilingi.

The sun outside set sooner than expected,
dipping well below the low buildings,
so they ventured out into the cobalt
blue evening, not thinking too much
about who might be listening,
speaking bravely as their words
and jokes slowed down beside
shadows beyond the city lights.

Laughing more, the three hopped on
a matatu at Kimkambala, smelling
the final wisps of dinner in each
passing village, watching as a purse
got pulled just paces from the road,
until they got off by Fort Jesus.

Further and further, they treaded home,
walking alongside the Indian Ocean -
Through the thick, green night, almost
fog-like, tip-toeing by an old man and
his flashlight; he slept soundly on
the steps of that corner storefront.

The three whispered their goodbyes,
and headed separate ways.

The youngest of them slid easily between the
narrow alleyways, and finally through braided
black bars. With the turn of a treasure-chest key,
he was back in the courtyard, walking past the
stripped bones of yesterday’s catch, where he
decided to make his permanent address, today.

He had dwelled where dreams are born,
but only for a day, and searched to find
sunset in the tip of a cup – when the
sunset was enough. He knew
that it was too much as he asked
a stranger to fill him up to the brim,
and told him not to worry, he would
say “when.” He had worked hard to
lay down his guilt on the altar, and not
return to gin, making this decision:

He decided that being
born to homeless winds
doesn’t mean that you
have to be homeless, and
as he climbed the broom-swept
maroon steps, up to the roof, he
breathed deeply. How pleasant
it was to look out onto the sea,
reflecting the pearly moon,
so beautifully.

Rainbows inside
A waning glass
of pale golden wine,
perspiring inside a casual grip -
Like little islands or skeleton hands,
patterned white fingertips press
the drink against thirsty lips.
Stress wound around
the rim tighter than a spool,
Remembering to let go
of the uncertainties and
watch prisms of light
cast shadows on the ground,
enjoying strums of
pleasant guitar sounds
floating out to sea;
Only at the beach.

The signs seem clear.
The wonderful language
of unborn sights and songs
to your eyes and ears.
How lucky, to be present
enough to see, and hear.

This guidepost is not
necessarily for you,
but I’ll follow my visions,
if you’ll seek out that star -
And independently, I think that our paths
may cross, because we believe
There is more than us.