distant ships sailing through the
pink crests of brain matter  
brimming with cargo; the unit
of knowledge burrowed in flesh
unable to feel pain, passing the
sensation on skulled flags—beware,
remember, know that these things
can haunt you.

(know that these things may one
day heal you)

this is who you are now: yellow,
sunflowers wreathed in knotted strands
of wheat-colored hair, pill bottles
half-full, hands like rotting fly traps
curled in supplication on a
Thursday morning when the pain is
too much to bear alone.

this is who you will always be: a series
of binary sparks, a long silvery tunnel,
streetcars laden with passengers
weaned on anger & fear & love--
a construction site.

you are a work in progress.

Holy Spirits
flow freely
like the Mississippi
down the border
of Mississippi.
The girls with
the purple party beads
and the sax buskers
on the brown streetcars
drink through their
Mardi Gras,
down streetcars named Desire.

Holy Spirits
flow freely
like the slow jams
from the Apollo
during Locke's Renaissance.
The young gangsters
down every block
drop their
fists sticks knives guns
and shake to albee.

Holy Spirits
move through
vast cathedrals
and through
empty pews.
The zealous hearts
and the corrupt voices
all drink
and listen
to the voice
of the serpent.

Why did he promise me
that we would build ourselves
an ark all by ourselves
out in back of the house
on New York Avenue
in Union City New Jersey
to the singing of the streetcars
after the story
of Noah whom nobody
believed about the waters
that would rise over everything
when I told my father
I wanted us to build
an ark of our own there
in the back yard under
the kitchen could we do that
he told me that we could
I want to I said and will we
he promised me that we would
why did he promise that
I wanted us to start then
nobody will believe us
I said that we are building
an ark because the rains
are coming and that was true
nobody ever believed
we would build an ark there
nobody would believe
that the waters were coming

her hands: blooming. sugar, hot
and humming. those wrists, sweet,
no longer sticky. yet stubborn,
reigning the laughter of two years ago.

her lips: fruit. ripe, or rotten, you
no longer remember. still, they remind you.
sin is where your body overruns your soul.
let nature trespass you once in a while.

all she wanted, to be left alone
with sky and sea. something you,
not even you, could give her. life
began to leak away in her voice,

“if the world does not stop, darling,
i just might.” and you could taste
the blood in her sigh, all those
leftovers from two years ago.

her body: gardens. the former home
of such a lovely pulse. you liked to visit
her a lot. she was once a prison of colour
in your foggy seaside town.

but the air that day: salty. streetcars unfolded
in faces you did not know. you felt the world in
past tense. “it is not only the city you have left
behind.” and your message did not reach her.

I'm a few feet
under the city,
in the cemetery
of the streetcars.
Images celebrating
Stonewall convex
from projectors onto
chilled chamber
of gypsum cement.

I'm here for yoga,
an absolute beginner
with my purple mat,
taking off my shoes
and feeling the rough
floor where the
streetcars were
severed from their
electric milk.
The hour of my
longest spine
is saturated, voices
fed only to me.
My hands slip...
My bones are
symphony.

When the hour's done
I have a new face of salt.
I fold my street of
discovery and shake
the stairs. I climb out
to supermassive clouds,
I feel my shape move,
I'm grateful for you.

Jazz music and drunken slurs,
Passing streetcars turn to blurs,
Bite off more than you can chew,
Seafood gumbo, thick brown roux,
On shoulders sit sons and daughters,
Ferry ships, Mississippi waters,
Dancers dressed like voodoo queens,
Clad in purples, golds, and greens,
Yell, "Throw me something mister!"
Flying beads barely missed her,
Pralines, king cakes, and beignets,
Maid of Muses smiles and waves,
Rex, Zulu, Endymion,
From Decatur to Bourbon,
Floats, masks, a feather boa,
Sweet iced tea, jambalaya,
Big Easy on Fat Tuesday,
Lent is just a day away.

We wore our shoplifted morals
  on our very backs.
Shirts stained in lust and
  revelation plain.
Lost in odes to obscenity
and ****** light in boxcars
  to Ocean.

Fake wisdom chainsmoked
and chained up pressed
  to the radiator, burned.
Seventeen looked twentytwo
  and felt about a hundred
But danced like we were
young again in the ethereal
  glory of the night.
But the nights turned to
minutia as we packed
Luggage filled with memories
on an outbound train to
Adulthood and Adolescence
was left waiting for you
  by the tracks.

Trains trains trains
life and love gone flying
by at a mile a second
and the seconds are precious
and the miles are precious
and all the precious miles
and minutes still fly fly fly
speeding on train tracks
and we wave as friends become
blurred faces waving back
from portholes zipping
in opposite directions
and we becomes I and you
and I don’t quite know you anymore.


And this used to be beautiful:
  Writing gibberish on
our arms and legs
when we ran out of paper
sleepless nights pouring
forth beautiful poetry
and utter catastrophe
twinkle-eyed laughing .
  Driving streetcars through
Los Angeles to go get high
at the top of the world
and peal out when
the coyotes crash the party.
  Summernight shamblings
and skinny dipping
and kissing caressing
ashamed of nothing.
  Learning that peace
is only a word
until love breathes
life into its
lungs and that we could
breathe with each other
and breathe in each other

But our kindred fire
flickered and roared
only to flicker again.
sunken embers haunting
fingertips reaching,
but too far now to
ever touch again.
Charred and depleted,
flying in the tumult
of cyclone wind,
Memories stripped bare
and standing blasted by
the sands of time until
smooth and unrecognizable
they fade from our minds
Ashen shadows of smoke
from locomotive top-hats
chugging endlessly onward
to opposite stations.

                                                 10 October 201o

Bridges,

trains,
balloons, ships,
sails, colored glass, snow on the beach,
frozen water, words, language, music, subways,
typewriters, books, photographs,
swing sets, ink,
dust motes,

sunshine,
rain, snowflakes,
tunnels, streetcars, imagination,
memories, silence, sound, shadow puppets, candles,
flames, wax, communities,
comfortable situations, spiral staircases,
camaraderie,

old phones,
wire connections, written letters,
traveling, discovery, robots,
plants, flowers, clouds, grass, breeze,
shadows, running water, warm blankets,
bicycles, seasons,
change,

sunsets,
sunrises, the horizon,
mirrors, time, living without time,
living within space, living, breathing, seeing, hearing,
touching, tasting, smelling,
being reminded of something vague by a scent, poetry,
Kerouacian conversations,

abstractness,
friendship, love,
thoughts, beliefs, emotion,
movement, ages,
beginnings,

endings.

What difference does it make
die wth regrets or
pride
    instead
I choose
the former
     I poisoned the ground
painted the walls offun colors
and broke bottles in streetcars
checking your bank account .  
    you're so far away
From your own
              Too risky you say
I'll smash my own body acadian
        pavements
at one hundred percent increase
   It doesn't matter

Momentary Love, sweet as time on hold
My desires are in your form
In these days inconsistent and always constant

My need for sublimity, for your understanding
False reflection of me in your eyes
Who are you indeed, white or black soul, or gray

Be mine for a while, three minutes and thirty four seconds
Or maybe quarter until the full hour
Lover and friend and everything that do not exist
In the moment of regret for undone possibilities

Pathos or honesty in the cradle
Streetcars and lights, concrete mass and human faces
Where did you lost yourself, heavenly touch, with blue wings
For whom did you cry and which one you loved

Only one touch in the night, no high emotions
Fragile and strong at once, so go away now
You will disappear as all did before, somewhere in unreal
Through semaphore lights on crossroads

I worship the line of your neck and your eyelashes
Your words are glass half full of solace
Bath me with your gaze and with one tear
My lover and friend, spirit in the night

Paris, France,
streetcars, alley-ways
and tight corners
and perfectly trimmed
trees lining sidewalks
with cafe scent
and coffee taste rising up
to keep in pace
with the lights of the Louvre.

I had desire to ride
the streetcars of my youth
I ran from the wild mustangs
in the box canyons of my mind
The muddy waters of the river
made me sick in mind and body
As the infestation of black crickets
covered the streets of night and time

When I rode west I was chasing the past
that I have yet to catchup to
I fell from the peaks of my mountains
only to be evicted from the valleys below
Dwelt in punishment in the balcony
of my ways
As the lashes left nothing more than
mental anguish buried in the ashes of sin

I found no blood in the peach orchards
nor any breath in the fields of water melons
I was made thirst in the shallow oasises
of my eyes
left to desicate fulfilling such promises
as , "Ashes to Ashes , Dust to Dust ."
With nothing inbetween

so it was once
when you did each explore
in the crevices burned deep beneath
the blacksmith's pitcher,
and of kindling an unfamiliar taste
left to ravish haste
into statue-like disposition.

sometimes your fingers sting,
for it is you against dark
and cold does whistle
when your lips cannot part,
for they are chapped--
once ridden by an ancient kiss

where you once viewed the metropolitan
shadows against michigan's waters
though you were nestled
against sage weeping quilts,
resting at the sky
whom bids you no more

with stars the fury so soft
you smile,
because there is nothing else
worthy to do.

you'd like to think she does
the same; counting her toes
when they pad on linoleum ground,

and her being able to hear
against the streetcars rumbling below.

The sheets are melting.
They hung outside,
Clinging to anything they could,
Rooftops, signposts, streetcars.

They cry tears of life,
Nourishing dirt patches,
Where the flowerbeds will go.

The sun shines early now,
Allowing the moon to rest.
Stars no longer linger in the morning sky.

Buds wake up,
You can catch a glimpse of them,
Pregnant branches on trees.

The grass plays peek-a-boo
With pillows of snow.

Its time for revival.

If the universe was told how sacred promises were
Would the world comply?

The truth shown though the people,the streetcars, the buildings and homes

Nature itself would refuse its mask                                                
and the rain forever falling for the grief it once hid
as it wishes to send us all away

The world, an everlasting misery of the purest honesty
Piety and Mercy
Benevolent gifts
becoming more and more
a survival necessity

Could living in a truthful darkness
be more powerful than existing
amongst a vibrant lie?

Lord, who created heaven and earth,
who made mankind in His image,
and gave us the mustard seed of wisdom.
And we took your message of
deliverance and built a world
opposite to the Word.
We prayed, attended Mass,
and than drifted back to our
guns and our bitterness,
to our vows of revenge and
hatred. Sonic soldiers prancing
in the streetcars of our souls.
We distributed our beliefs
to every savage group we met,
yet we failed to distribute our
beliefs to our society.
Lord, we attend our parishes
and pray with our priests, we
receive your Body and Blood,
and we hear your Scriptures
spoken to our ears. Than we
leave your Church and journey
home, using our foul language
as a definition point. We watch our
films of *** and death, violence
and dis-association. Read our books
of surveys and opinions contrary
to the mustard seed of faith. We
justify our disobedience with talk
of our intelligence, for oh we are
so wonderful! People starve on our
streets of plenty but we blame them
and carry on our lives content behind
our walls of smoked glass.
Lord, we join you in your
Eucharist, but we do not join you in
our hearts. Lord, we ****** babies
and we celebrate our freedom with
dancing in our minds. From trend to
trend we travel, from position to
position do we waver.Strong voices raised
in opposition to censorship for we
will have our freedom, yes we will!
We marry and than fall apart, and leave
our children divided in soul and spirit.
We seek *** from every stranger
and justify devotion to slime with
cries of representation.In our cities of
concrete and steel we live, proud of
our history, proud of our way.Proud
that we are able to define ourselves as
people of God, yet people who will
not let you, Lord, have your say
in our lives. For that is the ticket,
that is the pattern, for one hour we will
mouth pious phrases and 'with your spirit's',
but we will not take that hour home with us.
Lord, you created heaven and earth,
and all the creatures around us. And we thank
you Lord, for this world, but please don't
require us to make a commitment to
your mustard seed of wisdom.

last night was warm
apartments were crowded and streetcars were crowded and the bar was crowded and hearts were crowded, beating, full

but tonight is cold
and the blinds are closed in the apartments all the lights switched off
and the streetcar was empty at 8 am, 9 am, 11 pm, tomorrow
and a drink was ordered but left untouched so the waitress cleared it off the table before heading home for the evening
and beating hearts took a beating, empty

the lights were off by the time i got there but i knew the people inside and they loved living there with blankets and a heating bill but now the door is locked and the temperature is dropping

i didn't ride the streetcar because the token fell out of the hole in my pocket but i knew the commuters were content with their backs against the red plastic and the stop was requested too soon and now they have to walk and it's below freezing

and i didn't make it to the bar that night but i know they laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed but now the beer is warm and the waitress is cold and she claims it's last call so i guess they're leaving

tonight is cold and i won't deny that
and i know i don't have a key or a pint and i still need to fix that hole in my pocket
but take my gloves and my coat and i'll keep you warm this winter as much as i possibly can

As I came up the stairs,
I clung to the railings
hauling myself
to take another step.

like a cold plunge,
the city's air embraced my face
welcoming every ****** hair
with an unspoken cheer.

following my awakening,
the voice of the city
echoed like victory chants
in the halls of my head
through streetcars, motor vehicles
and the walking pedestrian.

And like a livewire,
I surged with life
feeling as though
part of something vast.

i.
The sky grinds
under my heel
& scatters.

When the pool
stills, there's only
your face.

ii.
Below
larch branch,
below
cloud mark -
your words
echo
in my
blue thought.

iii.
Centuries ago
I wrote to you
"je suys vostre
sans de partier."

iv.
Sleep falls
to the floor,
its strings cut
by your hand
running over
my face.

v.
We move
shadow to
shadow in
this maze
of sun.

vi.
We hold hands
as night folds
& folds. Your
hand is soft
as song.

vii.
We make
love under
a coil, a
swan's moon,
a sea disc.

viii.
Autumn
in Paris,
streets paved
orange and red,
& my eyes saying
"want you."

ix.
You know what
champagne does
to me, but you
pour it anyway.

x.
"She was hiding
in lemon leaves
& apple blossoms."
-Abdul Wahab Al-Bayati,
Love Under The Rain, IX

xi.
The rain
in Dublin
makes me
think of
your wet hair
shining in
the doorway.

xii.
I get up early
to start the coffee.
You wake to
the sound of
water boiling.
When I appear
I bring morning
on my lips.

xiii.
Please draw
while I watch
in awe.
Please draw
as ice thaws
in my scotch.
Please draw
while I watch.

xiv.
I'll remove
the paper

butterflies
from your

ears as
you fall

asleep on
the couch,

little dove
in her nest.

xv.
I poach two eggs
for your breakfast,
with quince
& pear. The sun
journeys to us
from yesterday.
The cat's in the
window and
coffee steeps.
Perhaps this
is what lives
are made of.

xvi.
The image
of the nape
of your neck
as you watch
a movie late
on a cold night
full of snow thick
as dough, licked
with wind -
it's irresistible.

xvii.
We're in the
Rothko room at
the National Gallery,
translating white
square, blue band,
yellow over yellow,
black into black.
We move a little
closer together
as the canvases
mirror our
yearning.

xviii.
I read about
old Sumerian
gods, like
Inanna.
She could
never survive
in a world
where you
walk the earth.

xix.
Doing yoga in a
cement chamber
under the city,
muscles shaking.
Grateful for you
amid the ghosts
of streetcars.

**.
We bury time
in a plastic
sarcophagus
right in the
front yard,
casual as
a yam.

xxi.
Ulysses
and you,
the cork
and bottle.

"And then he asked
me would I yes."

xxii.
The smoke
cures the
whiskey.

The whiskey
spills
like tide.

The tongue's
tide seeks
your ear.

The ear
hunts
your thought.

The thought
wafts
like smoke.

xxiii.
Blood peel,
ginger
cumulus,
pink air
like chiffon,
a gloaming
song.

xxiv.
Swans mate
for life.
This wait
is a knife.
Dull rain
over K.
In my veins,
your sleighs.

xxv.
Silver thread
knotted cloud -
the moon's
broadcasting
through the
cindered air.
Your raw sienna
eye captures mine,
& in one moment
the entire night
is abandoned
to your arms.

xxvi.
The twilight
is imperial,
spreading
over that
moment
between
our past
& our future.

xxvii.
I still see you,
brush in hand,
red curving.
You seduced
with every line.

xxviii.
You breathe
life into my
world: the
field of wild
mint, the owls
in the cemetery,
the silver slash
of streetlamp,
the cream Impala.
Everything I see
is filled with us.

xxix.
You're the beat
within my chest.
I feel complete,
you're the beat
throbbing sweet
& I'm blessed -
you're the beat
within my chest.

inspired by Enid Dame and her poem Lilith

i walk the streets that you used to walk when you were young.
they’re still filled with the ear-splitting traffic of streetcars and taxis,
and the heavy footstep of man
as he trudges along in the gray sludge of old February ice.

i spy on him sometimes, mama.
i watch him slouch against the ice fire breath of the winds
huffing down his neck.
i peek around the lamp-post and watch him shuffle against the dreary gale
that blows him backwards for every step he takes,
just like how he was blown from Eden.
i saw him mama.
the man who threw you out.
the man who abandoned you.
i watch him walk every day,
he seems lost.

it’s cold here mama.
this place is nothing like the paradise you described to me.
you told me that you lived in heaven
and that you were loved,
just as much as you said you loved me.

oh mama, why did we come here?
it rains all the time.
i cried so much in the
apartment you managed to find
on the corner between that deli shop
and the pharmacy owned by a
man who never stopped smoking.
you held me close and said,
“shh baby, it’s alright.
we’ll get through this together.”

the day you died,
i cried like I did when I was in that apartment,
only this time,
there was no one to hold me close
and whisper in my ear.
mama, Lilith,
you’re gone.
history has never remembered you.
you’ve been erased
by the broad sweep of mankind’s hate.
they don’t want to remember you.
but I do,

i do.

i whisper your name to the trees on fifth street
and look at the stars on faded concrete steps at night,
trying to find you among the
constellations
of the history you should have been
a part of.

Let’s dance together tonight and feel
the powerful sparks erupt inside our hearts,
move from side to side, grinding, rewinding,
inviting, never mind the blinking traffic lights
outside and streetcars passing by, I just wanna
be here with you, holding each other, embracing
the heavenly beat filling the groovy room.

Let our desires brainwash each other’s thoughts,
watch the love connection grow and glow
as our souls intertwine in astonishing alignment,
the softness of your flesh, chest, and head
such a blessing, sexing me in my fantasies,
our eyes staring so deeply at each other,
lost in the moment, resting my face next
to yours, together again, encased in this joyfulness.

the pleasure is in seeing it as it is,
nothing too magnified to believe otherwise,
all of my life knotted into ties of normalcy,
and sometimes muddled mistakes.
it's often not as complicated as they'd think -
just a morning coffee with hot chocolate and
your hands around my torso at 7:15AM,
maybe, the sound of streetcars and yelling preachers,
often the typing of my keyboard writing poems at work.
i think it's easy to make life complicated,
glaring at the tripping of stairs, miscommunication,
the way the barista moved in slow motion.
somewhere between mistaking salt for sugar,
we forget that cortisol is the quickest death -
every time we choose anger we choose our own demise,
the pleasure is in seeing it as it is,
a pleasant mess, with a sense of humor.