And Then, There Was You...

I swallow what feels like

A sweetened memory of the sun.

At sunrise, I rise

With hope; beauty breathes

Into the dark spots,

The space between the trees

Where the bark has given up:

Fallen; pieces of desire; all this...

Having lost it’s way.

And then, there was you.

He Reigns Over Me

The poem is not over. Read to me. It’s as if I’ve waited my whole life for these moments. Tell me the title, again. Who was the poet? What was the year? That seems so long ago. We were once long ago.

Intersection

Are you being held hostage by your inner geography? Have you grown comfortable in this? Have your placid streams ignored the kisses from the sun and moon? You...wild at heart, retract, and lose time from tracing the same creases on the map...

Away

Words seek out

in the parody,

and look for clues

in the backdrop

of the repetition

this day, the day,

this departure…

Hot skies hum

vibrate to gray,

dotting brush-

strokes, opaque

glass windows,

your face, gone,

trains of kisses, for

another day.

You

I never want to forget. I chose not to let go...

* * *

My stomach has burned itself into a state of numbness. Self-diagnosis: hopeful nervousness, and I no of cure, except for the chalky fizz of Alka Seltzer I’ve recently acquired. I find this swirly and sandy magical mess to ease the clenched fists of anticipation throwing right hooks inside my stomach. The hissing fizz takes me back to a former self, my youth, when I lived closer to the ocean, when salt and fog lived within my hair, and how, when life and love managed to spread out before me like the shoreline, making the horizon touchable.

Field Notes on Silence

For L

It’s the temperance of our silence,

ghostly attempts fall into the hollow

when the heart pauses, needs to define,

and desire curls itself up, still

believing it’s the vessel, if it only had a voice.

We slowly morph into faceless dreams,

arch-starved darkness; it’s there

we feed the wildest of our beasts,

and lie with them in quiet

Asylums, sheltered from rays of wind and light.

Timing

Keats reminded us, the most important arguments we'll ever have is with ourselves. Okay, that might be true, and if writing is one the greatest forms of intimacy, then we must step outside ourselves and fearlessly love. There's nothing of greater importance we need to wait for.