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).

Santoku

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

Chekov

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

savageries;

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

child

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

nowadays.

an ambrose

child

is a

thing

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

moving

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

(squish)

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.

Vivamus.

COUPLET

ex Elizabeta

this weather is dark and bitterly cold;

this weather keeps the poet on his toes.

Reykjavik

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.

[source]

Appetite

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.

Lighthouse

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

Prajñā

ONE

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.

TWO

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.

Sīla

THREE

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!

FOUR

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.

FIVE

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?

Samādhi

SIX

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.

SEVEN

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.

EIGHT

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.

Nibbana

Les Quatre Nobles Vérités [Part III]

III. Dukkha Nirodha

light up;

light out—

here’s a way for us

to shake off

these feelings

desires

these

in

fa

tu

a

tions

these

amores juvenis

a light now;

a light when

we need them

to anoint us

to simply kiss us

to tell us that they

are—

in fact—

there.

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,
side-by-side
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

road,

below the blood-red

leaves

of a thirsty oak tree

with swirly veins—

blood in the trees,

on its leaves

and

(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

temptress

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