"inflorescence" poems
people drank and swayed as you stood up there
and oscillated your hands over the surface of the synthesizer
Ambience
all I heard was the thereminEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
I heard that as I boarded the subwayEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
and I thought about an orchidEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
You resembled an orchid.
An orchid, save my soul.
And so was I.
I went and saw you again playing the back alley
and you did it a cappella while people shrieked from their acid trips
Sad
and all I heard was your voiceEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
and I heard them as I fell onto the pavementAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
and I thought I saw an orchidEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAA
You still resembled an orchid.
An orchid, save my soul.
And so was I.
I bought the paper because it was routine
I read you had vanished, but your face was on the page
Smile
and all I heard was my voiceAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
and then I pictured the fireworksOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAOOOO
they looked like orchidsAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
You didn't resemble an orchid.
An orchid, save my soul.
And so was I.
I pulled over on the highway, I saw a ghost
He got in the car and it was so cold, I thought about my disbelief
Disappointment.
I looked in the rearview mirror, I saw a ghost
Its hand were big and nimble, its head a large inflorescence
Pretty
and I heard the thereminEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
the fireworks in my headOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAAAAOOOO
and our voices.
You resembled an orchid.
An orchid, save my soul.
An orchid, save my soul.
An orchid, save my soul.
And so was I.
Aug 19, 2012
Aug 19, 2012 at 11:42 AM UTC
under the sludge of this depression, I am awake. it’s morning outside but that doesn’t change a thing.
tiredness takes me to quiet places. I follow like I’m devout.
this forest is new. there’s a drumming of a heartbeat within the trunks of these trees.
it thrums under my fingertips. blood rushes forward to touch this rhythm.
songbirds nest, plume against plume for love and for rest. the birdsong is sweet as saccharine.
I taste the sap on my lips, its nectar, thick with agape. a salve for myriad laments under the roof of a single bell jar.
the indigo sky convulses, telling of fortunes. the clouds retch gilded roses.
blades of grass fence the circumferences of leaves in gypsy winds. the forest warms like a flame.
my body sways in solipsistic wonder. the crescents of my nails are crusted with lichen.
my limbs are drawn into its boughs, like gravity. like the bark is starved.
my mind is foliage and my crown is littered with inflorescence. my sky is finally cerulean and lilac.
each gall is an ancient hurt. each wound is a knot.
I breathe my mourning. I wait to bloom.
Apr 24, 2020
Apr 24, 2020 at 3:07 AM UTC
*dandelion seeds
too tight to fly--
frozen Spring lovers
stream breeze--
pollen ripples into sun,
brace of current bed
inflorescent burst--
hikers' boots beside a pool
on sun-baked rocks
green buds ***** the air--
in corymb echoes,
fuzz of leaves
water-sounds cascade--
moss-drops, trickles; dog-splash, falls;
gurgles under foot
the tones of waves
tiny on the smooth shore
lipping on
stem-length stars,
streaming rays of sun
and water's deep shade
gentle eddies over stone--
one world,
one world
froth twirl and tendril
under Spring brook shade--
so clear beneath
burl-sprouts misted bright,
cups of water,
forest thirst
waterfall gasp--
the cold! the winter! now swim!
the first breaths
Spring Misogi--
pummeled muscles--
grin of mossy heart
your wet shirt against my chest
--hot love--
thunderous winter-melt
we sink laughing,
numb in Spring's fluids--
our voices drown
papaya lunch--
a tropic fruit
and i am home
sweaty backpack--
two beloved women hike,
my heart weightless
cliff-jumpers--
green from nostalgia,
i hit bottomless
cameras first,
avert canopy surprise--
Spring screen
black-backed iridesce--
warm beetle slips
in and out of scree
barefoot in the stream,
our hands and voices smooth--
ankle sprain
Spring paths--
a parent's visit
breathes new life
my womb-maker
from another life--
ageless comfort
her haiku eyes--
water shining sun green
bloom here again
*
\|/
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 11:06 AM UTC
Some stalks escape the shears.
Children gather inflorescence
into paintbrushes
weary of so much slaughter.
They kneel into the aroma,
mistaken for praying.
Bees bend one last flower
sepal to stem, sated
and heavy. Far from home.
Sep 7, 2015
Sep 7, 2015 at 10:22 PM UTC
Eros:
the days leap as they should,
over serrated blades of grass: brightly,
transcendentally.
i open the voluminous page
of the twilight: it is October bruised
with brindled water.
white is the color of your laughter,
nourishing the noise of heart, crumpled
over the virginal sheet.
in the staring mirror dizzy with life,
shining with a sudden image
in sempiternal fume: both of us,
twining, entering each other
even before the world was complete,
heavy with your hair, lithe with
your embrace, eyes gorged with
naked visions,
hands flayed, full of hours—
i make your ample sea my scarce wave's
anchorage, erasing the twinge
by habit of shores.
i weep: you are filling the world with your own light now drowning the shadows
in the depths of their caves, choking
the silence, wringing out the leafage
of your body's inflorescence.
in vivid decree of your smile, you have
made me the cargo of minutes
rummaging across the dunes of lust:
the tousled sheets,
nearing, coming to me, swarming
soft body: we fell into the hollow of sleep.
Thanatos:
here at the lip of the bed
receiving our smallness, the days—
felled into the night, stilled,
in this finite hour a darker blue
is given; i speak not of love.
how are we alive here?
raining inward, above the brim
of an open window, do you wind-hover?
your voice has escaped the dungeon
of my mouth, and the twining of
our fingers give birth to a forest of specters and a moonless love demanded.
i beat through your harsh curve;
i go tracing your eyebrow
engulfed in the festering fever
of half-light marches and the faint spark
of autumn leaving no tawny scent—
there is only silence peregrinating
in the room before you and after I,
it began to pour in our room,
both of us struck down to mortals
together with a feint recall i cannot parry:
we fell into a bottomless hollow of eyes,
chasing our chained breaths, wordless.
Oct 19, 2015
Oct 19, 2015 at 3:31 AM UTC
Righteous' presence
and innocents' innocence
Pleasant fragrance
the Essence’s essence
Sparrows nest
in cherub's presence
Leaping loyal dogs
wagging effervescence
But cats sleep,
without care, blatant nonchalance
Beauty’s transcendence
and inviolable permanence
Musical cadence
in timeless immanence
Elephants' endless patience
and endurance
Hummingbirds whizzing
winged iridescence
Orchids blooming
riotous inflorescence
And monarchs live and die
in glorious ignorance.
Nov 10, 2019
Nov 10, 2019 at 12:47 AM UTC
Picture me this: not the arched brow
but the body when night, curves like a moon
accruing more weight.
Develop me this: not the body when curved like a moon
but the white stucco of it,
assuming its form.
Fold me like this: not the white stucco of it,
but the space it takes for need,
the occupancy it wastes for want.
In this manner is how you will
And lay me flat against the river:
not your memory of walls with fleur-de-lis,
but with lilies. If this day were leaf when turned
from the night when I took this collapse,
let your hands be pedicle. My inflorescence you have
mistaken as displacement yet not drown – meet this canopy
at the end of this river that is your river – your static grace that
is the music of your passing.
When met, disintegrate: not the lilies – they are anchors you have forgotten,
not this day if it were a leaf, but the day dried from a washline
of clouds. Let my inflorescence be a blunder of your recall.
When you meet this canopy, pack all of its mileage,
exact it in this distance. Take photographs of. Do not keep.
May 31, 2016
May 31, 2016 at 10:07 PM UTC
night falls. space slackens.
falling into common placeness, the realness
of quotidian moon.
.
a love for the metastasis of minutiae.
a hand on the cold **** pale like the dead.
the tombs of fingernails. creases for
delineations of Earth. clenched, evening.
unloosened, bare as morning.
hand in hand, twilight.
.
outside the house, a figure.
things stir in the persistence of silence.
the flagrant irony of hearing cacophonies.
a part of the world that becomes a kin.
say, without light and the dimensions of
things, no shadows display in grayscale.
listening to the cancer of the avenue:
the continuing tachycardia in the edge
of things. things that pulse or flatten.
the mind, in your passing. the heart in your passing. respect this chronology.
likened to the metaphor of beginning
an immediate and forever turning of the body when trouble meant togetherness,
and consolation, simply remembering.
.
there is a deconstruction in sleep.
the alterable garment of dream. or a flower
revealing its inflorescence.
the blackred hemograph of petals, the accuracy of thorns, the tabulated geography
of its stillness - something it that does not completely practice. the constancy of the wind breaks its mimesis.
.
outside your house again. the undesirable quake in the monotony of your dog, Oliver, chained to the stilt of the house that does
move anymore.
the absolute quiet of the street foreshadows the variegated Dieffenbachia.
the color of my palm, starting to green.
i could be anything within your presence
as the moon intensifies the plunge.
Feb 27, 2016
Feb 27, 2016 at 3:48 AM UTC
*Catkins of a Willow & Birch, whipped
By winds that whistle while in search
Of clouds and thistle to be outstripped
By shouts & bellows to a billow of Earth
Drooping stems, to spread their pollens Amongst their kin by winds that whistle, Whipping them & thistle in the dozens-
Catkins of a Willow & Birch, search Earth*
For their distant cousins.
Mar 2, 2017
Mar 2, 2017 at 6:23 PM UTC
Besotted winged pollinators
roistering barrage drowned
amidst general insectivorous cacophony
indistinct auditory signals communicated
intermingled with bounteous wafting fragrance
midwifed edenic floral pullulation
sensate admixture viz colored spectrum
amidst unrehearsed extemporaneous
orchestral suite bedded lambs
amorous ewe man like bleating songs
nature all aflutter actively socially vociferating
profuse living color rainbow pastiche
teeming soundgarden smorgasbord
cornucopia ignites mordent Utopian aural swath
visual vistas stilling spellbinding
spilling riotous carpeted web
uniting doubting Thomas's existentialism
despite unanswered queries
asper diverse modalities each specie evolved
to survive despite countervailing destructive forces
generating plethora pandemonium ironically
promulgating harmonic exemplary convergence
Highland Manor concourse aflame with new life
parented by instinctive imprimatur anonymous patents
now genetic mapping usurped with untold outcome
analysis bred crispr discovery Earthlings fiddling
glorifies honied indemnity Judeo-Christian kudos
leaves of grass kudzo resistance mutation immunizes
biosphere once prolific differentiation shrinks
becoming monocultural setting virtual stage
catastrophe plus food shortage would become
global debacle predicated, sans virulent
viral and/or bacterial strain renting asunder
tripwire unspooling delicate webbed whirl
already widely compromised more so
since Rachel Carson wrote Silent Spring
**** sapiens population explosion
pits profligate predilections planet Earth in extremis
dire crisis cavalierly dismissed humans
in hot pursuit racking up superfluous wealth
***** deeds done dirt cheap - tricking
mother nature, who will unwittingly
spring scrumptious feeding off scrimmage
forcing capitulation or total extinction
meanwhile fostering long tall floral inflorescence
a composite having sessile flowers
apiary abuzz, cuz queen bee
can no longer wax bereft of royal jelly.
May 27, 2018
May 27, 2018 at 12:35 AM UTC
this is another form I would like to lose
but what is a man to inherit but the empire of sleep after
being caught in a virulent web of dailiness?
sometimes dreams are as empty as Manila
on a Sunday – requiring things I do not understand,
so as the departure of leaves to bring back the same existence,
the parallel rawness, and the exact hundredfold inflorescence,
a blank synthesis of light is another conundrum
as sidewalks remain steely and squalid
holding themselves up to surrender; when another drone breeds
sound from a distance, one is reminded of how gently songs in themselves
break inward and release fully, a cloud of regret, leaving things and renaming
them loose sobriquets;
and when all else have gone into total darkness
I will sit beside everything else that closes its eyes to the world
and rejoin them in the familiar and see nothing but the rest
of beautiful things ignite to show scars and leave
us all wordless, losing
this strange form of living.
Jan 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016 at 1:58 AM UTC
where does a flower
keep its flaring memories?
in the petals, loincloths
light-skinned in
resplendent ephemera.
or in the thorns,
prickly music of
an esoteric cadence
without falter,
blood upon blood,
flesh upon flesh,
ash upon ash
tumult of pains and the eclipse
of a broken archipelago.
in the stem,
bending to the oppressing wind.
like your body upon my body
swaying to the sound that no
ears hear underneath rivers
and the sorry tale of
weightless drowning no eyes
ever witnessed.
in the hands of the wind
is where they are kept.
moonlight shines its
perihelion mouth across borders
of untouched reminiscences
and we have called them names
and similar aches as rain
dropped like a net of sadness
or the debris of a ruin,
betrayed by the thirst of our
lips when we longed for the sea
and failed to heed its
cerulean calling.
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 10:25 PM UTC
-- dizzy from the silence
as the rain translates
the sky's pain into the core
of a leaf's inflorescence,
tucks underneath a stone's
tongue a secret, springing
from a cornucopia of questions.
if it rains more over
the tormented town,
will God show its face
in the puddle out feet trample?
will an angel collapse
as a single drop of honey
moves through the lambast
of a monsoon's arm
in the wayward atmosphere?
will its death grow wings
and carry all of us,
girdled to its chest
like how the infantile morning
is painted in the quiet
mausoleum of our pains,
and into our tender lives
waiting to be examined?
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 10:14 PM UTC
where i go
cuts the loneliest melody
of this inner twilight.
it is where hands cease
to reach for certain things
and ****** only
what is immense in nearness,
and that is
a memory.
it is a pain imagined -
constantly shining light
into its clutched darkness
and releases from its hand,
the birds of dawn - these words;
or gently sways the perennial trees
with the verdure of its spoken
word and its unimpeachable sensation burning through leaves
like the sun's peak biting off
a trace of a leaf's inflorescence,
or that somewhere i,
together in the gathered silence,
fathers an intimation
and comes back after
each toppled song,
to the world and its formless manifests.
Sep 17, 2015
Sep 17, 2015 at 11:33 PM UTC