questions

who
what
where
when
why
and how:
so many questions
with infinite answers.

they soak up the world
with brown eyes
curiously searching,
seeking sense
in a world of sensation.

with eager ears
they take in what’s told,
repeating with rapt
attention, making connections
with constant questions.

spring is eternal
in the heart of children,
growing and reaching,
clamoring for potential,
rising toward the sun,
raising their youthful banner.

it’s a mystery to be unlocked,
everything is a puzzle
riddled with possibilities,
life goes on living
and they lead the way, unafraid.

solid fire

they took their form from
solid earth
and forged their flame through
a river of blood.

it is no mistake
that their essence
is a deep fire
rooted in bedrock.

they maintain balance
in burrowing yet growing,
playing with fire
even while digging.

one for each half,
one for each other,
one for the whole,
for father, brother and mother

after thought

an afterthought,
as if
after thinking
back, retreating
in time to previous
being, seeing
things in other lights,
in a difference, a
diffuse dark retracted,
retracing steps,
retreading paths paved
to this present past
future tenses yet perceived
by these senses.

it makes no sense.

to think, things are
as they need to be.
wants and needs
dissimilar and unfamiliar.
to have left a path
for a different one.
never look back.

black magic

at times, as now,
there is no
magic. only black?
orange glows of sky
in long drawn
out light, slow
as if turning a season,
falling.

some
multitudes, faces,
tits and ass, pass
beyond, yonder
or farther
away, distant
like this
apparent apparition.
some
partitioned mission
to occupy another
space, or time.
but this is not
either of those.

merely
me, or who this
is really is.
possibly, it wasn’t
who you thought,
yet various remains
stain glass houses,
so i throw
stones of forgetfulness.

not remembering
why i try.

self search

searching the self
is like stalking
stones after the surf
recedes, revealing
the strata of strewn
data
that are stones,
sand, seaweed and such,
situated and sorted
according to certain
stories more
or less
sentimental or sensational.

there is no need,
no necessity,
to navigate previous
scenes of splendor
or sorrow. there should
be no certainty
to serve this selfish
penchant for petulant
pondering.

i only wonder,
does the sea remember?

time passes

when days pass,
     and time, when
hours pass, the
     minutes or
moments build
     impermanent monuments
to motionless
     thought.
when days pass,
     will we re
cognize the
     shadow of
hands striking
     a faceless
hourglass, starved
     of sand?

time is not
     in motion.
space is not
     measured.
each breath
     breaks like
waves spanning
     all shores,
rippling here
     to eternity.
i am only
     a wave,
only a brief
     glimpse of a
vast sea, busy
     rearranging
this drifting wood
     seeking repose
upon salted shores
     shelled with sadness.

i do not re
     member which
way the light
     falls. my
eyes turn in
     blindness, meaning
takes on less,
     light is dark
or the moon fell
     to earth and
everything i know
     has turned
to memory,
     reliving itself
through these
     somber eyes.

all i know is,
     i have been
here before. i
     have been this
subdued flesh.
     no one remembers.   

i am dog

abandoned eyes,
melancholy
those eyes
of hopeful sadness.
such a delicate
girl
in your simple
pleasure.
you yearn
for forests
of unabated freedom.
content as
a sunlit porch.

we were in
love, you
and me, we
had a good run.
though,
in the end
i was not
good enough, i
could not
protect or
keep you; what
little i have
to offer
amounted
to nothing.

so it goes. chained
to a trailer
on wheels
going nowhere.
this poverty that
splits us, takes
us apart.

this world
is no place for us.
love cannot
prevent time
from passing. it
is no defense
against the wind,
changeable.

not a day
passes
where i do
not remember you,
missing you.
your wistful eyes
bear witness
to my soul.
we share this
sad passage. 

love, fuck you

love.
fuck you.
why the selfish?
why. when
i of you
give, so so
little, un
satisfying, un
full
    filling?
you live
elsewhere, but
when here, i
un     satiate.
today grace
is kissed, tomorrow
my lips
are sealed,
bereft.

love.
i hate
your masquerading
politics, dis
satisfaction, fickle
speech.
love.
i am
not enough?
my worth,
your terms.
me, square in
your round. un
fit.

love.
fuck you.
sometimes.
as now, when
things dry up&life
is f{r}iction.
you cover
me. my
garden feeds
none. but passing
birds.

me, this stone
floating. you,
the sea i sink in
too. i cannot
breathe under
water.

world

what a sorrowful world.
such a horrible
and happy place.
beauty astounds,
hearts corrupt.
the endless wars,
tragedies of love; wars
against love.
love in the face of wars.

bear witness to the cherry blossom!
an amphibian that sings!
fools that crow.
professing love, or
learning lies.

oh, this sea beside me,
graveyard of the drowned.
why sink
with these tears and
rise to shape clouds
that fall as hearts do
when in love, raining?
what torture!
what unbearable joy!

one gets lost in this place.
pilgrim panhandles
for affection.

oh world,
oh
world.

love thing

hello does not last.
good bye drags
        on.
i love you misleads,
an inevitable mis
                             fortune.
no doubt, love is forever.
it feeds or stays, long like
                                            thorns.

my tenderness is facile.
i marvel at the rose, its
                                 thorns
are my shred body,
bleeding in me, sinking in
                                      to me.

perhaps my blood fertilizes,
feeds this love thing,
        carnivorous.

small towns

truth?:
i cannot
love. clumsy
or
selfish, embroiled.
there is
my own
delicate wind.
wave of misfortune.
why then can
i never return
where I was:
innocent countries,
carefree years, hopeful;
when love was
not fearful?
i, here, sea-
borne, calcifying
stale roots
grown. i am
becoming
my own coffin.

forget my name.
indifferent eyes
behold me,
releasing me to
my solitude.
such are small towns.
i came here
to be forgotten.

skinny shell bones, or, life

these,
      shells. those,
bones. this,
      skin. they,
remainders:
      reminders of
what once was
      again. could be.

life,
      it happens.
suddenly, as if
      slowly watching,
documenting time
      and its passing,
from this to that.
      shadows are
echoes of light,
      blinded hindsight.
life happens,
      and i am
in it, motionless
      and on fire.

i know it is
      too late, too
painful to admit,
      but i need
to be understood.
      things fall apart.
tides come,
      tides go.
hearts break,
      dreams go.
dreams unspoken lead
      to hearts broken.
i do not have
      answers. explanations?
just a fool. understand.
      i was not meant
for this. though
      i have tried and failed,
i can only say
      i want to believe.

in me? i have been
      proven wrong already. 

conundrum

i don't believe every
thing i say.
that is my apparent
paradox.

i don't see myself
the same as how i used to.
that is my apparent
parallax.

and i don't believe every
thing i used to say
about how i see myself
or believe every
thing i see in myself
about what i say.

apparently that is
a paradoxical parallax.

the spain of my sorrows, for federico

the blood is black.
there is wine everywhere,
bloody ferment spilled:
scattered firmament.

those bull’s horns cut through
a starry sky, devastating.
that waxing reflection approaches.
tell the moon to forget who I was.

were there ever fragrant oranges,
castanets of a frightened child?
who calls forth from this dark,
shroud of torment i bear?

the shouted silence!
the musical sorrow!
oh, sunken heart,
find your wings.

there is blood everywhere,
in the wine, the hourglass
of night, and across the moon
my blood scatters the firmament.

who?

was it all a lie then?
mother, who am i?

that child you nurtured
under a bloody cross,
he only found innocence
by the creeks of his youth.
solitary, single-minded,
he inherited a forested world
no longer his.

oh, to be born a man
in a man’s world, with a heart,
a suit of armor
and a blank map.

who have i become?
what have i inherited?
a constant dream of return,
from these selfish prisons
to that innocent creek
in the diminishing woods.
broken compass or blank map,
i follow the creeks and rivers,
discovering the sea.

mother, who am i?

forested

this forested wandering,
through wonders
concealing hidden layers,
under truth, buried
within emotion less
thoughts bleaker
than this far side
of sight, nearer
to extinction.
indistinct. thinking
of the end. it’s
a road oft traveled.
through this
forested time.

some moon smiles
overhead, or
cries its silvered
breath.
we make mistakes or
commit crimes, sin
sideways and forget
our ways
of redemption.
needing help. hands
tied like tongues.
bound like promises
to break bones.
i can’t help but think
i’m alone in this.

hard hearted, hard headed, head hearted

when you
co/inside with me
I soar,
bound/less. I
am un
touchable and
dissolving
every    thing.
when we co/inside
we are time/less
in space more
like bliss.

when I men/tally weigh
my feelings a/bout you:
eye sore in|complete disarray.
I defeat|her wings
and rue/in
this dream.
when I men/tally way
my head
a/bout love
my thots be come
dis/traction
for surr/ender.

it is hard,
this heart.
I mean,
it is hard.
to hear.
too listen to.
to follow.
but I fall low.
being hard
headed.
in the wrong.
direction.
that is no
where. some
where in the middle of
it. all. I know is I
hate being. here.
with
out_you.

explicable

passing time, these
daze, con/fusing
mind tricks exposed
as being just that. a
subtle ruse again/st
myself. so. what
then?

this is coward/ice:
to open a woman
‘s heart, only to
dis/appear else
                      where
I can
     not be found.

this mis/take, a missed
chance taken
for granted.

a mist|rust settles in.

where then do I find
redemption? how can I
re/cover my heart
with confidence?
having lost so much,
what have I gained?

a lost opportunity, where
we are broken off, de-parted,
instead of some canvas where
we could have deep-arted
ourselves toward to/get/her
heartfullness.

this is becoming
his|tory. of a life.
    

fool's were'ds

quest/I/on:
to know how
I came to man/age this
cons/trained
back/words
sent/I~ment: to catch you
as I was
f/ailing. to recognize
this dis/stress sign/al.

why could I not
believe in this,
but now be-leaving this
behind closed/ors.

you did fall in
      to me~lted in
      to my warmth,
my skin of sun
you t/ouch
with burnt plea/sure.
that love:
a g|if|t:
my presence
wrapped
up in my prison
mind\set like stone.
a mental pun/ishment.

your sweetness
that in/habited
my heart
sailed away from these
ssshhhhh~ores
of silence, s/melted
into iron/ic
sadness. utterly.
tear/full memories.
as now, when
I am left
with nothing
but these. fool’s
were’ds.

the po~it, walking with miles davis

walking these
miles
is kinda
blue
in green
flame-n-co sketches
of spain. forecast
rain
on this parade
of water
falling tears.
so what.
all blues
these
days full
of un ^ filled
dreams.

solo
ph/raises
the quest/ion:
when will i
get it out
figured^
enough to
be-able
just to be.
just.
+sobrIety=
wake
up calls
and scale
notes leading
sky-words.
find some jazz
re-leaf with
in my heart. beat.
the drum.
trump/et this
disgrace.d life.

{of her and blusies:
blues ease
blue seas.
blue skies are
blues keys to
blue eyes.
her ivory keys
pianissimo
like touches
i remember.}

walking these
miles
is kind. of blue.
of jazz.d
re/fresh/mental
clarity.
dis / parity
or
un / equality.
on common ground.
we share this
ab/since we left.
vacant. dim~
?~inished
(f~)
  ~uck!! really?!
i re-fuse to under/
stand though
i must. let go.
of this heart-brake.

this heartbr/ache
is a sigh(t) to be
               hold.
            me.
some
        body please.
i   am
          sin/
                k
                   i
                    n
                    g   

this, life

what life i,
this, of dreams, slowly
wet seas. darkness
alive in thoughts
of lesser evol : love
and its ironic sword.
agony it found
in the silent
garden of its ecstasy. this
rain of suicides driven
by homicide
force of wind. thoughtless
escape into what
greener pastures lie
upon brown autumned ground.

this life i
am unto sickness.
to hesitate.
she sees
me and not. seeing
me. not blues
me or black of heart
me. i am
neither and only
afloat. what
meekness i entrain
and find this,
supposedly yellow,
and it burns.

in the bone of
wild decay
sleep is unfound. no
dreams or night. marrow
and unrelated
to this disjoint. passion/
less than actual art. we
lost common. in the blood
it swirls to a boil yet
there is laughter
where i find lacking
absence. a presence
of foreboding, a body
of evidence unreachable
because of what grows
apart and the distances
become insurmountable. we
speak differently the same
language.

night, with coltrane

unnavigated night, stars
turmoil the black ceiling. far away
points in time. some
fluted universe, poked
holes of air movements
like speech. a trumpet
call forlorns this distance.
punctuated silence. dragging.
a cadence dances on bassed
strings, noted. underpinning
this pining.

you. through the melody. blue
bird. in this dream jazz.
something speaks smiling 
simile, eyes bright. flaming
keys subdued by winter. ever
rising. always descending. your
sight. sound. lessened.

what fate is this? head butts
chest falls. fist grist
in love’s mill. to struggle
inside. a bull
in a ring, and I slay myself.
a bowstring stretched, scratched
across sorrow, blues wailed.
a furrow in my breast. my
starry mind. this night.

but then, trail off toward this
reality. what is here. not
you.  silent suites. prayers?
a heart, a hearth.
this only.

wishful fountain

an aimless
life, such as
this leading to no
where’s no
thing destination. some
where in the middle.
familiar like waking
without sleeping.

emptiness dreamt, colored
blind. murals of thought
bleakened with wishful
paint. wistful. wasteful
and tasteless the ashes
that remain.

wish then, within
this fountain. penniless.
stilled water not running,
nor deeply flowed. flawed
reflection perfect. perfect
defect in silent states.
gravity of graves. stone-like
membraned ice. subbed zero
in primed number. an integer
of integrity. how to measure
retreating tides idly marched
toward backwaters of muddied
mind. my study of time.
space voided by soundless voice.
choice this pro-life aborted
mission. statement of intent.
I will survive
even if it kills me.

artful suicide

an artful suicide
this . my revolving year
etched into a mashed
mental . unrest.
being here
before . not being.
mere sight or
sound my bones
rattle within . my place
is not inside
me . beyond
or through. surpassed.
this crowded arena
I burden . crammed thoughts
warring fraying
feelings. the victorious
historian lies
dead.

in no way is this an excuse.
not in these
words . symbolic lies.
all
words . hijacked
planes and the flaming
Tower of Babel.
an artful suicide
as this is spelled
out in poetic farce . force
of habit.
like revolving
around an indifferent
star . burning.
my heart?
it obeys
this physics.

serial monogamy

who is this I am
me to practice arts
like this
deception, a killing
silence to graves
of sorrow’s regret.
with this heart
the ego. who
leads whom? within
this season we
are all murderous
agnostics, climbing
skeletal ladders
the backs of fellow
enthusiastic
romantics, hopeless
the ones who believe
in this beauty.

what misinformed this
notion of the companion
but what can
the serial monogamist
attest to?
the everlasting struggle
of evol against
itself. way(back)ward
words painted to
dead lips. deaf
poetry of helplessness.
when do we begin?
the road to salvation
under
construction. but we live?
today or another day.
they all pass
with heavy luggage
the scorned
lover cannot un
pack.

I am only here.
already
silent.

meaning/less

I look to you
and see death
yesterday. hoping
for life tomorrow.
what time or place
I find my
self in. where all
I have is fancy
and these
thoughts or dreams
halfway to reality,
or not real,
or beyond truth.
this is an echo?
rebirth of something
cold and nearly
alive it kills
me. me with this
pathetic moonlit
restlessness.

why would I want
to think this,
love you
when love isn’t
my way but selfish.
in what terms not
uncertain
could I find
your unfound
skin touching
this heartful confusion?

I think, though feelings
are meaning/less,
meaning: I don’t
fucking know
anymore.

motion less

motion less
like movement
than
waves of crumbling
seas. this heart
mismatched
in its tattered wardrobe.
I don’t speak
those rosy thoughts.
only watch
petals shorn
with winter.
that you I
cannot speech
with unthought
reasons.
as of late.
we come and go
and I already
disappeared
from there,
wherever
you stand.

but with what
standard
is the future measured?
yesterday
didn’t happen
though
it bears my scar.
that
confused heap of fallen
sand.

every day I am
less.
sure of this.
certainly
more like a fatal acceptance.
warped reflection. yet
kindling a distant fire
in the bones of ashen
echoes. remembering
all that death
I am
brought back here
to this blood-
worn sea. tangled
rooted silent
driftwood, I pitch shelter
over those grave
yards I exhumed. to dance
with random bones. and talking
marrow til the sun come up.

Coffeeshop blues

Titular head of this charade,
ego parade on days wet with wind.
Salty spray and veins drowning in caffeine.
Who says I am this love, forlorn
weeping at the stones not knowing
which way the one-way street runs.
We last as long as any life,
dead the way we fear we can be.

But then guilt. Outlast memories
laid bare in the stretched out sun.
Seeing the same road. Where was it seen
before. If I lose my way. Truncated
body then falls apart to your masterpiece
misery. Karmic finale
a capella before the firing squad
filling me with blankness.
Me and my mind overloaded with judgment.
Spilling stained coffee the old women shun
for the rain-needled window.
Do you know what you’d like? As if
money can buy that kind of confidence,
that misleading self; my life choice
on the menu out of order.

As slow a meaninglessness this. This life
to eulogize these dreams.

If confusion then order got lost
in dead air. If cowardice then my heart
found comfortable prisons without walls.
This heavy darkness.
Self untold.
Not willing to know that feeling
wet waterless waves sharp stinging.
Still I live. In this shed skin.

Somewhere it’s fog. Those are mountains
ominous and belching out the sky.
Even the sea.
Murderous to reach my bones.