Your presence is tangible
Across the vast expanse
Yet, I hear not your voice
I feel not your longing
Mine, is the only heart I hear
Alone, for the first time in eternity
Alone, wrapped in your essence
Just a whisper of warmth
A choice all your own
To be alone
A choice that you have forgotten
Includes me
For we flow throughout each other
Still, here we are
I feel you trying not to feel me
And I close my eyes
Praying death over a life that begins here
And ends without you
'tis not a choice could I make
'tis not a life...alone

the night is
                  still
                     dark
                       quiet
there is a distinct
                           chill
                             breathe
                            gently steams
from my mouth
                      seen only in the
light of a poets tablet.

the first bird is yet to wake
i am alone in my early mornings prowl.

too cold for the little grey cat
and too early for the human companions, they all remain
abide... cozied up and asleep

as i search the dark cold              
                                          nigh­t
for meaning.

in the distance the kookaburra cackle and chuckle
            dawn has come...

the sky lightens gradually
as if from nowhere, as if someone
in the sky is slowly rising,
blinking sleep from his eyes
and sitting lazily up onto his elbow,
casually ******* the brightness slider
on the universe as if he's done it
every day, he must have.
before the pink can hit it the checker
pattern of clouds fades away,
promising a casually clear blue
day but this one is more
personal now, his gift to me,
because on the concrete looking up
i can see the sun before it rises,
i know what it's like to wake
with the sun there on the other
side of the bed, to see her slowly
blinking the stars from her skies.
yawning, stretching, morning breath,
to see her rolling up her sleeves
and tying back her hair
and scattering her dreams of death
with a shake of her tired head.
and yet even before she is fully awake
she is so radiant.
the moon, shooting stars, even the perseids
step back to let her shine.
i feel as though when the sun
hides behind storms some days,
each day i will know why.

i.
morning sand chills my feet
damp grains cling between my toes
a predawn morning cold
mid-August summer day

ii.
down the beach
i watch hawks circling
hunting the tree line, they
work the shore grasses
a narrow strip of tall plants
between beach and wood
circling closer and closer
     coming to me

iii.
they soar a steady breeze off the lake
hunting prey which i hear
scurrying frantically among the tall grasses
the hawks circle now directly above
white bodies with dark wing feathers

iv.
in the beach house
hang two paintings by a local artist
children playing on this very beach
chasing one another and crouching in the tide-pool
shown in fine detail
especially for water color  
yet, i notice, the children
have no faces, merely brown smudges
     featureless

v.
that night, sitting
around a beach bonfire
sparks jump from burning logs
about me forms glow red
i see these faces too appear as
smudges,
     featureless
like an infant
     at it's birth

A collaboration between Elisa Maria Argiro and SG Holter.*

Dear feather. You fell on my heart.
I keep you on my person now; pocket held;
An eternal companion.
As beautiful as you, I remind my
Thoughts to be.
I wake up as Buddha every day.                  
Peace is the corner stone of my breathing.

Dear Last Crescent Moon,
adorning Lord Shiva's brow,
smiling toward Morning Star
enjoying her sweet presence
in clearest predawn light.
She smiles too, drifting into feathery sleep.

Birdless flight, unclenched, un-
Clung to.
With this dew drop in my palm
I need no ocean to swim in.
How can Life's castle, with its wars and
Tragedies, hide within its
Towers of                                                          
Nois­e such quiet chambers?
Paper sails, bamboo, emerald waters.
Single feathers rest even when
Airborne.

From your outstretched palm,
sweet taste of morning touches
my tongue, oceanic dew drop
sharing itself across floating time.
An offering holding the last shining
starlight of this new morning. Drifting
now through limitless space,
finding words in our common language
on your yellow paper sails, we gaze down
from these towers of our ancient dreams,
emerald water below us waiting to catch
the falling feather.

Dear insight.
Light as the wind itself, you
Floated; fell on my heart.
Merged with heavy memories
Like paper balloons rising;
Tsunami of kamifusen
Render my whole being
Weightless.
Third-Eye-Hindsight sees me
Remembering nothing with
Bitterness.
One or a hundred lifetimes
Wandering.
Finally now,
Even waking hours feel like
Dreaming.

Dear Wisdom, Guardian Planet,
Buddha's radiance shining.
Thousand-Petaled Lotus
is now your own effulgent mind.
Smiling, eyes closed, feeling the
glowing kamifusen of magenta,
scarlet, turquoise, and yellow
floating above us,
we swim so deeply, diving down
into these warm emerald waters,
winking at the luminous fishes
dreaming all around us.

Shadow cast,
who are you, dark drifter?
A speculation, as dreams are.

But consider
these wraiths of the mind are real,
as the author has spoken to herself in reverie,
and seen the celestial horizon,
in half-body, half-sleep.

Watching smoke curl in the sky
A simmer reflection, a residue of death stealing life
The scent of sweet burning arrives
Between breaths misting predawn light

A womb collects dead children
We hear them shrink and shiver
Their limbs atrophied, their eyes wide

Every kiss is wildfire
Every yearning is weathered
Like the shedding paint on the boards outside
That needed a touchup, a lifetime ago

Every touch is parched
Every trust is dystopian
The flesh departs from neuronal collections
Untraceable to the heart inside

No daughters, no sons
No lovers, no love
No affection, connection; truth or simple trust
No daughters, no sons
No lovers, no love
No future
No hope

It is predawn and still dark outside
but I cannot sleep.
The cool of aching winter calls
but the oaks, still green,
soon their leaves will fall
like me who so easily slips away
from the grasp
of the universe
that always beckons me to join
the elements of its peace.

But too often
I choose the storms
the collisions
and scattering properties.

How sweet it is to close the distance
between us
to find each other
and dwell together
in moments of love, respect,
mutual admiration,
and laughter
that seem so rare
out there,
to abide in sweet and precious harmony
for a while.

Before dawn,
in the ***** of venerable silence
I whisper the verses of the Koran
and I find myself in awe of Allah,
your memories emerge in front of my eyes,
I get stretched out within tides...

A new obsession
a tiny light dot,
a sudden strange blink;
Are you a shirk?!
No... Never!
Only pure love could last forever...
You are something sacred with mundane reflections:
like expurgatory light from the heavens,
like my spiritual pain of existence
or the insanity of my inspiration...

If you ever did feel what I am getting through...
In my dream, you are near
and reading to me softly the surah Ad-Duha...
Ah, this maniacal power I get from your voice...
Ah, this sweet and indispensable rejoice...
And the magnificence of this complete unification!
The one I felt before:
on the elevator
which was taking me to you!

The prayer is going on,
now with its all perfection:
Allah I obey,
For you, I pray...
Till the Sun rises,
I shall be blessed...

(Arabic): in Islam, idolatry, polytheism, and the association of God with other deities.

and i trek'd through the pre-dawn cold
skating along the rail tracks,
to boulder jumping a ravine
                   (where were Japhy's ducks to guide?)
and into a deaden'd grass field.
tapping tip of foot to avoid watery pitfalls
while flanked by rusted railyard
and ****-addled recreational plot;
cat ****'d chemical smell wafts from as
December's north wind fights a toothless perverting force.
the macadame is barren as rainfell desert
and the animals propel by combustion
in effort to scavenge Capitalism's ****
                   predawn
'fore the burliest awaken with hunger.

Uno mas,
or "one more."
One more stop until we're home
or close enough to call it so.
One more stop until we're close enough
to driving our car and picking up ***,
roadside.
To grabbing a coffee
to restart the night.
To talking 'till that predawn light
that reminds us why
we fell in love
the first time.
Uno
mas.

It is almost five a.m.
With each thump of the echoing bass,
of the synthetic revenge and heartbreak,
angry percussion wraps me closer than your arms ever could--
tremulous and heavy,
more absolute than the sunset fictions
you contentedly let me cling to.
A venomous chorus drips from my lips,
once-swollen eyes now itchy and dry.

This is the still serenity of the predawn slumber,
the yearning of the yetsummer,
the quiet before the birds begin scavenging
through grass, trash, and recycling.
I protest--
tongue, fingers heels teeth and lungs
restless in spite of themselves.

You have chased me out of bed,
across dew-dampened grass,
over uneven pavement as treacherous as your voice.
You follow me.

Sleep is merely a forlorn memory
peering sadly from a forgotten heap of warm cotton thread,
whimpering futilely against the anxious pulsing
of overworked headphones
and overthought peculiarities.

You introduced me to this time of day.
You summoned it once with impatient chords
and a staccato keystroke melody,
casually ignoring the plaintive honesty
I willingly accompanied you with.

But the sunrise casts a strange glow, I guess--
rosy and well-intentioned,
fickle and fleeting, like your grin
or the capricious depth of the summer sky.

No one remembers that wandering blue
the same color as her eyes;
but it seeps through your pores,
curls into the caverns of your chest,
an aching in azure only because you let it.
You have bathed too long in the sun.
As the scarlet sunrise erupts across your shoulders
the sky settles into your lungs.

But don’t trust that sky,
that constant companion.

That sky is a cannibal
and it will eat you alive.

In a pure world
music and birdsong
spinning
the lingering
melancholy
no more sadness
only memories
and longings
prostrating on the trails
of yellow leaves
counting the rhythms
of loneliness
the handsomeness of the island
the dreaminess of
the susurration of the beach
the elegance of the sails
the water as always
beating the stippled quietness
awaiting the next dawn
a ketch drifting on the ocean
shining a turquoise light
portraying the poetry
of the predawn
or the predawn hilarity of
the fish and shrimps
in the ocean
this is a pure world
and there is music
and running water in it
and the samisen of moods
and the psaltery
of the nature
whats more
the happy pixies shuttling
in the forest
of purity.

Sleep wouldn’t come, the clock hands seemed to shrug, so I decided to walk.

It was dark, the kind of fall overcast that makes a low ceiling of the sky.

Early mornings, on campus, are always solitary - students shun sunrise like vampires avoid the sun - so I got sole custody of the university. With no traffic, squirrels, birds or humans - predawn was nonchalant.

The wind, busied itself, sweeping the leaves falling in twos and threes, first left then right and finally throwing them in the air like a carefree child.

Frost on grass looked grey, then would suddenly become silverlit by the moon.

If you measure time in steps, as seconds, and then miles become hours. Soon, dawn made night morning, dew became drops, and I searched for coffee.

Honest moments are born
In the predawn stillness of the night
Tearful confessions whispered
Into the nook of one's neck
Smoke drifting lazily towards the ceiling
While the candle flickers in the background
Dancing and dancing all of the pain away

For many reasons, December is a dead season.
The fields are painted in purple and grey, with
blackbirds rising into the sky from distant tree-lines.
The give of summer earth is a hazy memory now,
stored somewhere deep, frozen down in the pores of the soil
where seeds have drawn themselves tightly into themselves.
Trees bend to the ground under their own naked weight.

And this is the season of the christchild?
With a wind that seeks the softest curve of your neck,
slapping your face and drawing water from your eyes,
with nights that go on with only brief intermissions of day.
Is there comfort to be found in the darkest season,
hidden away in some corner of some wood or in a
box to be torn in the rush of Christmas morning?

Open a citrus fruit and let its oils blossom into the air.
Crush a pine needle and spread its syrup on your fingers.
Watch the yolk of the sun break over the horizon through
the smoke of your breath and the breath of the frozen earth.
Get up early, stay up late when the lights come on and walk
out under them. Feel the heat from the open doors of the
department stores but don’t enter; keep this for yourself.

Once, I drove through the predawn blues on the bank of the
Mohowk River the day before Christmas. In the timid dawn
the frost was lacework, birches bowed, the blackbirds jubilated.
And somewhere ahead, a pine wreath hung on a porch for me,
a door was unlocked, a bowl of citrus fruit was being laid out.
December is a dead season, a sleeping season, but from
the darkest night of the year hangs a simple string of lights.

through the cusp of
predawn heavy dark i woke,
one knee too cold to
feel. stars imperfectly ablaze;
radial fractions between
soft fingersplits in overlying canopy.
at ground level, spinning
slowly, i pried a small hole
out of my cocoon of moss. drew
legs to chest. felt clean air wash
up and over me. this is all that
matters. everything. acres alone,
save trapped stoat or the small
hawk in my ribcage. kea call
up at pearl flat; hours later,
i thaw. i rescind no sentiment.
and i dare not take back a
mote of motion. my
hands mend you sweetness on hazy
days the sun careens through
dust and valleys.
                                endless spurs
on all horizons to clamber to
you, or just to find me. endless
convection to spread wing under.
endless permutations of lovers; but,
of course, nobody else
would near suffice.

down a darkened trail, sleep
heavy on shoulders, i waltz with
torch dying in one hand. beating
heart in other. a fine
day crawls up over
peaks; i sigh, smile,
endlessly think
of you.

There's an atm in my neighborhood
That gives out singles,
Or three of them,
Or seven,
And so on.
It sits next to the drywall box
Filled with EBT dinners,
Next to the numbered gas pumps.
It glows in the predawn air,
While I sit on a cement wall
Across the street.
That hunk of junk charged me $3.75 to take out $7.
Next to me a man tells his inquisitive boy
Why the police act as they do.

"They the cops, man.
Not you."

I'm watching with rapt fascination
The ten inch screen
Of some wheelchair-bound woman's
Educational tablet,
While her hand, twisted by palsy,
Taps at a magnified qwerty pad.
She's playing hangman,
And I silently,
Secretly,
Guess along with her for almost fifteen minutes.
The bus arrives, and I'm grateful
It's the doubled kind with the hinge in the middle,
Cuz maybe I won't have to stand.
I take the empty seat next to
A Salvadoreña co-worker
I sometimes ride in to work with.
Our conversations are limited,
As are her English and my Español.
We laugh at the Georgetown gringitas
lining up with their morning runners' clubs,
And lament over the cabrones pobres
Peddling to strangers for jobs
Outside the big box hardware store
That won't hire them.
The sun rises as we cross the Key bridge,
And the wounded Washington Monument,
With its scaffolding and the floodlights leaking through,
Is a diamond-studded phallace
Shining over a town draped in a shroud of humidity.
I close my eyes and try to rest
For the eleven minutes between
Me and my desk.

Prologue... Voyeurs Notes: Two lovers entwined in the blue black room of the ante meridian (a.m.).


Under a cutting ******* moon
he enters you
You took him in with Pavlovian drooling eyes. He took your innocence and you shrieked in dripping compliance:::
Only that sickle overseer in the night sky bared witness
to the end of my pleasant fiction

Halogen orb
Halcyon days

Left only with the abscess of the apparition
that was “us”
and a
Phantom pain for the never was

Perhaps she is
somewhere
quieted by enormity of it all
Life in fast forward, a fallow future, a vertical victim of his ***** ****

Predawn...
Coldness without catharsis on a cobblestone street  

she is again spread before him,
he’s already tired of her, and again that ******* fading crescent
watches:::  
she’s wishing for a flashback, a do over,
a dream of sanity before her teardrop salinity (it could’ve been us)

But here I stand eternal
Butchered by your lunar lunacy::: alone
Against the backdrop of a pockmarked sky

Furious orange wounds
rimmed in charcoal
betray last night's secret:
died, almost died,
charred in an accidental inferno
due to the lazy application
of a long-standing addiction.

Warm,
paper-burn stink clings
to the heat of an early morning
- July.
The slowly-creeping wet heat
in stark contrast
to the quickflash realization of predawn:
my bed was on fire.

The must never know,
those in the cells opposite -
surely, threats of neglectful destruction
warrant the hasty eviction
of the new tenant.

Thus I,
the wakeful sentinel of 611 Lyon
watching for mattress fire
have overturned the hopefully-cooled burns
and will sleep
to avoid dwelling on thoughts
of bonfires.

Memory flashed like strobe
lights and illuminated paths of
tangled legs; only the moon
watched us weave intricate
patterns of impassioned sighs
and scattered black lace.

Shadows settle with the
musing silence of the
immediate past: two bodies
in love with childhood naivety,
the dash of what could be.
What could be?

Predawn whispers shatter
the fragile ivory walls of
my chest, unveiling a chasm
that is yearning to feel again.

occurring slowly, imperceptibly
efficacy being subtly reduced
no longer radiating as it once had
decaying in all that matters

life awaiting reconception
metamorphosis to wholeness
but transition is rarely painless
its passage dark and damp

anxious waking in predawn gloom
curled within the womb of familiar
under a fraying comforter of security
worn even too thin for reality veiling

cutting the cord to the past is crucial
mindfully maintaining nurturing ties
a healthy present breathes its own air
into a future released from half-life

We've been stung so many times black bears drink our pollinated ****.  I always wondered if numbness equaled toughness.  You, Wrestling your whiskey den and  leaving nothing but black turds through out your furry funfettie carpet.  How hard working you were before the predawn sunrise of a meaningless morning.  Now the blue moon cries sobriety for half a creasant .  I guess it isn't easy to change a phase not when somebody already gave out the calendar.  Each of us circle holidays just get drunk next to a clock.

Here you will find oncoming lights
roll against waves of red traffic.
The crimson tide is like a landslide
along side a river of white,
bereft of blue
on this morning commute.
Not a single star to dot the predawn gloom that blooms
into today's paper.
Children pantomiming parents
for the rest of their lives
while the adults bicker over the right blend of color.
Kids being new to the illusion have no experience
to reel in the meaning behind ideals
that have been rewritten and only go on to
learn the bloodlust.
A wet rag
wrung
with bodies
that soak through a toy balloon
full of hot air.

the horse racing to greet dawn
coated in sweat cold winter night
chases his riders desperation into the pathless night
chases his kindred's dream
to fly across the trackless predawn light
to be swifter than the wind
to be as effortless as the burning sun
to be as fast as dreams

pushing himself
he knows his rider must flee
knows the men with knives give chase
know he will perish with this rider
if he does not reach the dawn before them
if he does not ****** destiny from them that chase
pushing harder and harder
mile and another mile, another mile

his thoughts are for the lazy pasture
that he calls home
for the dance of sun and hooves
the cool cool water on a hot day
the sweet taste of fresh oat and meal
his mare beside him
the colt they had borne
his warm home so many miles behind

now he races along the
breaking edge of dawn
each stride his weariness ties to master him
yet his riders desperation pushes him onward
now he races against his mortal endurance
now he races against his dying breath

the men with knives seem immortal
they draw ever closer
the danger of them grasps at his every stride
the horror of them breaths on his tail
now he races against his mortal endurance

beyond any thought but to flee
as the dawn breaks, he slips into darkness
stumbling he fights his way forward
fighting to take another stride
rider and fear forgotten now
as he falls to the cold earth
but his spirit runs faster than wind
but his spirt swifter than dreams
his spirit free now
to a forever pasture of peace and sun

45 minutes to go and-
their kisses are
ours.
I can't look I
know,
but my eyes follow
and seek like hot stones.


I feel their stories-
their
distances stretching-
the burden of
their own loves sinking into
my chest on top
of the open chasm
left by predawn at greyhound.

I hate every time
I have to
say it. I
crave the return
so so so so so...

Stop.


Dear Soul Anchor,
leave me in the Hall-

but be my port
cover my heart
with an oilcloth

so that somebody
else's farewells
will no longer
leak in.

This storm of
our own,
is Heavy Enough.

i.

melted ice cream afternoons
bogged down

rising from asphalt
in magical mist
that transforms
the day into
a test of endurance

even dusk offers
no solace
in frozen watermelon bliss


ii.

smoke permeates fabric
hair and every surface
with peace and grit
wafting over
the crispy
edges of predawn

begging sleep
to the most stubborn
insomniac

rotisserie style dreams
till morning


iii.

there's less death today
waiting in line
in candy store nightmares
begging silence
from the jubilant

but the sky turned up
a dream state

in that beguiling beauty
is brilliance


iv.

in shadows
the earth falls silent

rustling through
tall tales
the moon births

images in hidden corners

evening strolls
turn adventures

and every day
burns quick
to be reborn slowly


v.

the weight of hell
in short tempered bites
**** will with a proficiency
unseen outside
a viper's silent hunt

ready for war
with fists losing
responsibility

breaking triple digit
pressure


vi.

Incessant banging through walls built faster than I am strong enough to demolish, cradling lace so it won't rip on my forked tongue. There is only so much care left to handle perception just trying to breathe through a smile.

Our world is measured in childhood grace,
Future states, as yet unfolded,
Birth the words, that claim and hold us.

Cold consumer, of the void:
Time, it strips our nous and voice,
Memories fail and slowly rust,
Our universe, it falls to dust.

Life, life, a fairy tale,
Whispered on the night,
Dreams are prone to fade away,
When silenced by the predawn light.

She lies in a tangle of blankets,
breathing in the scent of sadness.
The sounds of desperation within the dark
Leak pain into her soul.
Burdened by the years of standing tall,
crushed by the loneliness.
She believed the strength inside
Would carry her beyond the emptiness.
Yet into the darkness the light of her soul creeps,
Moving endlessly, recklessly.
Predawn light brings her no peace,
Feeling instead the fear of facing another day.
Sighs and cries and moans of despair
Leave her lost and broken.
Dreams abandoned, choices made, time past.
She feels the regret,
That familiar ache that brings the weight of anger.
And there she weeps for all she missed
and all that could have been.
As darkness makes its way once more
She smells the scent of sadness...

I stand at the very edge of tomorrow
looking back at yesterday.
Holding that moment clutched in my hand,
when night first turns to day.
I can see the sun, the moon, the stars
like jackstones at my feet.
While by the door, time just stands
tapping out a beat.
The universe yawns and stretches
across the vast, dark sea.
Knowing this long, lazy dawn
will last an eternity.
My eyes are drawn to the shuffling sound
of time as he moves on.
Always forward. Always forward.
Always, all alone.
Through the doorway lies the future.
Endless miles of narrow halls.
With windows of opportunity
lining every wall.
It’s here and now that really counts.
For nothing else is real.
The past is dead and ground to dust
under times never ceasing wheel.
The future is a waking dream
we act out every day.
Built on mist and held in place
by nothing more than faith.
Slowly, slowly I open my hand
to the purple, pink, predawn.
Knowing that everything before this moment
is forever gone.

I woke up to a morning hazy grey
And drew a shaken breath beneath your ghost-
It hangs, a husk, upon my bedroom wall
A shriveled flower, tinier than most.
It's tangled in a web of woven cords
That maybe I will see you in my dreams
And when I do, my consciousness recoils,
For love is not as gentle as it seems.
Last night I saw your sparkling eyes again,
And woke predawn with tears upon my cheeks
I hadn't even noticed they were there
Contented as I was to be asleep,
But when the dream was shattered so was I
And lying there alone among the dark
I heard the rain tap softly on the glass
And I struggled, quiet, not to fall apart.
And just as I was curled into a ball
To calm the ragged hole inside my chest
I caught a glimpse outside of shining streets
Where winter ground was by the summer blest.
I had thought you took rain with you when you left-
It hadn't fallen since you flew away
I thought you took the warmth, as well- bereft,
I'd gazed out on a thousand bleak white days,
But here outside my window was a gift
A burnished silver street spilled on the ground
And golden branches reaching from the trees
And fine white mist billowing all around.
I peered out from the safety of my bed
And saw the world transformed beyond the pane
Your footsteps have not graced this ground for months
And yet it had been silvered by the rain.
And for the barest moment I could breathe
Although you may have cast my love away
A peace descended, gauzy like a shroud
And silently I hoped that it could stay.
The plant beside my window sighed its blooms-
Jasmine blooms at night, I'm sure you know
And in the blackness white flowers festooned
The pillows and the sheets like lacy snow.
And in my questing fingers they were silk
In contrast to yours, brittle on the wall
They still smelled sweet and, suddenly compelled,
I forgot my tears and gathered up them all.
Their perfume sticky on my hands, I prayed
For the first time since the winter months began,
"Let me find my happiness somewhere,
Let me feel it to remind me that I can."
I prayed to thunder, lightning, and the storm
That rages in my bones, chaos and light
I prayed to the cold clarity of the rain
That trickles through my veins, blindingly bright.
Something heard me as I whispered there
The wind spoke back to me against the glass
And I reached out my hand to feel the cold
Of water, loneliness and ages past.
I always wanted to become a storm,
I've always cried much easier in dreams,
Admiring the freedom of the fall
As droplets pelt the sidewalk and it gleams.
This morning I slept peaceful, just the once,
That sweet low rhythmic murmur overhead,
And the ache of missing you was not severe
But neither, for the moment, was it dead.
Good morning, darling, I've forgiven you
Each day of silence gouged into the walls
And today I breathed my own forgiveness too
Beneath the falling rain's hypnotic drawl.