i am sitting outside,
searching a sunset:
a plant loving light,
gobbling it up through
every pore.
Looking for the pinpoints
of ancient transmission.
i see a bulge...NO...
two, THREE!:
alien fingers pressing
latex event horizon,
mixed palette cornea burned.
     (Just a flashback, a
      cold beach night in
      my memory, feeling
      small in the universe
      again; chain-smoking
      unfiltered cigarettes,
      forcing a process, tasted
      bittersweet on the
      tip of my tongue.)

i hate you, Florida,
but every where is equally
beautiful in the now.
None of it is home.

i don't know what that means...

is it here, where i am
understood, examined?

i am cold, seeking fire:
i need to cut you wide
open, Luke's Tauntaun, and
stuff you full of my words,
replace your white insides
with black and gray ink.

To live.
To BURN.
In the light, the way of forever.

I'll wait until dark
to buy myself a bottle
please, night, come quickly

Daylong I grind for bread
Seek scope for a piece of loaf
Fill the bowl to feed the bowel
Keep losing the strands of thread
That amid the labor dwell!

Evening I search my coffer
For picked scraps day’s offer
Find little as toil’s return
A few pennies and much heartburn!

Night finds me a coveted treasure
Can’t count them without measure
Were buried in the daylong grind!

Released the threads rule my head
Freed from the clutch of bread

*Bowl and bowel leave my mind!

Best poems are lost in the warmth of blanket.

Lured away by sleep
they could be precious keep
if I could hold them through night.

Best poems surrender to warm bed’s comfort.

Lulled into stupor quietly abort
before I could take them on a sleepless ride,
they seek a dark corner find it and hide.

Best poems brew though in the stillness of night.

I cannot birth them show them daylight
but let them die in abject disgrace
on warm bed beneath blanket

sunk without a trace!

In his heart brimming river’s flow
When he sees it passing below
He on the bridge cries ‘train, train’
Goes back to be a child again!

A child that’s what he loves to stay
Refuses to go the grownups’ way
Being a kid is pleasure immense
Smallest things tickle the sense!

He shuns adults their company
Their faces somber as somber could be
Their lack of laugh frowned eyebrows
Creased countenance stern morose!

He nicely fits in his childlike poise
Claps when glad dances in rejoice
Catches a grasshopper in palm holds rain
Lovingly goes back to be a child again!

never fall in love with a student.
especially the one that teaches herself
Portuguese, who's loved learning
chemistry since the age of thirteen.
but somewhere it made a reaction and
changed what it means, for she to be in
love.

atoms are mostly empty
space, so she really does think
that you have quite an
empty mind. she thinks you'd
take that the wrong way. she
never wants to hurt you, but
once you've made her mad,
she'll angrily yell it towards you
any day.

matter can not be
created or destroyed.
so the bones that support
your flesh, that she loves,
are made of the rust on
her grandmama's car, which hasn't
been driven since her love died.
they are made up of the dust
that formed the planets and the
Milky Way.

history has taught her what
happens when one person tries to
hold the universe in their hand.
she really is against war, but
she wants to, she's going to,
kiss and hold your hands
anyway.

but then she'll remember that
atoms are mostly empty space,
so she will never actually touch you
and you will never actually touch her.
you'll tell her that's sad to say.
to her it means no amount of folds put in
a map will make you two closer. there will
always be a distance. she will become
the guard of that space, and your solitude.
you are complete to her. she is a counterbalance.
she will learn to love the distance and curse it,
just like she hates school, but loves learning.

never fall in love with a student
who loves to learn you.
never fall in love with a student
(me).

Life gives us
soft,
      fragile
                 form
in the beginning.

We begin
fuzzy,
clumsy,
blind to the blades
nature bestows as knowledge.

Some avoid the tree of good and evil,
adjusting to the bright exposure,
grasping binoculars to drink up the scene of sin.
Waiting to watch which love is truth.
Waiting to say who is evil in their attempt.

There I am.
in a shop full of knives.
Hungry to ****** naivety,
no matter the price.

The reflective edge
illuminates my soft pain,
As I choose the sharpest edge
to electrify my new skin.

What drove mother crazy?
I had to taste the apple.

There was knowledge in the pain,
in the experience of carving your skin
with objects unable to care for your blood.

You who wanted to drink my pain,
sweet roots I made metal,
You never deserved to be seen in horror.

I have learned to stop opening the drawer,
to stop carving the names of dead love.

Life continues breathing,
as we become
strong,
          worn
                    bark
born to form curious skin.