"geometries" poems
What we have named Fire Escape
(an ordered, angular tangle of ladders and rail)
had made picture geometries in my west window
well-framed and flat--set foreground and background
in two dimensions, as the sun hid,
and my round eye opened.
What we have named Fire Escape
was flaked-paint brown orange, as if
first it had been born of a flame
and then had taken up living as metal--
tempered itself into usefulness,
which I should trust now, in case of the yelling
and the engines.
What we have named Fire Escape
was happy Jungle Jim or Jungle for Jane
for the sparrows I saw this morning
which flitted and wildly played
within, rising up
arched and back again.
Made of the square pairs of ladder rungs--
a tunnel entrance or ducking posts,
or highway bridges to clear;
the birds like small plane, daredevil pilots
each following each, going under.
No sparrow would ever crash.
And what is this I remember now?
How one bird eased its engine and perched there to stay?
As if to offer me, with a little turn of head gesture--
a thank you, for the bread I'd left on the sill? Or to say
I'd better shut the curtain and make my exit?
Either prideful guess gets me nowhere fast.
Failed even is speaking in any sparrow languages
from my recline stuffed chair; again, but now imagined,
to draw beady eyes to fix on me, telling me much less.
That morning, with the very last sparrow gone,
I remember that nothing in my sight moved,
save an American flag at a distance in the wind,
with its one red-white striped wing
waving toward the cold north,
as the white church spire,
framed in open quadrilaterals,
held its position.
Apr 15, 2013
Apr 15, 2013 at 5:18 AM UTC
I'm not sure how old he is, my step-step-granddad, but that's the advice he gives that fixes itself on my psyche.
Focus.
The act is the goal.
It's the thought of having been and becoming whole.
Focus.
Each event is like a pebble in a landslide.
I take it in stride.
Focus.
I am everywhere and there is no center, no home base, no dock on this river. I'm caught in current. Stay calm. This is perfect.
Each twist in the flow, every rock of the boat, every splash in the face, my being gives chase to possibilities in consistent inconsistencies, sacred, eternal, geometries. Do our bodies disperse like the leaves that traverse from limb to ground, spiraling down?
Focus.
Where are your shoes? We're running late, and there's no time for another drink. We're out of milk? Look at my sink. It's piled high and I can't think with you making all that ********* noise. What time is it? I forgot to call... that bill is due tacked on the wall. I wonder if we'll talk again. There's spam where your email should have been. All this time I thought that we were friends. I can't sleep. I'm up too late and I can't sate this need to see what I can make of missed phone calls and mystery texts. That write up? No, I haven't seen that yet. But don't forget, I told you, "I can handle it." Remember? Double. Oh. Seven.
Wait.
Focus.
Breathe in. I'm calm. That's resurrection.
Breathe out. I'm smiling. That's reconnection.
Nov 24, 2014
Nov 24, 2014 at 10:08 PM UTC
All sorrow is perpendicular occurring
at right angles of tragedy encircling
the grief-stricken with straight edges
only once intersecting across infinite planes—
Don't dare draw the lines between points
or shade the region with limits or curves
because the trajectories of bullets are plotted
on branes intolerant of slightest triangulation
Woe unto the seekers of sine waves
sobbing thinking of filling every trough
believing surely by now we've offered enough
to sate these bloodthirsty Euclidean demons
Cresting won't ever arrive in this course
filled to the brim with asymptotes, cold corollaries
but never spilling over under our sacred
pledge of allegiance to the 2nd Parallel Postulate
No intersections can be admitted with thoughts
& prayers extending outward barely co-planar
serious public policy proposals axiomatic
insistence on the Nirvana Theorem or nothing
A set of all points remains, mutually exclusive
motionless and always incongruent clueless
about their own particular geometries
awaiting radical Pythagorean salvation
Some paradigm we’ve built here though!
Two hundred years of living polygonal hand
to elliptical mouth without tangential reflection
on the unproven flatness of humanspace.
Aug 4, 2016
Aug 4, 2016 at 4:41 AM UTC
it was the moon that fell through. a lump of gray astronaut
pale acne-blasted, an orphan of the dome, floating in a pond
face down; gasping... green brass minnows surge through diatoms
that have no word for moon; a legion of blind unicorn gall stones -
invisible to naked eyes; uncountable geometries horde the dark waters
they cannot disprove or disobey. large mouth bass inhale calcium polygons
they have never met; that have no word for large mouth bass -
that hasn't always been unknown as september is meaningless
now, even more so, the meaning is less,
without the moon... so
the last tide is false. a satellite has lost it's grip and displaced a placid
jewel of ice cold pause. in the backwoods of these. words. a. moon.
is. breathing. in. a. void. teeming. with. ancient. life.
it is a void, unfamiliar to a native of heaven. this void used to rise and fall
in obedience to the wax and wane. in accord with her orbit.
but now it burns the ocean of serenity with irony's forge.
pounding the stainless steel of unfathomable loss;
even the dross sustains a shape of things to come undone -
when the hammer falls and the blacksmith is a poet
born to ****** fables from mayflies. a natural.
the hammer was in the hand before the moon gained
a face or an ocean to adore it. it was there,
ticking like a season, burgeoning with locusts -
holding off the mob; the moon was long ago, slipping off the roof -
long before firemen met lightning.
the tide was a pious fool.
the measure was not the span of the impending verse, but the hour of it's
callous beauty, assembled. a lunacy, stripped of all moons.
and only the sun remaining -
to behold the uncanny descent of a faithful, vestigial goddess.
a yellow throne. a yellow eye. and the sun's first chill...
as wave after wave of syllables sum succulent sorrows -
savoring sacred symmetries, asymmetrically... summoning -
super luminary strawberry switchblades,
saving sanity for questions with question marks.
this poem fell through. a lung collapsed or not.
and the moon is at the bottom of my heart.
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 11:17 AM UTC
"Memory is more indelible than ink."
—Anita Loos
~
*Europe, after the rain,
the sun lending warmth and comfort.
fringes come into focus.
shadow journal,
fiscal dreams,
becoming ****** lines on a page;
procession bells
for young brides,
veiled in lace.
a touch from her
outstretched hands,
this honeymoon phase
running up the thigh,
the holding quite still until
she smiles for pendulum.
at first light, breakfast in bed,
granting pastel wishes on
boxing night,
then a letting go of the kite string.
new fingers in the medicine bottle,
tiny geometries
inside a house of reciprocal numbers.
paradise in mnemonic children:
cartwheels and handstands,
coloring books of
neglected spaces,
future ruins.
one hundred violins
play to isles of ignorance,
stray embers settle
along the solemn Chemin De Fer (railway).
a catalogue of afternoons
on the bike path
thru propeller seeds and dragonflies.
arriving in the haloed flesh:
skin dive,
the place of couloir descent;
**** beach,
the place of odd glances;
gun chamber,
the room of secondary light;
all horizon variations.
an algebra of darkness,
this dense Roman twilight,
their exiles unreflected
in blind lanterns.
our brightness will become
refracting silhouettes,
a broken yolk in the incendiary sky.*
~
Aug 29, 2022
Aug 29, 2022 at 12:38 PM UTC
it was the moon that fell through. a lump of gray astronaut
pale acne-blasted, an orphan of the dome, floating in a pond
face down; gasping... green brass minnows surge through diatoms
that have no word for moon; a legion of blind unicorn gall stones -
invisible to naked eyes; uncountable geometries horde the dark waters
they cannot disprove or disobey. large mouth bass inhale calcium polygons
they have never met; that have no word for large mouth bass -
that hasn't always been unknown as september is meaningless
now, even more so, the meaning is less,
without the moon... so
the last tide is false. a satellite has lost it's grip and displaced a placid
jewel of ice cold pause. in the backwoods of these. words. a. moon.
is. breathing. in. a. void. teeming. with. ancient. life.
it is a void, unfamiliar to a native of heaven. this void used to rise and fall
in obedience to the wax and wane. in accord with her orbit.
but now it burns the ocean of serenity with irony's forge.
pounding the stainless steel of unfathomable loss;
even the dross sustains a shape of things to come undone -
when the hammer falls and the blacksmith is a poet
born to ****** fables from mayflies. a natural.
the hammer was in the hand before the moon gained
a face or an ocean to adore it. it was there,
ticking like a season, burgeoning with locusts -
holding off the mob; the moon was long ago, slipping off the roof -
long before firemen met lightning.
the tide was a pious fool.
the measure was not the span of the impending verse, but the hour of it's
callous beauty, assembled. a lunacy, stripped of all moons.
and only the sun remaining -
to behold the uncanny descent of a faithful, vestigial goddess.
a yellow throne. a yellow eye. and the sun's first chill...
as wave after wave of syllables sum succulent sorrows -
savoring sacred symmetries, asymmetrically... summoning -
super luminary strawberry switchblades,
saving sanity for questions with question marks.
this poem fell through. a lung collapsed or not.
and the moon is at the bottom of my heart.
Feb 12, 2012
Feb 12, 2012 at 11:07 AM UTC
delicately, our dragonfly conversations
dance in Japanese gardens,
where jewelled concrete pagoda’s
stand stilted, like
timeless geometries, in greening water
then wind rustles timidly through
creek beds and pebbled leaves;
bells ring like wine glasses at a dinner table
and we feel our arm hairs stand on tiptoes,
pricked up to weary voices
(chanting monks, those that sit in circles
monkishly chant, in unison
“there are three meanings of loneliness”)
here, chanting also, we
find ourselves again not alone
enchanted in the fragmented daylight.
but then again, I turn, apathetically, and declare
“let us rest
in the immense imagery of our imagination
for it is easier to sleep,
as rain creeps closer to our doorstep,
than to ***** barricades, levies
and trenches around our house”
Oh, but the way the light reflects upon the Japanese trees
is so splendidly delicate,
and our delicate conversations
feel all so perfect…
so now please, time, lose me
in your whisper.
Jan 28, 2013
Jan 28, 2013 at 3:28 AM UTC
View from the Streetcar
[[[Come with me to the pow-wow tonight:
we will make toasts with neon shots of jello
in the Medicine Wheel circle.
we will speak in tongues & 0’s & 1’s.
the mixed hues of our skins, the mixed geometries of our bodies,
the mixed dilations of our pupils come together & nod in council
that we should take more time caring for our horses
for they will never let us down.]]]
On my way to the gaudy theme park, alone in the streetcar
I remembered how I left my mother without reason,
the aftertaste of emptiness that comes when leaving on impulse with
instant regret lingered inside me; my ego was miles ahead.
Yet I remember looking through the window,
looking into a forest where bright hammocks hung on trees
abundantly-- canopies filled with hard-covered books.
No people in sight, the books reined the woods,
hanging still like sloths waiting to be pried into.
I remember thinking that was enough
to bring flavor back to my throat.
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 11:29 PM UTC
She left me with nothing but math.
Bedroom walls miscalculated
to the color of a bruised plum.
Sheets tangled into
isolated geometries.
Even the nightgown
hung on the closet hook—
its three buttons, opaline,
an insoluble equation.
And the moonlight,
subtracting itself across the floor,
proves distance by degrees:
light slanting
in the hallway,
the acute angles
of an open door.
Sep 7, 2017
Sep 7, 2017 at 11:43 AM UTC
a contradiction contracted in
lowest terms are
you.
[it’s metal edges]
your beauty is
of
a
garden
(suspended at mid-
clouds), to enter
and
to say
that in such a
variety of
flowers
there
can not
be
one that
attracts
you
to pick it
to dismantle it
and
to
neglect
the
rest.
[it’s plasticized segments]
you know how to
quickly imprint
yourself
on me
when
you laugh
at times
and
conversely
you weep
and
you are like
those skies
that shake me
to my core
when
they are
blinding
on one hand
and
violently bleak
on the other
so
clearly
fractured
they shake
me pierce
me
pierced
i am
by
you.
[it’s just thinned points]
imagine if
a chameleon
started
to
acquire
each
gradation
of
another
creature
in the form
already
similar
to
it:
where
could
he
ever
escape?
[it’s inconstant semicircles]
(i can not
delineate
you
it is like
sketching
a tidal
wave
nobody
can:
painters
invent them)
[and it’s shoved arches]
i’ll tell you
of
a
woman
her soul
shattered
and
subsequently
imprisoned
splinter by
splinter
in hail
stones
she
fell
and
she felt
herself
crashing
at the same
instant
millions
of times
however
she
never
went
insane.
[it’s torn curves]
(and I know well
how a continuity
interrupted
succeeds
to make
you
fumble
convulsively
but it’s not
enough
for me to
restrain
myself
don’t
ask
me
to)
[it’s petrified vertical axes]
what i see
is
a cross
section of
enclosure
handfuls with
disconcerting
efficiency
consisting
of prisms
and
you know how to decompose
yourself inside
an innocence
delimited
you proceed
by inconstancies
you lacerate
metabolizing
you struggle
silencing
and
i could
only
teach you
one thing:
gray is not
a faded
version
of
black.
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 9:04 PM UTC
i simply exercised my vocabulary in tantra-yoga... you mistook poetry for its expression of freedom curtailed... and while i did my tantra-yoga bending and pointing at unseen geometries... you simply ran a 100 metre sprint, elongating the hyphen into a boa eating itself with avarice the pepper & salt.
0i preferred the haggis / czarna kiszka
than my retrospective -
i'm doing mine early, for reasons not
necessarily true, or for that matter worthwhile...
but nonetheless assuring -
had i too the gift for painting,
and the nerve to keep a young girl captive
i'd too succumb to fathom a Grimm's tale...
live the secluded live, secluded to the point
of incubation - i'd lived it like an
Arctic explorer, by the fireplace
talking drunk tales of escaping polar bear
hunts - within a pentagram of limbs intact,
greasy Glasgow my farthest stone throw of heart...
furthest the Føroyar Øer - if only i kept my heart
as stern of the body to mind as the atom of ego
in my mind to be lost among the carousel
of weathered abstracts known
as the four winds and the thrice winding clockwork -
what abstractions to bear
from now on? a memorial service?
only in poseur marginalising tomorrow as only
a change of attire for today; so too the
semi-clad conservatives of supposed workmanship
English? takes two to a woad; whatever Argentinian
*** did to you in tango... takes two to a woad!
but there's you apish and impish entwined for
coerced blue of some other Newtonian prefect
of argument, when the painting screams far from
Norway the distinction between azure and
aquamarine is very far between
suggestion of marriage... i've ate my liver as if it were
a heart by drinking salute! to a marble stone all hopes
to have my life back! i mistook my liver for a heart!
i did that! you mistook more than i care to remember
having been forced a forgetting...
those 3 years in Edinburgh meant nothing... nothing!
spend them in South America, in Antarctica!
i will not swallow another breath with a vowel coupled
to a consonant.... until the remnants of me
believe the words: Europe united, only when Scotland
is free.
Jun 30, 2016
Jun 30, 2016 at 10:01 PM UTC
The summer before
her chest hollowed out,
ribs bowing around vacuums,
her lungs ballooning new geometries.
The summer seas invaded body cavities,
feral and chemically sweet.
Her body became a gondola
ferrying pale, diminutive hopes
across the wide strait of your pelvis.
Oceans shifted gingerly,
unborn into the intimate dark
of throats, heart chambers,
marshes between thighs.
She drew the shores around her close, paranoid.
When they got to her
she’d filled her mouth deep
with different types of char: love, anorexia, Quaaludes.
Marrow coagulated and stopped ebbing
with the orbit of the moon.
Her heart smelled like day-old fish.
Dec 20, 2012
Dec 20, 2012 at 11:18 PM UTC
dawn's clouds curl upon
the cycle of horizon. light
seeps, wells up in a silent
garden of distant coastlines
and suspensions of dust
particles. torn pinnacles
arrange in geometries known
only to collapsing cities;
boulevards of tremulous
ghostlike figures, swaying
staccato below collected
damping leaves in perfect
symmetries against the sky of
tiled grains.
oh, if time stood
still. if the blood could freeze
in my capillary beds. if this
feeling would last for the
remainder of days.
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 11:53 PM UTC
are those lips for me ? how my hope is so. my lust love is furnace lovely and you are so you.
bring both and be done. be done with roaming the geometries of lonely and the pith of stone fruit.
be glued to my all. attach your splendor to my wheels of joy and surround my demise
with renewal.
do this for me
and i'll be
doubloon.
Jan 11, 2013
Jan 11, 2013 at 11:33 AM UTC
Tessellation & Interstices
**”A tessellation or tiling is the covering of a surface,
often a plane, using one or more geometric shapes,
called tiles, with no overlaps and no gaps…In mathematics, tessellation can be generalized to higher dimensions and a variety of geometries.”**
the insistent need to be distinguished
means many are not,
indeed,
this hunger
to be an influencer
and never just an influencé.
creeply creates a linear surface,
a flooring to be trod upon,
a tessellated plane,
were we each fit in
right-tight juxtaposition
and we are noticeable for our
uniformity and
the scuff marks of having been trod upon,
well used.
it is in the chips of irregularities,
the overlaps and the gaps
where we touch and connect
with our individual Ah Ha’s,
where our Venn Diagram Lives
intersect, infect, interfere, inject,
in the tiny
interstices
tween us,
the jagged, irritatingly edgy
rubbings
that the friction of creativity
is comedically inseminated.
I love a good tense sweat,
that invasive, deep boring burring,
that demands
instant creative solutions lest the angst of
an unwritten-in-the-moment-poem
is even more annoying,
before it is annoyingly,
befogged, lost forever.
that is why with old age,
fearsome fast
short term memory loss,
some turn to the speedy freedom of
free verse,
unconstrained by socks
and well fitting shoes,
and the slip on sneakers
of rhyming,
so insistent on perfection,
that the
burr is absorbed,
the irritant rubbing is creamed away,
and that loss of
a pouring of the soul’s *********** of
Done!
is
our exclamatory mutual curse
Mar 23, 2024
Mar 23, 2024 at 10:26 AM UTC
When someone you loved very much dies, strange things
Start to happen to you, that you don't notice right away:
The hologram that their influence built around you
Turns inside-out; the bulk of it shrinks down
Into one of those super-dense singularities.
Their belongings start to feel impersonal and oddly distant;
Reminiscent of a strangers bags, sitting packed for the departure.
All the love and caring is siphoned out
When the owner leaves existence behind:
The void they left fills with a surreal grace, when viewed
From the novelty of their absence. A breathtaking coldness
Accompanies this second ownerless half-life:
Touching them, your own fingers are burned, frostbitten
Eventually dead to external stimuli.
The rigor travels inward from the extremities,
Making a slow ascent toward the heart,
Crystallizing everything along the way,
Melding it all into lovely, singular geometries
As one cell after another is enveloped.
Until the central core is an unmoving artifact
In the arctic waste, but unable to die.
A frozen cryosurgical intervention of stained glass
Ruby veins, suspended in frozen calciferous walls.
Other people do not notice the changes or see
Not unless you touch them-
Accidentally brushing up against you,
They feel then the penetrating cold,
Radiating outward in bitter waves.
Drawing their clothing more tightly about them,
They search for the taletale signatures of frost,
Wondering if winter came early this year.
Sep 16, 2010
Sep 16, 2010 at 7:05 AM UTC
Love is Coco Jam
And I offer it to you,
My brown faced darling,
The Warm days it pursues
I split the bread in half
Like we split the rest of days
In folders, files of living ails
And laughter for us two
Love is Coco Jam
For I'll spread it side to side
As equal measures did we seek
In Geometries of mind
You dip yours in your coffee
Like we dip our hungry Souls
Toward each day's living basket
That we carry in a stride
Nov 17, 2020
Nov 17, 2020 at 1:32 AM UTC
She reminds me
of old, painful
geometries.
Her close-grained
rasp and enchanted,
pierced warble -
a close kiss
& a hammer.
"Some days
all you need
is one good
thought, strong
in your mind."
Her voice
is Orpheus,
looking back,
is Ophelia,
on the willow
branch.
It shakes
dullness from
the soul, the
way you clean
a coin
with salt.
May 14, 2019
May 14, 2019 at 9:48 AM UTC
worlds within
and without are all waning
insatiable
chaos
vacuum
the void
which sat between heavens
heavens splitting the waters
the waters, the weeds
create living geometries
etch-a-sketch drawings
of silent mandalas
now the dreamweaver
lotus
now the lucid unwaking ones
who appear at your bedside
disdaining your closet
while you lie
awake
sleeping
hypnogogically paralyzed
their eyes burning green
freeze your skies
red
as
Christ
comes
you
trapped in misogamy
you
flying through tattered air
you
****** off this oxygen
burned by the stare
of a mirror
Jul 27, 2019
Jul 27, 2019 at 3:47 PM UTC
I am settled in the arugula palace
Everybody in the same scattered image
Seeking reconstruction or construction of the mind
I write this for myself to be unwinded & unrolled
He's a shifting plane of bisecting geometries
Now a thin woman shuttling kids in a minivan
Smoking newport cigarettes & feeling mucous gather in the sore spot in her throat. Her husband who is overworked & penniless--a clown frozen in a shipping container underneath a hi-low. He is fetching up the scraps of industry from inside a concrete bottle. He is messing with the intersecting circles coming off the streetlights. He is stacking up assumptions, wishing to be freed. Wishing he could reach that frightened child-monkey loser in the parking lot. He is clawing @ sensations he will never be able to name. He is secretly wishing for a vision. Secretly wishing to be known. He is tied & tethered to the clean-up crew. They are silent pretenders nodding at the recycling bins--never emptied. There he is formatted. There his eyes go staring out. There a picture--but what's a picture now that it's all beyond control, no longer static, no longer a container or reminder but rather a cloud passing, a moment's pause, a temporary fascination? A posing, a posturing, a big a-Ha!--fuck you! Stranger. You are not a part of me. The danger is madness. The danger is control. There are no static images. No peaches. No penumbras. No mandalas, maps, organizations or rebuttals. There is only standing water in the basement. There is only diet pepsi car keys hanging on the edge of a golden cloudburst.
Aug 22, 2016
Aug 22, 2016 at 5:35 PM UTC
as if pebbles underfoot
the sky sings a coarse lullaby
we sit
stubborn and thick
in the clenched pipe of time
unable to pass us
it seems strange, now,
thorns have cleared a path for us;
clouds bulge
in dark promise
oh, the envious hymnal breeze!
how it wrings its wrists
in heavy handed disbelief
a cathedral of trees
holds you and me between earth
and spangled evening
our geometries slowly converge
the unknown looks away in fear
as the pulp of our understanding
sweetens the ink of our verse
intertwined
from broken shells the bird steps
from her beak night screams
missiles of ancient light
weave the moon
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 5:32 PM UTC
Some days are intense.
When my visions come crashing upon me,
multidirectional light beams flashing upon me.
My cells are influxing with new dimensional light,
and I can’t keep up with all the information in sight.
Thousands of voices of visual memory,
translating the alchemy of all time spaces.
I’m rearranging,
but sometimes it feels like I’m dying.
Birthing fresh codes,
into the grid of Gaia’s zone.
When there’s no off button to what I am experiencing,
yet I scream Yes and More Please,
Upgrading my telepathy.
But there are some days more intense than others.
When my truth comes revealing and bouncing out of the covers,
And I’m slapped in the face,
with my divinity shown from all of the Star race.
The schizophrenia upon my lips,
the multidimensions begging me to give them a kiss.
Organically designed to cradle mankind,
Yet when mankind and my kind are shaking within my arms,
all the humanoid patterns are jumping at me,
and I’m juggling between the fractals forming new geometries...
Some days are more intense than others.
Nov 7, 2018
Nov 7, 2018 at 8:42 AM UTC
what a beautiful ruined world
if i seal these mortal instruments,
render binairy apertures of flesh unmade
your prescence like a tempestuous fever inside
'neath this mockingly empty starless sky
you are an apparition, and an agony boundless
i am your stalwart sepulchre
so prevail upon me thine anguish
and torment me from within mine own shell
for a thousand moons i have stalked
through a hundred and one nights
a gaunt, dark and wild aberrant
looking for a single star in a chasm of earth
but my memories, shattered into eldritch geometries
will not converge upon themselves, and i know not your face
but my heart knows your heart
so i will brave onwards...
we we're made when this world was made
for a million aeons we watched it's countless civilizations grow and bloom
and inextricably wither
and now, at the end of all time, we wander listlessly as aching wraiths through it's strange and wild precipice
to percieve, in apathy as the unspeakable beauty of mortal art crumble and transmogrify as dust and smoke, is an agony that would shatter the heart of the universe, if infinite darkness had a heart...
the beautiful cities and lights and words and stories
all gone
all turned into ephemeral embers, flickering in vain as they die in a sea of ash
the ash of a thousand burning souls
longing for the warmth of another
and now, they are all gone
no bones remain
but our love is eternal
i have traversed the ruins of an ancient cities
i drifted past the forbidden palace in the east
through Dubai, and a strange drowned metropolis
i looked for you in the deep dark of the dying Moscow
were the fires still fall as rain
and the silence is only abruptly put to rest by the shrieks of mad ravens
i went on to St. Petersburg, i know you loved it so, but i saw no traces of you
i thought i glimpsed a shadow of you through the fog in the remains of London
where are you?
no matter where you are in this ruined world
i will find you
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 7:13 AM UTC
it was raining that morning – so much the effloresce of colors
making their way back into the sky; there were the strangest forms of
clouds, their bodies assuming shapes and geometries, obscured angles
like that of two coiled lovers on a bed, whose bones ache the septuagenarian
but still at ease when it comes to building fire; no birds were out that day
and the busy binatog vendor blared into the streets like an unwanted nuisance,
it was already afternoon when you had your eyes wake up to mine,
your simian jaw curved to a hook of the C in crescendo, your voice the twilight
and the familiar passing of birds, the gush of blood inside of you;
there are such speeds that ultimate a crash, or a fragment – the semantics
of motion do not appeal to both of us, but we ceaselessly exist in those
moments when all of your movements summon, say, the sea, but that is a metaphor
used overtime, overwrought and taken out of its blue – say, your grandfather’s pendulum
watch impaled to the wall on a heady standstill, face to face with a linoleumed wall
that shouted its age – its superficial maquillage falling out of its slenderness
fashioned to secretive ****** something both you and I know, something that does not
come well with age, something that only some shadows choose to eschew in light.
in a faraway place, there might be parakeets but this time, underneath the cusped sky
and the parasol that was drenched by drizzle that we let dry by the doorstep,
there is something about the gnash of rusting metal-work that tells me time has its own
way of claiming things, renaming them, and bringing them back in awry stances nestled
in tight, wrestling nooks of space, dark and dust on ground – keeping us leaping in place,
swift with dreams of wings and aviaries, be it elocutionary with farce
or just keeping it real by the unreal of our imaginations – like birds swell in the sheen
of the sky’s flayed bone, sliding in and out of the fringes of the aureole until such gardens
are flustered with monochrome: this perfect dagguerotype of day.
Jan 25, 2016
Jan 25, 2016 at 8:13 PM UTC
Morning light breathes
life into every flower,
reflecting odd geometries
that follow me hour to hour.
Between each step scattered
on the coniferous ground
are my dreams, forgotten
inside a still dark pond.
Searching noon for new eyes
is the easiest task I feel,
when one forgets what isn’t real.
And as I kneel at dusk
with pockets full of daylight,
uncertainty shields me
from the river trailing behind.
A devouring gush of blue moves
inside the chest of twilight
and all that I hold dissolves
into a thousand new eyes
and all that I fear becomes
what brings the night alive.
Only a certain eye lets me sleep
and one remains open
to another rapturous beginning.
In these blue veins, a wild sea
courses with a stream of stars
from each wound widening.
Something more real than I lives
in the abyss that pulls on all things
yet my soul glows brighter
when it is darker still.
Jun 30, 2025
Jun 30, 2025 at 9:09 AM UTC