Your fragile eyes
carry my dreams inside
Iris prisons to explore
Swim through me lovingly
Wade and sink, nothing more

Playful eyes dancing
Like novice ballerinas
Affect clumsy grace
Seize my rhythm
And leave a smile in its place

Mourning stares
Hold back the dawn
And with me wait heavily
Broken eyes like broken sighs
know my listless heart has gone

Steely glare
Harden your iron gates
Confront me and dare
Dig recklessly and penetrate
Like razors unsheathed

What subtle truth lies
Behind those eyes
With telling lies are swollen
I've looked too long
God knows what they've stolen

(This one is rough, wanted to try and write a poem tonight in one sitting.)

the unexamined life
is not worth
texting. Stop selling
your inadequacy, instagraming
packaged, processed, stylized
banality, like a ******
miming painting
to the long pedestrian
line at the Louvre.

You are entitled, they say
I asked for too much on christmas.
I asked for time, and wished for difference.

She stands on stilts and judges outsiders
This is all for you, she claims
From behind the shattered window pain.

I gave birth to you, she says.
You are an adult.
Scratch that.
You are a child.
Strikethrough.
You are a burden.

I am crippled without her
I am broken when she's near
She doesn't want to hear

She's too far gone.

I find myself
back in 6th grade
with a boy
i liked.
my heart
would pound
at recess
when he
yelled "sup?"
across
the
football
field.
Now i sit
with a boy
that i like &
i wonder how
i came here
and found
him sitting
on a couch
with fluttering
eyes.
A kiss?
I take it back.
No, do it again.
place your desires
on my lips
and taste
the bittersweet
lust
and break away
from the
fear, the norms.
There is no awkward here;
perish its existence.
There is only us.

the funny thing about time
is the way it grinds your bones to dust
while they’re still sitting in your flesh

we can all feel it,
we pretend we don’t, but we do

you feel it when you wake up in the morning
having dreamt of your childhood
and the sound of your sister’s laughter is still ringing in your ears

you feel it when you look up from a book
and its not your brother sitting in the chair next to you
but a strange fellow with a deep voice
and a nose that looks remarkably familiar

and strongest of all, you feel it when at the dinner table
your mother asks you what you’ve been up to for the past 18 years

see, the funny thing about time
is the way it grinds your bones to dust
while they’re still sitting in your flesh

just the other night, I pressed my palms together
and I called on a friend I hadn’t seen in awhile,
to ask where he’d been

he told me he’d been spending time with my father
because the man really needed some company
without his oldest son to talk to

oh and while I have you, he said,
your mother called
she told me to tell you
that your bed is made, if you ever want to come home

1.
white chapel on a hill

sheep dot rugged, earthy slopes

ruminate on warm, sun-kissed dale

endless lines and lines of verdant tones

late afternoon sun slanting

behold, jaune compassion

alfalfa ocherous leans willowy in wind

distance of silence yearns on

afternoon shadows lie within majestic vales

powder-blue ranges in 3D tiers

shadowy rifts, like a painting out of heaven

lone tree not alone, reaches up

blinding turns and rust-coloured bends, twisty trails

two on horseback, apples for sale

reservoir as a hold all for all

brown mud is where redemption lies.


2.
sun dips away, out of reach

beyond the eye's catch

step out car

feel the ping of silence, deeply-alive zing

crowd in and then,

into the slot of torched horizon

the orange world slips . . .




S T, 19 May 2013

Your story is in Spanish:
a blind man visits, eats, drinks, smokes
and searches your face with his fingers after dinner.

To feel someone's eyes upon you, you say,
is a metaphor. To feel someone's fingers
on your eyelids is also a metaphor
for truth.

Sometimes I tunnel to know how deep the clay begins,
to know "cathedral" in Spanish
to know poetry in S = KlnW
to know where I'm alone.

When you say, "Dádivas ablandan peñas," and hand me a wild cut twine, taut with a kite, I see your scarred fingers  and know

your gift is not a kite, wise with wind
but the tunnel you dug

and the stone in my hand crumbles

Valentine,
Love of mine
Don’t resign
Stay in line
Keep in mind
You’ll never find
A love like mine

This is not a poem / its a rambling / a tangle / a hurricane of all emotions / correction! / heartbreaks /  u have inflicted. / It might have been okay / if / you were sorry / instead of laughing as the pieces of my heart / shattered to the ground / like crystals / casting not a rainbow / but a shadow / on my bedroom wall. / Is there a happy ending? / Only time will tell / you will know when the grass turns blue / the sky turns green / and this becomes a poem.