You will never
know how I held
back sharp words
behind a caged mouth,
when you asked
me of my day.

I wanted to cut off
your golden hair
and wear it as
a mustache,
because you
forgot to take
out the **** trash.

I had my lighter
right around
my neck,
and knew
how to
spark it,

but knew
that one
spark
of anger
would
destroy
our million
pieces of
shared joy.

And so I
refrained,
and thought maybe
I had completed
an important
life lesson.

Maybe somehwere up
in the heavens
God and Jesus
were cajoling
over wine
of my decision,

The little cherub
angels were
sounding their
trumpets
preparing for
my arrival
one day,

and sharpeining
their wings
to inevitably
carry me back
to my improved
return as
some great
historical
figure or
rare bird,
to reward
my refrain,
to reward
my refrain.

The high priestess sun
and the moon
sitting
on a throne
of space
were all
people could
write of
before
screens
took over
the face.

Galileo liked to kiss
his telescope with an
eye full of curiosity
jotting down notes
of invention,
while Monet stared
so hard at flowers
he came back as
pollen riding a bee.

The wind whispered
a different tune
back then,
it had a voice
and plenty a
listening ears
to land on.

I heard the sea
also slept with sirens,
who slept with sailors,
that slipped into stories
we don't know to be
true or false.

I wonder what it was
like when two worlds
knew how to coexist,
when humans
lived with magic,
and without
the need to
overtake.

But I believe
we have glued
our wings too
close to the sun,
we never got the
chance to fly.

I often see
our finish line
in the way
we treat
each other,
save for the
select souls
who can still
sing the
siren song,

who can sit
with silence
and heartbeat,
swim into deep
hours of nothing
and bring back
significance,
jotting it down
as verse or book.

Let us inch closer and closer
to this forgotten behavior, you and I.

I think of all the times I have wanted to use you,
but chose your stronger brothers:
damp, muggy, soggy, dank

Or heard you pass through the slips of human lips,
and shuddered at your mere presence.
Damnation was never your goal in life I am sure,
you had greater ambition, despite your condition.

You never deserved the dank basement
of vocabulary, or the back of the bus.

I hope that when the sun rises,
some lunatic with a pen takes you up from the ditches
and writes a soliloquy about his lover's moist lips,
how they so gently move within his grip.

I hope that when the travelers sludge through mud,
they hear moist moist moist echo from their shoes
and are reminded of your being
as you stay lingering in their traveling heads,

across the mountains of Timbuktu and into Machu Pichu,
most likely streaming on a thread atop a skyscraper
dangling in the wind for no one to see.

"Out of the ash,
I rise with my red hair,
And I eat men like air."
-Sylvia Plath

My father's office
housed indentured
servants of paper stacks,
all crawling towards
the ceiling to escape,
mildew man in a
metal bin can.

Old German phrases
lingered in the air
escaping my grip,
all your ich bins
and ein kleines,
the Nachtmusik tune
and the cuckoo song,
turns of the *****,
in replace of an
I love you.

I dreamt you were insufficient
so it'd be easier to forget you,
my want is my want,
but you're always there,
with your Luftwaffe stare.

Where were you when
the night turned blue?
you do not do what
the other folks do,  
with your jagged soft
and history besmeared,
secrets spewed out
car windows you  
dont have words to.

You've swallowed
your children whole,
with your gobbledygoo
and witches brew,
as we crouch down
behind ancestors
begging for answers
they won't reveal.

Don't matter to me!
I can spell out
complex words
with vague candles,  
blow them out and
start all over again
and again, it's true,
join the rat race,
blending in well
like your split pea soup.

I can move myself to
sit in my presence after all,  
I can make myself known
when you enter the room,
holler over revved engines
and your quivering pens,
erratic hair and swivel chairs.

Daddy oh daddy oh,
you didn't raise no fool,
for me and her and
the ones yet to be her,
we are not through, daddy oh
After it all, she rose up with her red hair
and gulped you down like easy air.

It's so easy to pick up a color
and dance her to bed,

he picked up blue but
prefered green instead,

he tossed her aside
and mixed her with red,

without a color wheel
he painted her dead,

I am wary of your hands
from now on she said,

I'll dance with the moon,
and then eat an egg.

My Fathers Office
sat with with
indentured servants
of paper stacks, crawling
towards the ceiling,
mildew man
in a metal bin can

old German phrases
lingered in the air,  
and my shallow
net unable to catch
a meaning,

of your ich bins
and your ein kleines,
your Nachtmusik of
revved engines,
cigar suitcases and
old turn of the *****,
in replace of an
I love you.

Don't matter to me,
I can spell out any
words with candles afew,
blow them out too
and eat the cake soon.

Some of them
do not do, you do not
do not to,


Where were you
when the night
turned blue?

but of intentions

you carry secrets you
dont know the words to,

a revved engine, cigar
suitcase and boots

Sometimes you read a poem
and your glass becomes full,

more often you read a poem
and your glass stays the same,

Sometimes you read a poem
and see their glass is filled with wine,

and yours is filled halfway with 2% milk
or maybe it's an old milkshake,

which begins the endless journey
to fill your cup to the brim,

to become a caretaker of creation
an alchemist of thoughtful transition,

to turn your glass of cow mucus
into a glass of fine French wine.