To another day
passing like the parched foliage
dangling from the roofs in
the ***** Bronx

left of the ferry,
right is the skyline
doubled three times,
cloaked in solar panel
glass and shimmering
against the smoggy array of light
that
will
quit—
in due time.

Daddy, sweet
East River father,
where is the little
meatball you had grounded
up for eyes.
For a Roman nose
and Mafian stubble
when your Sicilian tongue
was clipped at age five.

For English-Only stamped on the roof
of your waste factory
of a mouth.

For the neo-tongue that
was bred liked
strong As
and
young ****;
And copious liquor upon
the grounds of your hiking
trips.

Mutation
       of
vile majesty.
Cannibalism of the **—

Buttons budding
for *******.

I saw your phantasm
figure, soiled in
dark tan, curve in
my lens.
Swallow the hazel
like a viscous sauce,
sweet, fresh.
A fuckable baby—
of five. You clipped
my tongue with now
cloying giggles and in the bunk bed,
red and ***,
like a locket, limbs

dangling out the sides, fleeing in
a fountainhead of
DO NOT.
Effaced by an amnesia.

The old man in my skull speaks,
— I was thirty two days ago.

Now the IVs DRIPDRIP,
Chorus with the TICKTICKTICK.
You are the hour,
I am the minute
Hand.
You are slow, I must
go-go-go in compulsive haste.
Run for sixty,
start anew,
encore, solo, imbrued
with the days that twine the middle, framed in
white.
Forget.

The doctor parses the old man like an
obsolete phrase with theatric hands,
-touch-touch-
push,  press.
Then comes the Shakespearean
soliloquy:
—He hasn’t the coverage.

The trigger as a glove of flesh
hits its target, quiets the machine,
puts me to sleep.

What is it that
I must do?
-become the platoon,
an infantry of sun-empired men.
Fight the shrapnel,
the blitzing of
scar tissue.
Become the fireman
with an axe wielded—
Scale the towers like cracks in a mountain.
Die from the smoke or
the spherical flames of the
planes that rode like the hooves
of a horse with bubonic pallor.
Fall like a worker
for stories down until
God, or some sadistic keeper
of this earth, slacks a noose
and reels me in like
a bluefin tuna, prized,

as you
salute. You ‘Nam
prevailer heralding
the lacy harlequins of corporeal
God’s pardon
on
you.

I am in
eternity from
the waist down,
object of the tight, frictiony
satisfaction you
almost indulged in.

To be a daughter, so sonly,
revoked of all features.
Stripped of the places
you liked to touch.

I hear angels every time I enter the classroom.  They call from one place, always seeming to come from one particular individual.
The one of whom I would’ve given my heart to at that first moment’s notice.
She was beautiful in more ways than I think she realized, but I hope was well loved. Even though she was my crush, I never really got to know her much.
What I remember about her now is only a distant memory but one that’s cemented in my mind all too well for the archives of my cerebrum.
She was shy, maybe, or just didn’t have much she wanted to talk about. And her name rings in my ears still as I think of the “what ifs” of if she would’ve opened her heart to me, the rocking chair of the earth, eager for love yet slow for conflict.
I, of whom have been known now as poetic justice, she, the backbone of which I stand, boosted, yet she gets no credit, no credibility. I always stayed customarily in my place, wonting, wanting to show her the rare sight of specialness and sensibility that was on my heart.
But she wouldn’t speak to me.
Offer a yearbook picture. No
What about a friendly chat, what do I say? Why is my soul straining to accumulate the same personality that I yearn to show her? Why is it so complicated to talk to the one who stays her tongue and parses words to speak more than one word at speech?
But I respected that, for cinnamon tastes bitter without a mix of sugar .The sweetness she provided and the flavor I had. Yet no mix, the cinnamon stood alone but was still used in the kitchens of life in the sweets concocted by that of whom designed the vision.
Daja.
Black hair, almond skin, glasses made to fit her solemn eyes, and a soul whose presence blessed every room I entered that she was in. I admired her, and still do, for she  was her own center, off the grid yet advanced in every way.
A constant inspiration, I wrote my first published piece in honor of her.
Daja.
The ninth wonder of the world yet the first of such potency to me. She, the one of whom I would think of when I’d hear the word “Perfection”. Yet she spoke little to me.
Beautifully white smile, enchanting gaze of which sent chills up my spine as I matched. One could solve complex equations in her presence by just contemplating her shear brilliance. But she didn’t let herself flourish with the others.
And I respected that.
Lips as full as a child at a buffet, and she parted them little. I’d proved myself time and time again to be a fool in front of her and it shook my morale with every mistake I made.
When I hear her name I think of drake’s “From time” which symbolizes what state of mind I was in when around her.
A queen in the making and a princess by all standards, yet she noticed me little. This deep voice, awkward personality, and crafty word usage couldn’t ensnare her. She was set on her goals.
And I respected that.
But whatever happens in our human lives, I hope she finds all the happiness in the world that she deserves, for she deserves the maximum.
They call it a crush, but why? We were friends, wait, associates by societal standards, yet there was a feel there. Something that affected me even as my last days in her immediate area waned away.
Now I hear angels when I hear her name.
Daja.
The soul of the sphinx with the heart of a lion and the appeal of a peacock. She, the silence with which I was happy to have, the angel in the next seat, the beauty technically by my side.
Daja
The one with my eternal respect and admiration.

numbered , for perpetuity
slid into an array
that parses my habits
fetishes
bank account name

my googly habits
every mouse click
archived
recalled remembered

so I am again the whole
of data bits bytes
the last site
I accidentally

clicked on where
naked gnomes
did unsightly things on the lawn
after dark

I must live up to it all
can't hide now
just tell me
it is not

gonna be shared to
my ole mama
in Michigan
who goes

by the name
of old hot mama!
like she did back in the day

when CB's ruled

SPACE: THE FINAL FRONTIER

a glacier moves
through the Geog lesson
outside the grass burnt brown

he parses a sentence
a blackbird gives a lesson
in singing

the quadratic equation
elopes with the doodle
waiting for the bell to ring

spanner in the words
I unable to
name a verb of manner

I stare
he glares
the class gasp

the sunlight draws
a parallelogram
on the dusty floor

I dare to boldly go
trespass grammatical boundaries
the solecism makes me a marked man

"Earth calling Dempsey...earth calling Dempsey!"
the class snigger with teacher
Sir reaches for the strap

six of the best
for a split infinitive
**** that Cap. Kirk!

SPACE: THE FINAL FRONTIER

a glacier moves
through the Geog. lesson
outside the grass burnt brown

he parses a sentence
a blackbird gives a lesson
in singing

the quadratic equation
elopes with the doodle
waiting for the bell to ring

spanner in the words
I unable to
name a verb of manner

I stare
he glares
the class gasp

the sunlight draws
a parallelogram
on the dusty floor

I dare to boldly go
trespass grammatical boundaries
the solecism makes me a marked man

"Earth calling Dempsey...earth calling Dempsey!"
the class snigger with teacher
Sir reaches for the strap

I.

all of physics boils down to approximating the body of an animal as a sphere.

in acupuncture, body is the ear.

thinking twice is a cricket of conscience;
the outcome ends, then the end begets.

a subatomic particle decays into an entangled pair of other particles.

pallbearers bring out the empty casket.

II.

the index finger bends to meet the thumb in
mudra, recirculating.

i had dreamt last week that an animal had died in my womb.

half resurrected elsewhere as a provisional version of another person,

half came back to me again as my own intuition.

trying to hear it growling in my silent stomach,
i had cupped my hand to my ear.


III.

all of time boils down to approximating
the realm of a moment into increments.

at the end of the first hour of the day,
23 more hours will rise to meet it.

who is to say another world is not imprinted
within our bodies like a hologram that we puppet?

all energy changes forms,
none destroyed and none created.

quantum physics parses out particulates,
intricately arranged to be related, to inherit.

SPACE: THE FINAL FRONTIER

a glacier moves
through the Geog. lesson
outside the grass burnt brown

he parses a sentence
a blackbird gives a lesson
in singing

the quadratic equation
elopes with the doodle
waiting for the bell to ring

spanner in the words
I unable to
name a verb of manner

I stare
he glares
the class gasp

the sunlight draws
a parallelogram
on the dusty floor

I dare to boldly go
trespass grammatical boundaries
the solecism makes me a marked man

"Earth calling Dempsey...earth calling Dempsey!"
the class snigger with teacher
Sir reaches for the strap

six of the best
for a split infinitive
**** that Cap. Kirk!

SPACE - THE FINAL FRONTIER

a glacier moves
through the Geog. lesson
outside the grass burnt brown

he parses a sentence
a blackbird gives a lesson
in singing

the quadratic equation
elopes with the doodle
waiting for the bell to ring

spanner in the words
I unable to
name a verb of manner

I stare
he glares
the class gasp

the sunlight draws
a parallelgram
on the dusty floor

I dare to boldly go
trespass gramatical boundaries
the solecism makes me a marked man

"Earth calling Dempsey...earth calling Dempsey!"
the class snigger with teacher
Sir reaches for the strap

six of the best
for a split infinitive
**** that Cap. Kirk!

I.
1.
The poem parses time into syllables
and the syllables reach out to hold you
in the embrace of your grandmother’s words,
the light touch of motherly praise,
the squirm of a daughter’s protestations,
the first gurgling phonemes of the womb
advancing to meaning, dissolving to memory.
2.
The grandfather clock travels in grandfather time,
its tick tick ticking replacing the shadows
cast by the sun on a circular stone
that mimicked the once holy dawn ringing out
on the sway of evergreens,
the rattle of doe hooves,
every sound collecting to the center
of the pulsating green forest.
3.
The lullabies chanted to the womb
hickory dickory dock, tick tock
its way up into the time of every song
you ever sung and remembered
until its sleepy dreams replace
every still moment of waking life.
4.
The paintings in the Louvre
are all Mona Lisas and Medusa’s—
the same **** faces
with different smiles
that become petrifying
when gazed head on
but freeing apace when
converted into frame rates
that match the time and space
of your foot movements,
heartbeats and thoughts.
5.
The pandemic has reduced
the world to FaceTime,
apart in space, time and touch:
the voice, the echoing of electrons,
the face, replaced by the screen image,
the same **** faces again without depth,
permitting no movement beyond
the camera’s border, no past or future,
just a present looped and memed ad infinitum
without a song to sing,
no dancing cheek to cheek,
until denied the reality of human time
neither of you can sustain a relationship
within the movement of this thing.  

II.
1.
Now your world exists
in the untouchable,
in shutdown,
in stopped time,
just a still life hung on the wall,
that you can only gaze at
but dare not touch
lest violence erupt.
2.
Everything is gone
in the flicker of an eye.
The black bird
with the yellow underwings
speeds by in a golden flash
until it vanishes into the forest.

III.
1.
And you are left
with the memory
of your grandmother’s embrace
singing only to you.
2.
It was holy, holy, holy,
a divine person,
a hymn,
a double beat
of syllables
seeding first into the earth
and then into you.
3.
You develop bifocular vision,
seeing not only
everything near and far
but all that is above and below
the soul’s watery movements.

IV.
1.
You remember the first time
you saw the goddess
rising half from  
the water and the sky,
dancing and singing
on the shore.
2.
Now, everything is painted
with the white clay
of her existence.
3.
Syllable by syllable her song
becomes your poetry,
a repeating chant
that entrances you
until your joy
passes beyond time,
to become the only
thing that matters.
4.
Her love allows you
to touch those things
that can never be touched
without the risk of infection.
5.
The poems written
enter through
the eye and ear
and touch the heart
of the world.

V.
1.
On your last walk
a green snake
undulates in S curves
on the trail in front.
2.
In the hiss
you hear no threat,
only love
that acquiesces
to allowing you
to touch its back,
until it straightens
itself out .
3.
In that moment
time un-wrinkles.

I'm in love
with a lie
that is older than me,

and a hope
that is younger
than
the most recent spring;

Not a parroted dream
but a queen
of deep schemes
that parses out wisdom
and better poems
than me.

I'm in love
with a drug
that I create
everyday,
not pill
that some take
but the thoughts
that make
my mind great,

and the shadows
that I see
make me want
to believe
there is something
greater out there
that is in love with me.