For D. M.

you are not Livia: detaining powers
inside your hips your breasts your maniacal hands
and for that matter not your womb—your fingers alone
drip with subtle poisons that hide under the smell
of my deadly garum. if you could you would take
the fish entrails and leave them on my grave
then have your own will read while drinking
unmixed wine. my will shall be read
as your son marches into Hispana, where
in a thousand years he will meet a Moore
lie with her and bear the name of a kingdom.
that kingdom will be I and my three dogs
tearing through the mountains until
we cross the ocean and i lie with another
darkened girl and we create stars and numbers
and eat potatoes that you cannot stomach
because—to you—they are poison, like the way
you poisoned my fathers had you been Livia
(which you are not).


keep your verses, Adeline:
i’ve got my chef’s knife in its sheet
and a blackleather case. it’s cushioned
by soft marbled velvet, the blade
(a symbiotic detainment of silver ocean waves)
nestles snugly. Adeline your
verses are sharp but my knife
of forged steel, a sixteendegree edge
and D-shaped handle to fit firmly
in my hand is sharper—i will draw
more juice from a tomato
than your verses will blood.

Pool Hall

above me she stands as
a broken bottle shimmers
in the darkness of a pool hall—
i told her once before that
no amount of breakage
can upset my follow through
and can prevent my finger
from pointing to the 8-ball,
telling her to hit it just above
the blackness. she said
she couldn’t hold on but i
wanted to edge up behind
her, put my hand on hers
as she shot. above her
i stood like the dim lamp
above our heads, swaying,
elongating our lanky shadows
on the whitewashed walls.
the grey specters float
toward the ceiling as i
curled my hand around
my cue, missing my shot
in so many ways.

Soda Pop Blues

a song—blues—key of G

let’s have another drink
let’s play a game of cards
for all the money we got
let’s have another drink
let’s play a game of cards
for all the money we got
i’ll flush you out, run a straight
i’m on fire, tonight is hot

let’s share a soda, honey
and rush right into everything
let’s share a soda, honey
and rush right into every little thing
i’ll see you in the morning
and i’ll throw away the can
‘cause we drank it clean

let’s drive out to Ypsilanti
and make friends with the preachers
and the chorus girls
let’s drive out to Ypsilanti
and make friends with the preachers
and the chorus girls
i’ll ride up on the preachers’ coattails
and you you can give a tug to the chorus girls’ curls

let’s share a soda, honey
and rush right into everything
let’s share a soda, honey
and rush right into every little thing
i’ll see you in the morning
and i’ll throw away the can
‘cause we drank it clean

give the boys a chance to run
i’ll give the girls a reason to shout
on these crowded streets
give the boys a chance to run
i’ll give the girls a reason to shout
on these crowded streets
we’ll show ‘em all who’s who in this town
keep ‘em all on their toes and knees

let’s share a soda, honey
and rush right into everything
let’s share a soda, honey
and rush right into every little thing
i’ll see you in the morning
and i’ll throw away the can
‘cause we drank it clean

let’s have another drink of this soda
we’ll lick the can clean


after Chekov dotted his last i
he told his sister with glee
the he finally wrote a play
where not a single gun went off.

when i heard this, i thought
that when i breathe my last me
will love not shoot these nounsandverbs
though a Muse’s ribs?

will not a single cannon
filled with black lust powder
sizzle and burn, crack and boom
with pontificating fucking?

will the taught bow string
of this poet’s pen shoot the bull’s eye
painted on the trunks of oak trees
by God’s hand?

and what of God? will He
be bleeding from my orator’s spear
that whistled through the air
up to hostile Heaven?

will my mother sit split
by her son’s incoherent blows
as solemn deepening adjectives
that raise her up?; knock her down?

will my darling niece fall asleep
to the sound of my clanking daggers
as i sing her praises
while she inhales and utters?

when Chekov beat the gun
he died;
when i lose my cannon
i sleep.

out of the dawn a train horn breaks

out of the dawn a train horn breaks

the hush in October, breaks

my sleep born of my lungs
burdened in the rib cage
bellowing from the crisp autumn wind—

the sunlight and leaves are one shade,
both scattered on my lawn,
ready for the ruddy feet of schoolchildren

whose hair jumps through the wind,
tangling in bare branches—their laughter
and the rustle of the leaves

more daunting than the Kol Nidre;
breaking me more than a requiem
looming through a hollowed cathedral.

the shattered flattened sound makes
this a temple—the children and the leaves
a choir garbed in rusted robes.

the smell of brittles, the sound of beaten sidewalks,
the cantor of a Godly season—
from what keeps the kindred kindred

more than the eating of death
by teared eyes?—blusters through,
shatters window panes

as a train whistle shatters

the Autumnal prayers

from winter’s slumber.

An Ambrose Child [a poem revisited]

an ambrose child is a thing
that harbors moons in his eyes
and quoth the Bible from his lips
in blindness and silence
holding his own lamb
above slaughtered sheep—
he understands convection
in his tired imperfections
that move from high-motion
to the simplification of his deadpanned
sincerity when he tells those about him
that only cretins think
with their loins and rather
he would think with his mother.

an ambrose child
is a thing
that beckons mothers to rock
him to sleep, singing the songs
that David sang to soothe
the savage Philistines so that he
may be soothed from his
and fathers to steal away
in the arms and sex
of the child bearing no more
for a jaded child disgusts them
as he shakes for what caused
his being—he shivers for the
deadly kiss from unpursed lips
to make another: he wishes
to make another, but the elixir
dried up in boisterous middle-age.

and ambrose
is a thing
that kisses sisters on the lips
to share a love that fades
into space with no room to grow
until the heavens grow too small
to hold the three of them
upon stormclouds where
their mother and father boom
through the blistering winds
to cease desires unbound by
holy kindred vow: those blindly
made for the sake of an embryo
and kept so that only those embarking
on their own plantations can see
just how cultivating is done

an ambrose
is a
that hangs upon the doorway
of a bedroom with
words scribbled over white-washed walls
and blankets are used to cover
blood stains on the floor

Black and White in Reason

ex Diana

there is only black and white with you and i
in our reasoning—no grey or color; only is
and is not. no in between. between us
there are only trees severed from their roots
by hatchets, bows and arrows, the salty
ocean waters the whittle away the bark
and peel these might sycamores from the earth.
the earth is only black and white—the colors
in the sky blend and blend until only existence
and absence catch our eyes. between us
nothing reflects deadness like a greyscale solar system
cruising over us and leaving specks of black
to kiss our faces like drizzle in the early summer
months. our mouths feed on egg whites
and licorice; on angel food and black beans
while the cylindrical pillars hold up the Big Dipper
while her son lags behind, pulling sailors
from sultry tidal waves. around the block
logic stiffens like a naked bough in winter,
from which icicles catch their drops
and trickle down into our parched mouths
craving only color and a mixture of black
and white, pale and dark underneath
the caverns headlong in utter blackness.
hyacinths are pale; bloodlined roses pulse
with darkness about them. the lights are off
but only the blinding glare of the midautumn sun
keeps us awake. there is only black and white
with you and i in our reasoning—no grey, no color,
no logic with which to carry ourselves:
wrong is white and right is black—grey
is up for discussion.

Electron Pulses

on the floor here’s a stand
for the 21st century:
a suicide, a night out and
a shot of whiskey

with electron pulses through
the bitter sting
and the chipped glass
pounding the table

as a wave pounds the shores;
like the dead-weight
ringing a bell
atop a briefly lit tower

it resonates through years,
penetrates through veins
spilt on the floor
and over under the crack of the door

this is autumn: this is
where winter gorges
upon our living vittles
to nurse itself

to full flourishing, to complete
quenched possibilities
that movie stars spoke of
years ago: before 21

was 20. the stars are our
cancer: the lump
in our throat
the tumor.

Talk About Compassion

i have to believe that the world is so pretty for you
to take a picture; to light a candle and mourn
for the amber light pulsing through your eyes,
under the Christmas lights and over the haze
above the Themes—death and moisture are so humid
when they cross the air, when they leave the skin upon
God's knees cracked. i wonder when the time will come
when you know nothing of time—only of inspection,
retrospection, intellectual makings and only things made
which matter so very little. the silver chair in which
you sit sings like a portrait does with thousands of words,
millions of atoms compressed into a poem that only we
—the keepers of metapoetics—can translate from slim volumes.
the dead lay their bodies down; the living leap up like feathers
caught in updrafts and thermals from the summer in the city:
it was our imagination that drove this home; that framed
this photograph and made it sing with greasy guitar strings
and two cracked voices—tenor and alto, boy and girl,
dead and alive. i carried you in my temporal womb
and waited for you to grow up, out, into.
i will not pluck from overwritten gardens; i will not sob
for overunrequited love; i will not rupture with wine and salt
to dry your lips, then use them to polish these poems.
i vow that someday your hands will grace my neck,
your hands will lie still yet moving on my chest and i
will keep my hands tied up with honor and vigor. what comes
from crisis leaks through adverbial relative clauses—it says
"goodnight" to long adjectives and irregular verbs. it all rolls down
grassy hills, past empty beer bottles through the stones
where our feet made little crunching noises. why o why
do i say such lovely things to you?: the one who let me sleep
without any such answer or dilemma? i make Athenian drama
when i lie awake mulling your words over like the smell of brandy
in the glass i swirl around in my crinkled hand. kings, queens,
jesters, and subjects lay down their arms, pick up their ears
to listen to the court's tantrums through decadent tongue lashes:
hear the one whose tired eyes seek answers; seek aliveness;
seek parallelism when reading anything but Dickens: Mr. E is
a mystery—Mr. C is not what i call Mr. Me. are you there God?
it's me: the fool who sailed over the English Channel on
a cafeteria tray. will she ever kiss the boy and breathe snowflakes?
will she ever mind the poems prancing through the airwaves?
will she mind when my eyes cross the street? not i nor anyone else
knows. what i know is that i must make the world so pretty
so that you can take a picture and i can write a poem while walking away.

Season One

like an October sunset maroon pools
under the breakfast table
when Father reaches for his morning coffee
and burns his hand
on the glass pot. Mother cut herself
when she sliced the ham
but Rover only laps up the blood to get
the taste of dry kibble
off of his tongue—even he things that this
is savage,
the same beast who brought a dead bird to the kitchen
and thought of nothing more than a pat on the head.

St. Mary's

i lie where the dead lie out like lepers.

when Sunday School is over i slip out
to the parking lot and enjoy the sun more
than Isaac loved watching that ram burn
up to a blackened crisp rather than himself
because his father only knew what he was told
he had to know. God was deadpanned but i
looked up and the sunlight shimmered through
my squinting eyes.

in confession i told Father Tom
that my grandfather needed healing—
he said he knew because Grampa ate
the Eucharist from his hand every Monday
and his bite was getting weaker. i was ten.
he used to open beer bottles with his teeth.

lying in bed while above me the Vijen gazed down
upon this frightened child, i only knew
the cross my mother made from the dried palm
that was pinned above my doorway
next to the smoke detecter. i only knew that
the vent beside them both blew hot air
and palms burn so easily—if anything was my death
it would be that palm, the perfect kindling
for hellfires.

St. Mary’s always smelled like smoke
from cigarettes and incense, from fire and ice.

i can only make empty claims that i
will lie on my deathbed and say i wish
never to lie where the dead lie out like lepers
because i saw the smoke, prayed for fire
and thought my Grampa was such a fool
to open beer bottles with his teeth—
i prayed that my father would buy a ram.

thy pleasures that unseal delight

thy pleasures that unseal delight
remain untampered in their ways.
the way thy fingers dost invite
thy lovers over to amaze
the kindred smoothness of a thigh—
that simple lovers keep as gold
and place as Christ on spirits high
(which God himself could never mold
again without the Muses aid
and burdens from the angels’ spite
for they are ones who He had made
to be the boys’ desire and plight).

Forecast for the Night

the autumn rain
pricking my face
soaking my feet
as i wander these streets
seeking only warmth
from autumn rain
between the ground
and the sky
i step into puddles
feel my feet
dampen, shiver
and feel droplets
roll down my arms,
onto the earth
under the sky
droplets treading the earth

SONNET: The Cemetary

if i am alive when i wake up
keep me in the cemetary so my goosebumps
arrate the lawns—let my body dry the land
as the salt from these wits dry my lips.

if a little girl shall find me, tell her i
want to be left there; tell her she can join me
but she must go home before dark
and tuck herself into bed—though she may
tuck me in and kiss my forehead before she leaves.

i made a bed out of leaves and a i rest my head
upon four pine branches, needles and all.

tell her that my breath is enough to keep me warm
and she should take one in, just so she
can feel it only once—never again.

In the Morning

a song—shoegaze—key of D

walking in summer
running in rain
kiss, kiss me lover,
leave me again
driving for hours
wait by the phone
falling from towers
to not be alone

in the morning, i'll be there
but will you want me?
i'm not sleeping—are you aware
of what i'm gonna be?

lying in autumn
under the tree
coffins in branches
blankets in leaves
i see your collection
of boys and of men
kiss, kiss me lover
leave me again

in the morning, i'll be there
but will you want me?
i'm not sleeping—are you aware
of what i'm gonna be?

sleeping in winter
waiting for rain
kiss, kiss me lover
leave me again

in the morning, i'll be there
but will you want me?
i'm not sleeping—are you aware
of what i'm gonna be?

HAIKU: Monosyllable

it takes a sting to
kiss you; to taint those lips and
turn your white to brown

The Fly

from the corner
of my eye
this fly
(tiny as i)
swooped across
the sky
like a hunting bird
diving from high
above my bed—
higher than the fly
actually lived
then died

Metapoetic 50

last night, dear _____, with nothing else to do,
i told you such poems through the airwaves,
and we said they would be nothing:
with my writing my untuned words and you listening
we cracked a joke and a bottle of wine.
i left you, lulled and thrilled
by your attention to beauty and your Venus, _____.
but my desire to cook did not phase me
nor did your wish to sleep make you weary.
but i lied still on my bed, completely exhausted,
wanting to see no light of the morning,
but only to keep you talking and questioning me to keep the stars up.
we, drained from the day, lie down without the other,
our eyes closing from kindred thought.
dear _____, i write this for you
so that you become my student and not my lover.
be mindful of your boldness, i pray
beware the prayers of your mother and father, shiny one,
unless Christ order penance upon you.
He is a cruel man: do not test him with your words.

Colours of Rain

a song—shoegaze—key of G

start to fall in love with pictures
dancing from afar
i saw you dancing with your sisters
i wonder where you are

take the bleeding rainbow
and wash it down the drain
in city streets where silver shows
the colours of the rain

red will make you smile
blue will make you scream
yellow is your shining sun
that bleeds the life right out of me
you lie with me in green
orange will make you sleep
violet moons are waining for you
look up and see

not a frame and not a canvas
could ever find the light
the brush is lightning, the water's thunder
the storm begins tonight
i feel the raindrop kisses searing
as acid on my skin
i start to tremble from the fearing—
the rain begins again

whites and blacks and grays, i miss them
curing so much pain
only with your eyes listen
to the colours of the rain

red will make you smile
blue will make you scream
yellow is your shining sun
that bleeds the life right out of me
you lie with me in green
orange will make you sleep
violet moons are waining for you
look up and see

i photographs i know you'll never
ever feel the same
i saw you painting with your palate
and colours of the rain
the rain
the rain

So Pretty

o it's so pretty
to say that our
love shall conquer
all—to reach
old o how pretty it is
to say

While Reading Hemingway

dried-up wine clings to the bottom
of two glasses upon my window sill;

the rain water pound the glass
and streak down below the stem;

the cup remains empty
but the smell is so full;

when the water hits the wooden frame.
the oak becomes darker than the wine;

the spatter of raindrops on the side
of the glass makes the outside full;

the dried spot at the bottom
is a wound against the grey sky;

each rain drop cauterize the cut
with a deep, spattering sear.

Words of Wisdom

[for Lizzie]
  1. Anyone who gives a child to the world in turn gives the world all of his or her sanity.
  2. Write with the mind of Eliot and the heart of Cummings. Love with the heart of Catullus and the mind of Ovid.
  3. He who has ceased to grow has ceased to be.
  4. The pursuit of happiness is happiness in and of itself.
  5. "The only thing you ever need to read to ever understand anything is The Bible, Dante, and Shakespeare." (E. B.)
  6. "You know you are in the presence of beauty when two things happen: You want to share it with others; and you want it to never die." (R. G. W.)
  7. One can never be all—One can only be One.
  8. If you're ever bored, try acting bored. You won't be bored for long.
  9. When you get to a certain age, you realize there is an end to it all. Never get to that age.
  10. Complexity is nothing more than simplicities piled on top of one another.


ex Elizabeta

this weather is dark and bitterly cold;
this weather keeps the poet on his toes.


you, my darling, are a Christmas card
that i send my nephews—i write to them
and tell them that Santa Claus brought me
snowfall and berry trees that line cobblestone.

* * *

behind the view (i write to the boys) stands
a hill much grander than that in your grandmother's
backyard: imagine tobogganing down this
in your plastic sleds;

remember to bring your mittens when we
take up our axes and pluck an evergreen
from the softened ground—remember to say
thank you to the bounteous land.

each houselamp a tiny candle on our tree
and every little one asleep in their glow
a gift, wrapped up in quilts and tied
with their mothers' goodnight kisses.

the icy river flows as our baptismal font:
i will brave the frigid sheets to take
a sip, cleansing my soul so that i
may do your wanton innocence justice in the eyes

of God (make sure to tell your mothers
that i said that); then the churchtowers
call to us in the night, drawing us to worship
as the Magi and the Star.

* * *

for them, their uncle waits and sips
his coffee, rolls his cigarette, and waits
with his mistresses's camera, waiting for
your imminence for the Nativity.


a song—shoegaze—key of Em

i breathe in tension, i breathe out wine
we drink it up with tired eyes
our slurs becoming an abhorred rhyme
the way the tongues is our demise

we strike up matches, we undermine
the ember's meaning to the blind
we smell of cloves and we smell of time
the scents that make our minds unwind

the moon's out, the boys shout
over the night
and the girls are lying alone
the daydreams, the moon beams
the appetite
elides the slumber in your bones

i see an empty parking lot
the night is cool, the starlight's hot
the grass is growing, the roads are not
where we were, we've since forgot

the moon's out, the boys shout
over the night
and the girls are lying alone
the daydreams, the moon beams
the appetite
elides the slumber in your bones

Elegiac 81

nothing but hate and a love undermine my delusion of lust's will:
sweetened obsession is still, waters must flow when distilled.


keep your burned-out lighthouses,
1959—i''l keep drifting through
the ocean. i'll sail across the sea
searching for my Ithaca before your
strung-out sirens sing their cacophonous
melodies. i'll dodge the Californian cyclopses
and the one who once fought
under my flag. i'll push aside the straight-fucking
from those bleeding goddesses;
fight temptations to find my own way home
without a beam burning with reefer.

Liquid Majesty

when upward my head turns
the plains form an iris
where the Muses look stern-like
in their bosoms. the way
the rays streak across the sky
makes the ripples in their eyes.
i purse my lips and pray that i
can drink the warmness
of this autumn day.

Take It As News

a song—folk—key of A

a dead man is a sight to be seen
when his body has been through the ocean
a gift from a TV screen
when he finally reaches his homeland
a time to cheer, a time to rise
and a time let his children know
that daddy's here, daddy's alive
but he's eaten up by the snow

take it as news, we take it as life.
then we turn off the light and we say goodnight

a woman welling with tears
is a sight for the tired and weary
when she's show spilling her fears
it makes the troubles we face less dreary
a time to drink, a time to think
that her son will grow up right
from his mommy's eyes, his mommy's wink
he knows that his future's bright

take it as news, we take it as life.
then we turn off the light and we say goodnight

when the car ride's over for us
we get out to stretch our legs for now
until we cramp in the omnibus
to sightsee in our town

take it as news, we take it as life.
then we turn off the light and we say goodnight

Les Quatre Nobles Vérités [Part IV]

IV. Dukkha Nirodha Gamini Patipada Magga



starlit echos tantalize the
eyes; the pupils dilate, they
open wide. the water drifts to
show the temp’rate kisses that we
scorn obtusely. deadly symbols
scare away our hands; they kill us
dead with beauty—blinding us
evermore with fleshy torches.


kisses always kisses; always
aimed at lips instead of hips and
bones. when minds align they cherish—
hearts denied remember only
hurt. but how does recollection
make intention? understand the
body, understand the mind and
think of double, not of single.



girls, rejoice! the boys are here—they
want to play! and said they’ll travel
arm in arm to pick the flowers
growing tall beside the river!
boys, rejoice! the girls said yes!—they
said that we could grab their hands to
follow them and kiss them by the
riverside! to pluck their flowers!


Annabelle came home one day to
find her husband naked. then he
said profusely are you my wife?
Annabelle conceded it; she
buttoned down her blouse and skirt. he
fell asleep but Annabelle got
up to make his dinner; salty
tears adorned the steaks she made him.


stirring coffee; looking out the
window; alive and well. statues
still parade the park where
girls and boys remember how to
play. remember when you used to
know to play? remember when you
had concern for games and for
making pawns from those in dresses?



it’s enough to put the bottle
down; enough to put the light from
cigarettes completely out but
not upon the skin of dear ones.
it’s enough to steal the bottle
‘way from angry hands; enough to
spray the flames with water while you
count how many times you’ve done it.


evermore remember what your
mother taught you—boys always
will be boys and girls should always
keep their hands outside their dresses.
evermore remember what your
father taught you—girls never
know to keep their hands out where you
want; remember to remind them.


take these verses; pick apart their
veins to find what makes them bleed. a
hint and recollection makes you
see the light before your eyes. now
take your thoughts and keep them picking
out what rivers when currents
flow about the land to quench the
throats of rightly tired women.


Les Quatre Nobles Vérités [Part III]

III. Dukkha Nirodha
light up;
light out—
here’s a way for us
to shake off
these feelings
amores juvenis

a light now;
a light when
we need them
to anoint us
to simply kiss us

to tell us that they
in fact—

Les Quatre Nobles Vérités [Part II]

II. Dukkha Samudaya

across the table, through the haze
a streetlight concerto bears the night,
holds the starlight steady
under which we (tired from the drunk)
leave our padlocks empty—
it’s been a long time.
the vodka flows and the wine engages us.

burning chicken smells ground us—
we are not in Eden any more, darling;
we are not surrounded by fertile hills
and ramped plains. instead,
we sit in a crowded bar and imagine what the other
would look like sprawled out on the floor;
i imagine you under my bedsheets,
in a slumber that only exhaustion and strain
can induce.

around the bend there’s a car horn
and once again we shake our heads.

are you alright?
i’m okay.
just okay?
could be better.

let me pour you another drink,
let me wet your lips and you can wet mine.
of course—who knows who leaps up—
every word hangs in the air
because i can’t drink them in
as i can drink this glass empty.

are you okay?
i could be better.
another drink?
could be better.

she brings another; my hands tremble
and my fingers curl around the glass.
it’s so cold but my hands give more moisture.
my words should only be so chilling.
when you brush your hair aside
my throat dries up. you tell me to speak
but i can only dream—what you would look like
without these lights on; how soft your body is
when i lay my bony frame upon it;
how when you finally fall asleep
i can finally fall asleep to.

the bar is loud.

are you okay?
i’m fine for now.

i could be better.

Les Quatre Nobles Vérités [Part I]

I. Dukkha

August heat and arial moisture
drives us to the river; to jump in
and drink its amber liquor—
it’s a calming haze and a cigarette after.
the foam shimmers, this sunlight deludes
in slick industrial passage;
the water’s cold.
nearby the bitter dry grass and shrubs
are ready to kindle; to feed the flames
birthed from the swelter we breathe—
the water reaches not so up to it.
above us only rollers paint the sky
not sponge dabs or brush strokes
but it’s utterly smooth:
i need to see roughness to know i can rattle
i need to see roughness to sooth it out with my hand.
up is endlessly slick—
here is jagged and brutal.

when we lie out naked
the vittles cling to us as we roll;
when we rise the desolates prick our feet
when we stand: out blood is all the moisture
these barren morsels shall drink today.

this strip of Earth is barren,
but the air surrounding us is so fertile
that even to feel it against our faces
makes our minds wander:
as a swarm of sweaty palms
the river currents rush over the riverbed
quenching the eroded rocks below,
and they smooth out like the skin on our backs
when tampered with. it’s all part of a vision
—sacred, perhaps, in that it
what the LORD commanded of us—
where we can swim with the gushing current
and we can feel the foam pop against
our torsos and our loins.
all this makes me thirsty,
all this makes me know that no rivers in this building
where we sit,
hoping for a slice of air to cool us,
and for, if anything at all,
a way to ease the burning on our skin
and on our flesh—
it’s too much to handle right now
without a glass of wine in my hand
and a bottle of champagne on my head.

this land is of dying, suffering,
we are of dying, suffering.

For Niki

a dead dog
on the side of the
below the blood-red
of a thirsty oak tree
with swirly veins—
blood in the trees,
on its leaves
(thanks to the dog)
flesh blood
on its roots

Non Virgo, Sed Puer

this girl, sitting on window sills alone, waits
for her lovers return from tempting all Fates
by defiling a body, branding woman's tresses
with his seed—and he causes true distresses
when protruding through broken golden fences.
still, the girl is unknowing—she's unmended
with his games and his taking chances. blindly
she caresses her belly, feeling wildly
for the kicking and beating heart. she does pray
that her son will become his father some day.

SONNET: Thunder

when thunder sings of desperation, we
decline its touting, booming message, we
unravel rain in clouds above us, we
await its repetition—finally
it cracks in undertow as tigers roar
in jungles brazed in tropic suns; where mist
and noises rise, while here the tempest falls
upon us. clocks along the walls are stuck
as ten:eleven; thunder knows no time;
it only knows its rhythms, meters, lines
that crouch beneath the jungle bushes; lines
that blend into the deepness, waiting; lines
that slice the jungle trees and break the sky:
as tigers' roars and thunder's desperate cry.

Dedication to my Elegiacs

in honore Catulli:
Anna mea est Lesbia tua—
sed scio solus quam Annam meam mihi esse.

Elegiac 92

Annie injects to me sweetly, but daggers impale my untuned ears.
writhing, i say this now: hate me she does when i love.
how do i know? there are similar notions i call to while aching—
chillingly speaking i cry: hate her i do when she loves.

Elegiac 83

Annie denies me with curses—she speaks no pleasantries of me;
but her unwise man comes, wantonly, when she she projects.
imbecile! can't you believe me as Annie remembers us poorly?
silence shall keep her self sane; shrieking and thrashing shall soothe.
we are remembered as she squirms, touching her matters of fuck lust—
angering Annie who burns, thinking of others while still.

Elegiac 86

Anne is so lovely to girls; to me, now she is long and erect, pure—
these (i confess) are all true—broken and torn, as they've seen;
these (i declare) i deny. wit shivers when left from her figure'
curves all elide from her form. lustless is she in her sex.
Estlin is pretty in forms more sickly than Anne's—they are full of
playful insistence and charm, stolen from the Muses and girls.

For Her

i am not the girl crying on the floor
after she felt the clasp of brutal fingers
digging into her bloodlined skin;

i am not a daughter curled up naked in bedsheets
hoping for her mother's touch to relieve the sting
of the one she just endured;

i am not a sister hoping that her brother
never finds out because he might go mad
like another man did that cold October night;

i am not the woman who felt the tainted rusted
lust to hold her thighs still with iron chains
lingering on his hot arid breath;

i am not the one bruised battered
and shivering, waiting for the next move
from a monstrous vicious brute;

i am the one who can let words come forth
like a ray of sun to heat
her chilled body;

to keep his hands from crowning her face
and body until she weeps something terrible
and makes good her promise to cry;

i am the one who can take her blood and her shame
and capture it in my verse
to spread to my brothers for our sisters.

Spun Metal

when the deadpan
comes i'll
sleep again

when her smile
cracks the
stone that
embeds her face i'll
raise my head

when her slick
sharp tongue
silences my
mean dispersions
i'll laugh

Tempus Fugit

today, so cruelly, slips from my fingers
like a sparrow from my hands
flying upward over the jaundiced maple trees
and it dissipates like white dandelion sprigs
through abandoned fields—
empty like my satchel of today's time