before it falls i dilate
with electric scent, spine-hairs
string her possibilities as kites
to tug my summon ground--
lilt, wave and spiral
distant mischief to a head.
i rumble on the vista, far, and,
on occasion of a social clearing hum,
chance aloneness on a hill
to watch the herald lake and trees, nets
secure themselves as emblems to my storied lust.
apsara, i
breathe you in in strokes
submit unconscious rhythm of imaginal delights
made real to last beyond experience of time
descended of the clouds
sea rich, heavy, sultry
you unroll an atmospheric fate:
my lust to span the sky, irrupt an earthen,
orgiastic zenith of all things--burst fantastic quell
in pale continuum your pedestal allays

floating hair as long as frantic overcast
horizon length
and indistinct of rain..
green, blue continents of eyes, mists
suspend ecstatic sway
in areolae breeze,
my hands the brimming cups
to gather, spill
bright ****** drops
into the signal essence rising,
center rhythm of a liquid bounce
that shines in belly-button crescent moon--
each gust a lapping of the sky-clad ache of moonlit summer leaves,
another sudden adolescence lost and gained--
falls on me, dripping
legs to wrap and draw in
every ***** blade of grass--
saturate the lingam i am living in--
enveloped in vaginal dance of pressure
pulling on the earth i am
an arching back
and skyward ******

begun before a time historians belie
wind genie, yoni,
full of all i ever willed..
how rare appearance has to be,
knowing you unique
to whimsically revise
your lightning shape akin
exotic form to fit my changing own
and yet you don't exist, my eyebrow says
between horizon-cracks
and patter of the gale--
bolts to spread dark syrup
through my veins..
i am intent on having you
to let you have me as your first and last
--being young
i am intent on twining my virginity to you,
to pierce my own hymenal dome--
slick with yearning, thundering
in moan across the hills and puddled tennis courts
undulating to my concord whim
your rivuletted ***** of the gods, goddesses --gulped between inhaling--
eyes that roll pineal
genesis denuded of a crime, apparel
gone insane delight
of endless tempest ***--
the purge cascades a vacuum in each vessel..
limp on writhing grass
euphoric in a space of never having been

what soul i have
her visitation marked--
with gridless memories unfaded by the games a decade
striates on the mind. i made
her more than what my way would make of her
and less for what my symbols lose;
i call her muse,
and forfeit right to call her anything again.
i am the burning key and lock
our chastity attained and lost
in vaporous blurring of all stars
rewinking in the gossamer above






.

The world sits before fingertips
like piano keys yearning in stillness.
I become nervous
and flood the possibilities with sinking ships.

Thats what childhood gave us lost ones.
the ability to understand probability,
realistic expectation,
no fairytale miracle to rescue our slipping love.

We may be sarcastically prepared
but where does that leave room for hope?
There is no hope in the live broadcast of bodies falling from towers
nor in the closets full of kids hiding from loving fists.

After all, those who lost innocence too soon
need a reason for the soul
more than the noble lie of love.

Some try to replace their love with circles.
The heartbroken soil of earth,
littered with mathematicians and linguists,
is now veiled between narrow strips of light,
revealing each unconscious glove,
fact checking their painting upon bright,
calming their hubris with symbols,
excluding truth in dark night.

Those with wandering toes
try to ascend to the sky,
twist toward the ceiling of branches,
attempt to swallow books of romance,
then settle into tree roots,
only to find their bones
broken by different forms of fate.
Crying out with constrained lungs,
their heavy thoughts
often coat lonely lullabies of our comfort.

I wander in and out of the striates,
brushing fact and wanderlust
with fingerprints of lonely curiosity,
pressing reflection upon papyrus.
Occasionally seduced by poetic freedom,
my hands make an attempt
to climb the bark of lost songs.
Yet, I always fall from the ascent
upon the same destination,
our graveyard.

Refusing to accept your silent departure,
I watch a young boy scream delusion
at our crumbling faces.
I place coveted trinkets
of blue bonnets and snow white sand,
simple moments of easy sacrifice,
at the feet of your flaming alter.

Our inky history swims into my nose
as I press the pages to thirsty pores,
smelling the scent of what was.
The ode to flaw reeks with rot.
So, I remove the last page
before my burnt hands
reverently let the others fall into the fire.

I stuff the last page into my throat,
letting the black liquid and white paper
become a part of my changing nature.

I find hope in this power,
The simultaneity of creation and destruction.
It soothes my tidal doubts with encouragement.
The piano player must love the ancient poetry
destroyed in the birth of each new ballad.

To live a life in perspective
I’m told you need to define a horizon
line eye level to the viewer.

From my hill of years the view is fluid
as in watery, but also as in unpredictable.

On the sea’s face a wall of fog moves in
and out like histories remembered
and forgotten.

Sometimes silver striates the sea
with such a glitter of insight
I am bedazzled and cannot look.

Sometimes fogbank and ocean merge
with such blue-gray unity it seems
the horizon rises so that I stand on
the shore, dwarfed by a surf of knowledge
that pounds at my ignorance.

Sometimes the sea becomes invisible,
the white air a questioning emptiness,
a finger-touch of damp against the cheek.

Sawtooth skeins
of water candombe in
achroma, winds at
two-five, the water that
hits the roof el contestador
and the water that hits the water
la tumba. The procession leaves limpid
stipples on ***** plex and
renders finches pointilistic;
the peeling periwinkle deckwood
has the dewey quality
of a runway model,
glossed with the bay's blue sploshing.
Beyond this, deeper in the gray:
mountain striates
in harsh gradient,
spring to myrtle to a blueish-reseda,
redwood peak nodes
anchors for erratic heartlines.
The drumbeat pulses these lines
at their mist-vaguened edges
and moves all.
It's a flash, fifteen minutes of
California rain.