Dramaturgy

  there is more to understand
  in this fire of a thing --

  hauled out of the dark is this
  lightsome body, a tumult
  of a moment shaping into something
  true and seizable.

  in the siege of this haloed hour,
  we, in the dark, ***** still
  these passing moments

  the rise of your heady perfume
  choking the smoke billowing,
  curling on our brows
  raking the tranquil in this moment
  of askance,
  wringing enigmas of their
  sublimities,
my body bettered with graciousness,
   etcetera, etcetera

  of letting you go where you ought
    to be and to take you as a useless thing
  demands to be blandly usurped,
  
  that no superfluous beauty could ever
      configure our analogue adjustments,
  and that there is more to this fire than
    just the heat of it, the drone that seeks
     with a morbid following,
   or the brutal truth that

   a pain may never be shared
    or equally felt, poised in solitariness
   and delighting with wine, lonesomely
      yet never despairingly,
   a silence that brands our souls
     with bounteous canticles of how

    love's meant to be done alone.

i love thee
  poetry.

whose hands, steadfast,
   catatonic waters past
  end freely in dusk,
  carrying me over
  life's ferocious waters,
if not death.

whose slender body is
  to make love, make fire,
  sinking in a leitmotif of
   seraphs unknowing sepulchers,

  which ails me so in the night
  drunk without stars shall i seek
  the dharma burning in the bone,
   the fanfare of mind berserks
     the thorough ablution of
   the mind's useless wanderings,

  i love thee poetry,
   its rescue, its curse,
  its waysides - i love them all
    nothing but shorter lifelessly,
  a brief night ended in the
    bat of an eye.

this is the loudest of all your silences
and to allow you to thrive and thieve
  the moment from beginning to end
    is a tremendous task.
  to let you pullulate from the first letter
   up until the (exalted) last, to permit
  you to brood and intrude like a stranger
  abounding the train at midnight and
  a shadow alight in the next, aching stop,
  to watch you move and regret your
     motionlessness as i hunt for a trace
  of movements in the last room that
    you have been in and to desire you
      still in the following room

  only to find that the voicelessness
     in all of the world is the loudest
    of all the silences.

what seduced me into
writing is the veiled figure
of the dark that lifts
its hazy image through
the blinds of this acerbic life.

i annul the language of god,
   the normality of men
  and the sage of old.

let me pour water into this
pale jar, and in it,
high with hope, shall rise
a cornucopia of scriptures.

an inner sense of life
and a depraved longing
  for felicities,

these words test their capacities
and sprint to the length
  of no return.

i am no man's island
  nor a flame's hearth.
these promontories remain dearth
  yet unafraid of fleeting.

if i go unread,
if i am to be forgotten,
   these shall all remain
     and only eyes ready
to seek seamless lights
  shall turn the pages
   and start reading.

twilight hewn mauve
from lightsome fire of eve —

of us, knowing our ends,
sighs finished float upstream

of you, knowing your beginnings,
flashes of flyblown leaf dropping
into the paling autumn

of i, wording it fresh out of
unapologetic twinges, dropping signs
on the world, their sorry beckoning

of us knowing
our ends shying away from
a once-told beginning
when silence fell
on our bodies, it is much more
telling than the last word
unheard by the sky.

it is  continuous there—
a bleak sign of sleepless feeling.
sharp as a rose is cut,
or dull as a petal is wrote out
of peril.
red is the eve
of all eves, eyes of the mayday
making the night weep all blueness
and breaking laughter crudely
there— austere shrill of air
and starkly absolute,
continuing its trill,
all the stars and your beautiful face.

i brace
the impact of this death-collision,

my eyes search the
emptiness of sleep
yet there is a hanging invitation.
a counterplot to my figure's
incessant clamor.

to dance upon the
slenderness of this road altogether,

lighting our cigarettes,
mapping out our deaths
painstakingly.

we know not its macabre,
we pain not over
its toxicities,

takes it closer
  to lips and then purses
a blow of haze curling over
   our brows,
we cannot contain its ballistic call,
its ruthless honesty knows
   no stoppage.

we call death like
a finite answer to a fold of
questions!

slackened armature where
flesh once was,

brought by the
moment is a flurry of once kisses
dampening this limpid bed

  that we will once again paint
  with the lacquer of the white noon,

  leaning closer
  is this heady fate of stone:

  i must

     unlearn the work
  of your hands, this clay molded
  into something ominously touchable

  forget the rudiments of soul
  that i once fastened still and straight
  with the weight of my tongue tasting
  the sweetness of losing myself
  in a thick crowd of intent murmurs
  and then finding myself still
      down on you, ships anchored
       to pure linen of sea with hands clenched to a taut grip

    drown the silence and seek
      roads in an uttered word's dwindling
      light - this gladsome dark now
   spreads its wings and then sings
      a frightful muting each to its
    own questions owning up to
     the answerlessness of all that has
    left me still
           down on you,
       clambering my way up
   yet deeper i am, felled
      and only so
      ineffably little, like a moment
   still heavy,
   still pressing on us both
    and separately.

take this sea and multiplied wave.
rid of ripples or cerulean announcement;

when you lose something
you chase its sound.

fleeting, sometimes flaring
yet far yonder deep in void
****** in black.

i hear it.
i hear it walk
the sea
as the sea walks me to
its
    brink.

two hungry hands
in a ***-lock.

and the other two
roam like
superfluous men
in parks.

when she is on all fours,
she is
metamorphosis
and cocoons out, madly,
an assaulted butterfly.

heaven in the flutter
   and lissomeness
   in the tremble, poised,

  taking another being
    to dawn.

there is no stone sewn
   gossamer but your heart;

holds captive, the leaves
   trapped in white teeth of snow,
  gnawed at, abandoning the boughs

   quivering, never still.

  this immovable fire heeds no void
    standing in between us,

how you die in me:

all things twice over,
told, hushed in the senseless
  brush of wind,
  petrified like the tree
heeding no autumn's till,
a feeling
  flailing inward,
  climbing out of yourself.

oh, what darling things live
   in me continually announce her being:

   the indent of my hands
   the grit of my teeth
   the ache of my bones when i move
      far away from you
   the intimate commune of my mouth
   to the supple fruit of the world
    and my mind wandering
   what to make of nakedness when
    you have displaced my weight
into something air's deft hands dare carry!

  we are only afloat in each other's
   fervid atmosphere.
  there are spaces i yield when you ******
    forward, killing the fires that live
      in me,
    the silences that confess the
   mild affliction of the bed now void
      and impression-laden,
   how swiftly i was taken away and how
      plodding my return has been,
   not so much now myself denying
      the imprint of such sharp moment
    weaving your truancy

  that whenever we make love,
    there is something in me that dies
     repeatedly, even now, alone
   underneath a latticework of dark,
   for love clung rather ponderously
         stifling all words quivering
          and panging and there is now
   you, rolling together with the continuity
     of these words, thralling me to
      one more embrace.

from
there is nothing to fall against this evening.
the sound pace divides lavish moon
in half, and inside a glass,
in clenched circles.

what slipped away glazed
this fruit with old glint: patent of territorial
anguish.

speeding right on by this evening,
the lift of morning borrowed from sweat.
I am tugged at
by a moving thing

sundered there, seeing whose anonymous
  back sways with flaxen hair
laughing freely into the wind
   and gone with it

to
everything brought to the edge
I listen to metonymies:

want* for running into
fear for holding a hand, a part of something
   now in union

light for the clearing of the path
  cluttered by feelingfulness

and pry open their meanings,
back into the fitting measure of waiting
as the slab of Sun lies like a dozing beast
on the streets where we surface
like the sound of falling

feet strong despite changing winds
  when mantling the living rivers
  of gradually dissipating lives

running away
even when no one was looking
we are headed to where
   we found ourselves
occupying spaces.

because love is the summer
and its haze is the invitation
to winter

because it is what our inner sense
refutes and strips us of
our meaningless rationales

because it is what necessitates
our blurred selves to come
into a halcyon of so many laughters
weaving only what tears could
never provide - a diadem of light

because love is a string of birds
that continually searches for
a thick green home and atop
is where it perches proudly
looking down on new moon
and old stars,

because love is the pour of
something as luminous, crystalline
as a faint spark of frankness,
and that we, in believing this,
must have forgotten what it meant
to be obsequiously wounded closer
to the hortatory of roses and their
prickly salutations

and because love is the tongue
surrounded by the many words
of pain, and that it is its
refusal to wake in the day
of a language without a word
for winter and infinitude

because love is the chaos of
sound that it hears only alone -
unless unmindfully, rawly, we
hold it close to our chests
as it moves with its fledgling beat, ready to touch.

in which surface shall i dwell?

  all the silences have broken loose

  and my body is unhinged by
  the bookish dreams of fingers.

  the stones tumble and fall
  in purer silence -- this distilled hour,
  where all the voices are webbed
  into speculative schemes, abstracts
  the truth.

  found ready and welcomed are the
  shadows that eat away in ******* light.
  no words succor me,
  no touch soothes me,
  no waters toll to quench
  the tragic grasp of all the fires
  and their murderous immediacy.

  the streets feast on the meaningless
  refrain of recall:
  such lines,
  i cannot remember the sound
    of my
        own name.

i have already something
  new and sublime to say
  about love.
as two people on the bench
   where the birds are
unashamedly perching right by,
  pecking on the cheek of the world
soon enough now, the hand of
   which mad drivel shall tear
   this photograph in two
  and with a hand on the knee
   as a gentle stamp to
  a reaching-for-and-out epistle,
  we are far away,

and love is as sad as the
   flower that has grown
weary of waiting for the sun
   to fulminate altogether with
    its eyes staring in the
   veranda of hope wide-awake.
  and love is as short as the
   sudden jolt of bones, atremble,
  as though you have fallen
    completely into,
   but have only fallen out,
  partially, one foot first
    out the yawning door
  and into the heavy premises
of a heart's trying forgetfulness.
  to have heard once, the call
   of a tame voice through
   the wild hand of trouble's immensity, and to have held it
   once so shortly bold thereafter,
  with leonine eyes i see only
  a small distance i cannot seal
    with one kiss. i need a hundred more of you and a thousand more of this before i can fill your nebulosity with a million star-like
   kisses traced only by the
   white hand of time that continues to punctuate our
   sentences right even before
   our lips quiver to speak them
  softly like how i first sank
  in you and you in me, a flotsam
   of memories.

i have something new to show
   about love with mine eye's
  unresting shutters capture
moments held loose like a mother's
   frail child,
this photograph with your hand
   on my knee,
  cleaved into worlds from the
  silence of our eyes and
  only longing
     speaks so much the straightforward,
     we are far away.

it is many things
     solitary -- through ripeness
    and rawness, through the
      locomotion of dancers,
     and sensibilities of
     quiet tongues.

it is the many things you
    give alone, its persistent comma, its continual ellipsis.
    the inundation of delineations
and the gravity of its punctuation.

  with its fingers meandering
to touch a soul's lifted ether,
or simply to hush and still
  repugnant waters - astonishing
all nebula with its largeness.

it is so many intentions,
   yet, a single iteration.
  inveigled are the white shadows
of walls streaked with black light.

  what
     is
       it?

it is perhaps an impending collision,
   to no soul's severance:
it is the meshwork of grace
     or foolishness;
  it is the working of the word
from so many lovers and singlehandedly nailing us to our
    stationed cicatrices.

love's epigraphic, weightless,
   no more than size of
      a captured wave in net
  of stone: concealed in an eye's
     limitless space.Q

i.
  this is where all wars
  are born.
     when the mind starts
  naming its possessions
  as the heart is
  silent with its
  sullen iterations.

  this is where all
  the forgotten revel
  in the song breaking against
  the premises of remembering,
  or say,
    dream's erratic fabulation.
  this is where you lose
  name and touch and relevance
  to things. this is where
  around me, all the mouths
  shrill in commune and i am
  left baffled in cottonmouth
      reticence.

ii.
   it starts with a syllable's
   ebb as it tries to paint
   in the canvas a face,
   or a mulling over.
   or the reel around
       the thorny fountain of
   desperations and youthfulness
     dried out in speckles of
   river-run laughter.
   there is only a candle there
  but the light splatters everywhere like true blood of
    murdered flowers on walls
  thick without sensations.
it begins when the heron
   of your coming trills on
  the ganglion - cathedrals start
  a bell and the resounding of it,
  the shattering of it,
      the music of it!

iii.
     death of a man is the
   life of another, yet shy in
  its genesis, brave in the exodus.
this will soon grow
     arms
         and feet and will lunge
  out of each pained window and
    then sleep in musical beds
  oblivious of a body's retreat.
   and from whence it started,
  it shall end here,
it will blow out the candles here,
sometimes sing to itself here,
    and perhaps pass this on
from here to another's,
     without promise.

caught in a sidereal
   glance
  little eyes
  have their
  immense silences
speaking to me
   like the secret language
of twilight.

pressed like the many
   spires of questions.
a restless wallflower
   impaled against
  a wall.
   beating the undulant
back to my shore,
    without a gesture
  nor a voice,
    a wilderness of complexities.

i am amongst them - peerless stars
suffusing all,

in ethereal blackness, love
rises metamorphosed, winged,
  aflutter and a fixed glance,
  it is now the pristine moment
   to go:

   lured into familiar warmth,
  your *******, the breadth of
     your arms, the girdle of
   your weight that hurdles
    the gravity of being here.
  and that as we move closer,
   (in waiting stillness, we
  are the workings of something
   immutable like stone, a clasp
   of hands, the clenching of soul,
  or the always in-hiding dream's
    amazement) i can feel the
   heat peak, tip away and seal
     my fate, unpinning my wings,
     bracing the fall as the
   same stars yield the sonorous and the reticent altogether with
      anonymous eyes wielding
   ceaseless blue stares nailing
     the blackness whole into
   the night's tapestry.

love concocts
  a slow death.  the night
          chronic with melancholy.

     somewhere in the world
   a man, contemplative,
   underneath a lasso of light
    peers through the window
      without a word,
     only an insignia.

    we are
    only
    tender bodies
    in supple movements
    trying to weave out
    timid moments
    trying to shatter
    the inertia
    of being
    here.

have we not stood
under the grasp
of one trade wind?

i look at you, and you return
a broken image–
my eyes have lost their irises.

i speak to you, and you give back
a mouthful enigma–
my mouth has lost its language.

i gaze at the sky, and it relents
an anguished star: it is you,
in the belly of the dark releasing
the moon and its lunar tail–
my days are fragmented
and all there is,

the night and the fall:
we are,
we were;
away.

Who are you this evening?

body    first   we took   on the    evening
   like   it    were   virgins     on   flay

we    owe everything   in  praise
   of    moonlight

saying    the   ****   of word
  meaning   it   full   in the   sudden heat
     of   ephemeral   light

once    and   always
  at    once    your   world     became
    a tiny    cage   for that   little hummingbird   heart

and you    wafting
   in    the   wind   like    a cloud
    of       farewell   from   the exhaust
of     transitions


redefining    you    with   intent   stare
     was     searching     for  myself
from    heavings    of      tired     fusuma;
          hefting    out   a    mound   of
equal   parts    divine    and
       sullied       undisguised
yet     only     silence   retained   its   poise
      of     mystery    nothing
I      could   understand

a    hand    in
     hand      is    nothing but  the   instant
merge    and   separation
    and  that    the coming
out     of     words,    a   tabulation
    of    abject    loves

simply    you,   a  splitting    image
     of   a thing   refusing
to   be held   with   one    hand
     on    my face   and   the
    other,     fluttering   away

i rise early
and join
the conference of laughter
as my room is clambered
by dappled light.
silence
beats back to glass
and houses
a wild flame of dreams.
  it is like
  my time is up
  and the portent of approaching
  moments divine themselves
  in the rain as i peer through
  the window and see myself
  aghast and burning
  underneath a deathless parasol
  of hands.
to see your dream slowly
tip away and jump frightened
to infinite smallness and then
slide, slouch
in the distance --
to revere in its
fading, romanticizing it
with hendecasyllabic recollections.
to be left with nothing
but a sharer in the moment:
a day's end.

it is the dawn of this inamorata.
  
          love is
          the dew
          dropping onto
          the soul,
          takes in it
          silence would,
          a cacophonous
          trace of song.
          love is
          written,
          for love is
          born
          to the
          structure
          of a
          rose.

it is the dusk of this inamorata.

          love is frittering
          back to the inconsolable
          noise, trickles
          back to rivers
          and onto
          the unseen,
          the fading out
          to smallness
          of which flame
          lets go,
          a solitary ember.
          love has emerged
          with hands empty,
          poised to cull
          this structure
          of a
          rose.

one idle hand slides through the balustrade
in a hurry

my life quickening
shattering beneath the earthen ground of

this tower in this stucco-perfect day
in this wondrous moon suffused

by my dissent. it is all anticipation
and warning, all suspicion, this one

that has no name. say when space happens
a body in a body ****** in the aqueous hand,
and dreams of fish,

say this space once marred now
occupied by us, or you, say you are not to be
mistaken for my being and simply
for absence to happen

you must sway, dartle into this thick
array of contests and then

in a sharp stab of air, bleeding,
quicker than the drying of streets in April,
space will happen.

let us be contained
in our squared circles.

and join the many
forgotten things.

let us revel in the
flight of misfit dust
and partake in the soiree
of dancing alone.
let us only hear the words
that gnash through the teeth
of oblivion's gaping mouth
and like a hollow jar,
let us be only that - flowerless,
waterless, aware of space
and weary of forgotten capacities.
let us startle them
if they find us in unsettling sleep
and in their somnolence
we will saunter the avenues
of indecipherable finitude
  and not shrink
at its accompanying terror.

it is raining in my side of the
   earth
and where light slips away,
ensconcing with its lackadaisical imprint, is the morning: pinnacles and then topples
    into
acontinualeveningwherewordsrunandbreathscometoa      sudden
                  halt:

in the same intimation,
your lip's crepuscule
or your commune's crescent,
  in my side of the earth
    from yours, hurled out
the many sinuous fingers
   of water and the lamp's
  palpebral flutter.

sleep
drops
on
your
body
gravitating
toward
the
embellishment
of
­dreams
and
then
running
off
into
a
reality
chiming
the
bone
to
ma­ke
sound
in
soundlessness
to
knit
the
walls
together
threadbare,
­loose
free
as
a
body
is
like
flotsam
sprinting
back
to
sea

getting real, no mere,
yet first, we shall

utter the unspeakable,
sculpt with our eyes
the faintest image,
hear silence's roundness
circumnavigate our mind's
trying verseliterations.
dream a dying thing;
a facelessness
nor a jell - thinking the
unthinkable,
so that in our desperation,
words morph into
anticipated things written
in lighted calligraph -
and with these, things unmoving
shall grow hands and commune to us
through transmogrifications
and cling onto us...

like a thing drowned in love,
or startled, whichever.

this here
is written
in millipede strobe.

you mirror
the one you
  love.

it is when her hands reach
for unresponsive things
that yours too,
quavering, unknowing of the expanse
of things that seemingly draw close
in killswitch pace
that you find yourselves
dissipating swiftly like
snow tumbled across waiting tapestries.

it is when her feet go without
saying that there is a
clandestine traverse of unspoken
truths and disrupted images,
that your find yourself waxing,
beaten away from the track of
the force that beats us back
to glass.

look at us - with eyes in the
doldrum of things that mean
everything, like how breathing
is default in trial, like how derby
is expendable in the flurry
of indefatigable trying,
like how i slowly,
naked and dripping,
kiss you through waters redundant
in its resounding call.

these recurring fires,
   these moments blank
with stark, shrilling air.
the already memorized movement
   of the clocks
  and what these dictate us to be.
over life's ferocious waters
   and the undertow of tranquil,
  what is in it for me, that the world continually hurls forever
  a hand that is not mine?
a kiss that is someone else's?
  a glance that is not for
    mine unquenchable thirst?
these cities tender with foolishness
these sick, marauded streets
with faithless crowds
   waving empty bottles at the sky
  like a sordid army marching
    through the marshes of this
  empty life!

what is in it for me that the world
   continues to plod with inquiries
   but does not flourish with
     answers?
that when time speeds right on
   by, the youth is culled out
    of the gardens waiting forever
   for wisdom to fall like rain
     over these scrunched flowers!
  what is in it for me that
   there are forever the shadows,
   and the gamblers, and the
     brutal game of life that we only know in death, in hate, in love? these words start to seek
their fathering answers and now we are embroiled in a fortuitous enigma that in the imperious nebula of life, when these tender loves
and lives start to wax in the same orbit finding paths, we will continue to be stars clinging onto each one to form a single light that could beat the darkness.

i go out seeking a great perhaps
immenser than the void i know.

but you have left
as all the others did --
only a few remained.
yellowing letters with words growing thinner and thinner barely
hanging, loosely against the mouth
of the fringe.

it is not enough that you have left.
it is not enough that this room
shouts enormously with its
darkness pressing against the venetian and i cannot see you anymore.
it is not enough that i hear your
footsteps mince away towards the seep of the door where your departure has overstayed its welcome.
it is not enough that there will be no more mornings to delight in - only nights where i scrounge for light only to find that even the things that glint have no use anymore.
it is not enough that we have screamed, yelled, bellowed our names at each other in love, now on hate. it is not enough that your once callow eyes are now lion-telling and mine, vulterine.

the arrival is just as swift
as the pulse of leaving and now
in the next room are so many women,
and it does not help that there
are also many rooms fraternized
altogether, filled with more
and more people.
the fuller the earth gets,
the sicker i become,
and the more stricken i become,
the more i remember that i have died wanting more deaths.

soon i will find your debris scattered throughout the streets
made for me to walk on.
a strand of hair, a pair of shoes,
a dress you never wore, the telephone like a petrified train
in the station of my hollow being,
and that it would ring,
i know it too well,
but there will be a strange voice
at the other end that will
pierce me back to remembering
how you sound and i will take
it, i will take it for
for the indictment nears its brutal straightforwardness:
it will never be you waving
at the other end of the street
together with the ugly palms.
it will never be you
in the dress, it will never
be you on the passenger seat
peering out into the world with
eyes beating the darkness of the freeway with the many exploding lights of who you are
and what you've given me with
what was left of you,
and what i've given you
amid this thing of being me.

it is never enough.
it is never enough that
i know this, and it is never enough that unknowing you is longer
   than how we have known each
    other when our voices are the
    only once that dwelt within
      ourselves.

in the bleak --
the span of your forest's questions
i cannot shun with my hands.
it is like naming the trees in the
morning and almost with ease
from the bend of the boughs
to the song nearing its end in
the once-told twilight
of the never arriving,
forgetting everything
in the night as the space widens
like an eye awakened to
new pains yet old truths.

underneath the sovereign
of which darkness remains uncharted
is the single candle
burning, intent to squirm back
to its death.

    it is sure than when our
    eyes meet, in knowing this,
    there is ineffable readiness,
    than when i try to remember
    with frail knowledge the
    sorry names clinging to elegiac
    leaves zither no more,
    you are ready to forget.

i can feel its presence
and we need no dark to
grasp its attendance.

a rudiment:
darting through,
my death, imagined.
rivers continuing,
pressing stones now atilt.

memory's rigodon -
  heart and mind,
  puppeteering quadrille.
this is where all of ourselves
  go, purloined, deep
   in rumination.

  the passing of all things,
  taking with them,
  our laughter. and it continues
  in our body, endlessly taking
  space and displacing our
  inward-breaking haunts.

  it is no fate nor
   solitary consignment:
  it is natural,
  it is default: pain is.
  and wherever it goes,
  lovelessly, we are
     dragged
       along.

my love, love of all loves, is the moon
   nobody knows. I’ve found her voice
the sweetest taste. In the stolen throbbing
room, I bask in her absence.

there is not much of me like you,
  or I, and in a glassed dream you flung
aside and strode in vestal swiftness.

I can no more taste your truth.
time tells your monsoon, and underneath
the steady weather, your light hands me,
   a bell – a bell I have no use for.

Moon missing now, in the depth of sleep’s
ravenings – a revelry was it, or a passing train?
gnawing sound at the very heart of nothing,
my love, love of all loves, is the moon
nobody knows, my tenderness of silence,
  and with stars eloquently leaving signatures,
the available anguish dropping all else
   in the knifed horizon.

I.

you would feel it.
   the bones of it.
   the drone of it.
   the arms and the fingers
   and the inscape of things
   and the sheer weight
   of it.

the mind seeks to inhabit all things,
nailing them to their stations.
indicting them to their prisons.
casting them to their sullen exiles
while the heart
       does nothing.

II.

   the hand's meager unraveling
    is its realness
   not its assumed truths.
   the parcel of the mundane shifts
  its weight across people-rivers,
  as light roves in secret strobe.

   you cannot feel it.
        the heat of it,
    nor hear it,
         trundling in its train,
   dwarfing in yonder light,
    controlling its rages.
   you can see it always speaking,
  as nobody hears a figment of
    a shadowed creature when it
     is cut in the tough ornate -
the body tries,
      the mind is asleep,
    and the heart is where all
  the frays take place.

i might have awakened
you from your
unperturbed sleep.

i am sorry i do not know
my way around.

i am quite unfamiliar
with everything.

only with you
a couple of times,

a hundred moments
briefly myself.

the explanation of it
sinks deeper yet it is rare without
any manifestation.

it is difficult for me to
unlatch the locks
and throw away the keys
into an unknown abyss.

the hot star and
the apple of moon
now rise in the distance.
tonight, there will
be all that is troubled
and no solace could ever *****
us in its promise.

it is the ending of things
and right even before
its emergence, you can feel
it in the way things play
themselves out like a
premeditated plot or a fool's
unchanging ploy.

the wobbly table, stirring all
glass and fluids -
the soft rumble of the feral
over the rooftop -
the remaining enigma of an
unfinished epistle
teeming with infinities -
the door left ajar by
the tenor of wind -
a raked tumble of singed leaves;
the swarm of cocooned light
over the bland asphalt.

i have seen hands lose their
taut grip upon things they swore
with ease to never let go
as a dog is wan without its
asphyxiating leash,
as a bird is free without
the conundrum of metal,
as we are both
free
as though we do not know each other - fretting for answers raw without
questions, or scurrying through
the fixation of so many pleasures
just to diminish whatever it is
that remains insatiable, or holding back the flight of things
and consigning them to slow exeunt.

i shall speak in an enormous voice,
  seeking through the oneness
    of many beginnings,

    a period,
    an end
    to all ends,
    
     foregoing its
   strange intent.

     and to put this to light,
    when in multiples,
   a fountainhead.

rose alone, cannot grow.
my hand on your hand,
the twilight of this
inner whirlwind.
palm brushing off the dust
of a dream,
your tear on my cheek
slenderly needing all of my rivers,
is your reflection,
my tender night,
      rose alone cannot grow.

i watch the tiny hands of rain
fritter back to your breast.
i witness everything seek its
asylum, in your arms, where
no love breaks, only sings,
laughs atremble,
  and i see all the roses, alone yet together
in all-consuming silence, needing
  your transmissible voice to
make resonant, the day or
    the bend on our roads,
like saltwater, like complaisant
  air meaning only one word
through all the roses that
   spring in the field
of the ephemera: your
too sudden image claiming
no sound yet all of my language.

looking at you,
a succinct tiding's working.
like a consenting tryst:
let it float with a voice.
like remembering the dagger
that has bestowed the cut,
or the dew that has, with its
aqueous hands,
drawn the grass closer to
the unearthing of things.
or a kiss and its deep scarab
in the red hue.

just
let
it
do
what
it is
ought
to
do.

it is just:
  an utter illusion
  to a no heart's control,
  reckless without form.
  weighing us down to
  a clenched fist's nothingness,
  and then comes to tremble
  everything that it announces.
  the wind breaking loose
  in love's captivity
  and its faltered exactitudes -
  all of us,
  blown ceaselessly away
  by the same wind of it,
  that pulls us back,
  scaling us to
  love's nakedness.

it is like a juxtaposition to
idle trains of fading or
a transcendental manuscript.
death of a man foretold
in every syllable.
i could be gutted out of
and displaced into the dearth,
in doing the dailiness of this life.

in the eventide, when these
walls lurch in, sizing me down
in sleep's hyperbole - a mere chasm
or say, nothing but a gap in
continuity, there is something
that is within striking distance
when you first wrote:

"Truth naked as a shaved dog."

it is your mind's paradigm
that has passed a torch to light
my way through the labyrinth.
it is like your deaths take my deaths.
it is when you pursue the trellises
of all-telling lies that i take
to learning, the belligerence
of wars and the tearing of the heaven in midnight's augury.

it is like you are haplessly
trying to teach me something
without voice.
without life's syllabus.
the only common prognosis
is that i have a sediment of
your soul through litanies
and you do not know me nor
am i a captive in your peripheries.

the wind takes your words
with it -- limping like
wounded creatures or perturbed
unions of cicada, flying away
are also these words
searching for asylums.

Life is our existence's continual essay, and the words we still in its premise are the repercussions of our dailiness. Should we find ourselves trapped in a moment, that is no period, no decimal - that is an ellipsis. And to continue on in the spire of our days, is our living's magical working.

let us not be devoid of value.
let us not be mired
into the stillicide of night.
let us

  become.

let us

   think.

let us prosper,
  burst
  with a light's amplitude
  beating the darkness.

let us become flesh
  and not the frailty of bone.
let us become the memory
  of our hands
  and not the pain of their labor.
let us not be the languor
  of air but
   the promised swoon of it -
this appassionata - this
  coming to ourselves
     in union with the soul's
  furtive hieroglyph - we will
  understand this when
   we cease
       to be
       and finally
         become!

Dear You ---

you and i -- and only two,
under the lightsome dome
and spurious light.

let us write
and laugh. let us not be hasty
with our speech.
we have immense responsibilities.
let us, wield the words
as though maiming beasts
in their predatory sleuths,
let us make them our own
and let them go
in paper white with pains,
awash in the delusion
that only our sweetness
could give us freedom.

you and i.
let us watch the rotund of
our words and their silent billows.
let them start the bells
in our lonesome cathedrals.
let us be unsafe in the dangers
of our boldness. in simpler connotation, naked - not in skin,
not without drapery,
only in straightforwardness
that they will all, who read us,
be brave enough to laugh too,
and start with their own words,
the impossible.

the moon follows
with its silver hook

a fish in the water
swimming through
the debris --

when i am in the avenue,
  it sleuths in similar pace,
its nearing blear
   in my window.
its distance
   in the thoroughfare.
  it shines its
  white face, presses its
  luminescent hands
   the size of two worlds against
   a jungle of fraternized lamps
   stealing all light
   creating the dark's progeny:
      a shadow enters frame.

only the mellow moon
knows the loneliness of
my melody.
the wound of my tempo.
and sometimes it sings to me
through the embellished amaranth
of starless sky: its dull crescent,
dips its voice into my being
   creating ripples.

and through all worlds witnessing
  its tight clutch in the distance,
  choking all that is lost and
  sends it back to its
  origin, is i and the moon.
  our secret entreaty in all
  the windows of the world,
  gazing at each other,
  romancing pains.

sitting underneath the dome
of the contemplative sky,
this much i remember:

shy as a word without
a song
naked
when i first
thought you to be

daring as the moon
accompanied by a song.
translucency of want
leaving no marks
on the soul,
braver than any honest light,
are these words
that hauled you out
of far-flung vision
and to realness
   solely my
    own.

like rain through sweetness
  uttered above in
  steep vertical,
  
  i am many arms
       many fingers
       many feet
       many eyes

       many arms of stems
       that graze the wide-eyed
       morning are my arms
  
       many fingers of grass
       weighted by dew's
       volatile stupor -
       my hands and a sea of
       touch alone wired
       to the same rain's phalanges

       many feet of dancers
       through vertiginous music
       as the moon, our audience,
       peers through the window
       don moonlight or no light
            at all

       and in the same proscenium
       are many anonymous eyes
       for stars,
       of many lovers,
       in becoming one from
       the manifold of love's
       surging amplitude,
      

       my love has made my form,
        and these are my
          movements.

i am vis-a-vis
with the wuthering truth:
perhaps,
why
we are flourishing,
we are colossal
in our
dream
is because
our realities are
small
and that our frailties roar,
bludgeoning us to our
minuteness.
it is our fate:
in the dungeons of sleep we
burgeon!
    -- as though we do not wish
   to wake up to what bitterness
     rises with us in waking.