hours

hour by hour the day does not pass,
through its silence and its colors
the day goes on being its own eternity:
we, like statues shuffling around
upon different pedestals, pass through
the doorways, the curtains,
the alleys, the stations;
the day holds up a mirror
reflecting time, reflected in waves,
in drops, not going anywhere,
toward nowhere.

hour by hour the seconds count
the minutes, ticks tracking tocks,
clocks stacked haphazardly
flocking around differing strands
of moments, various bands of being
cling to moments in motion,
and the day does not pass,
the hours never die, they only
grow, they grow into the space
left vacant by a sigh, left dormant
within the eye of the beholder
of time's passing.

the back and forth

systole
i am alive with blood
diastole
i am bleeding to death
inhale
i am a bud on a branch
exhale
i am a falling leaf
eyes open
i am daydreaming
eyes closed
i relive nightmares
high tide
i am rising in fury
low tide
i am drowning in sorrow
full moon
i am bright and round
new moon
i am dark and empty
i am yin
i am yang

self-fish

forgive me if my eyes see
no more clearly than the waves
striking blindly at the stones that surround
the basin of the day,
that grieve over the scattered shells,
the rippled sand, the crying of the glass.

who am i that i return to the sea
with these eyes beholding
the monotonous song of a liquid sage,
a fluid dream sprouting salt in columns;
who is this who sees what the sea
sings in secrets?

what words does she hide from me,
why can i not find the answers
within my hands that try to caress
her lingering form that is never formed?
when will i learn to love,
to not love,
to live and not live--
to just look without seeing,
to just wash ashore and return
to oblivion, not understanding,
not needing understanding.
just silence,
only silence as the sea knows
silence.

sometimes i am tired of this charade,
this parade of thought processes.
i forgive myself this shell, this
selfish self-wish like a fish
dreaming of the open air.

beauty tv

the television
tried telling me
to envision
a newer
more beautiful
me
the me
that
can feel alive
again
with thicker hair
whiter teeth
smoother skin
better sleep
and an eternal
erection

i wish
i could
buy happiness
i wish
i could
purchase beauty
i wish
i could
pay for perfection
i wish
i could
splash that cash
i wish
i could
find it for free
i could
wish i
were perfect
could i
wish i
were beautiful
i could

i should
listen
to my son
who said to me
"do they
really think
they can
sell beauty?"

waxing

tonight there appeared:
antlers
in the sky,
a bull's horn
and a goddess
grinning.

the sky bled,
pierced
and cut open,
bleeding secrets
reflecting the sun,
promising newborn
fertility.

ode to cesaria evora

if melancholy
had a voice
it would
come
from an island
of volcanic
salt-ridden waves
cast adrift
like nets
floating
free of fish
and men

sadness departs
shedding scales
like notes
falling tenderly
rinsing broken hearts
with sands
of time
calling out to
the sea
forlorn
like the loneliest
lighthouse

blue has no hue
like mornas
a slow mourning
an aching honey
sunlit
dripping in long
drops stretched out
like an eternal morning
sailing
toward empty sunsets

*mornas is the popular music of cape verde, an island nation off the west coast of africa. cesaria is the most well known singer of mornas

night sounds

frogs make a chorus
chanting mantras
enchanting the mantel of night

owl speaks omens
asking who i am
tasked with hidden secrets of night

coyotes howl their approval
playing with cosmic jokes
praying to the blanketed night

what's it like being poor?

what's it like being poor?
ask your mother
who gave a lot
for little in return.
what's it like being poor?
try biting your lips
and chewing your nails
when the cupboard is bare.
what's it like being poor?
brush up on math
learn to subtract a lot
when the bills add up.
what's it like being poor?
take the yoga class
where you wait in line
to speak with someone who don't understand.
what's it like being poor?
become a collector
marvel over nickles and dimes
and cherish quarters like diamonds.
what's it like being poor?
ask your mother earth
the one who gives everything
for nothing in return.

Warships

Warships
Steel horses whipped
Across the sea,
Cutting through our maternal
Liquid
Blue and green blood;
Red blood spills
Where blue blood fills
Cash-laden coffers
Lined with coffins of poor folk

Warships
Ship sons off to war
As mothers wave white hankies
Waving to Yemaya
Pantomiming a ritual glory
Grieving with joy:
My boy is a man
Wearing women’s blue jeans

Warships
Storeships of silence
Spreading death upon the land
Like sprinkling salt
From the sea,
Striking from a distance
Leaving people in silence,
Dead:
Living tissue and bone and hair
A plotted coordinate on a map
Planning an attack on the earth
From the safety of the sea

Warships
Worshipped like
Sacred whores once were
Conferred with mystic power
Teaching men about flowering
Service;
Warships are women
Teeming with seamen
Flinging phalluses with fire
Scorching your mother’s pussy

I’m a warship,
Watch as I slip
Across the sea,
See me from beneath
I look like a pussy,
A slit
Backlit by the sky.
Warships are like razor blade lips
Cutting through swollen ocean tits
Sailing on a heading
Full steam ahead.
I’m a warship,
A metal goddess
Worshipped by seamen,
A whore stripped of my sacred.
My sacrament is fire,
A funeral pyre.
I am driven by the passions of men
Who hunt the globe
And return to their women
Waving their empty hands
(They left their kill behind),
Hands over hearts
Saluting a flag soaked in
Salt
Blood
And semen

solitude

"religion is for those afraid to go to hell.
spirituality is for those who've been there."
--unknown

scarcely can one recognize solitude
because when it arrives, at barren midnight,
with its caravan of mirrors and
echoing halls,
solitude reveals its hidden dimension,
its multitude.

count yourself alone, count your
self as one, but continue to count
as the numbers of solitude mount.
there exists a host of names,
a range of faces, pantheons,
ghosts and phantoms, these angels
and demons,
and those ancient whispers.

solitude is a multitude.

the business of hell is personal:
the personality of hell is business:
the company of one's self
and the workforce of the soul.
perhaps it is better
to bury oneself in work, in love
or in play, to consume all manner of things,
literature and entertainment,
or to be consumed by it.
some find it better to run,
running programs, courses,
running in circles or running
their endless, nonsensical mouth,
others run to church,
on their knees,
running.

if you're like me, godless and
averse to churches like the plague,
you welcome hell like healing herbs,
as a sacred sacrament to cure
the illness of our cultural solitude.
the best bread is baked
in the oven of hell:
the best way to confront solitude
is to befriend its shadow multitude.