JusticenotJustice

Ferguson rhymes with Fallujah.
It's sister city to Soweto, they have
direct flights to Guantanamo, and
is one exit off the freeway
down the road from Gaza. All of Mexico
has gone looking for her lost students there,
asking around Kissinger's
closet in Allende's bedroom,
under his Klan robe
and those bloody gloves
the size of Mobutu's Africa. Jim Crow
sits atop a satellite dish,
pickin' over MLK's bones,
talkin 'bout the Fox in the henhouse--
somethin 'bout black men white houses
and black white black white blurrrrrrr--
why folks gettin' angry?

History.

A criminal with a long rap
sheet and a hood. History, ok?
It ain't just in a book, like laws and shit.

But we can pretend, make believe
justice is served, on ice just
enough to shake our faith
and stir up emotions deeper than
Mississippi cotton. And that bleeds, like
fingers toiled to the bone, shredded
like the blues over steel strings, splattered
like cold steel shots ring entry wounds
shattered like dreams, a.k.a. exit wounds.
Triggers pulled by the uniformed, the
uninformed, those who should be
our brothers, keepers
of the peace. Forgetting
that the hand that feeds
fear and lies gave them guns, pointed them
in the wrong direction. Crime rhymes
with poverty, but criminals are synonyms
for corporate congress. We are
in their cross hairs: their soldier cops' fears
they trigger, pulling
the wool over eyes trained
to see in black and white. We are all
Palestinian Michael Browns lost
in drug wars south of the border,
searching for lost limbs and lost
loved ones in the bloody jungles,
in the oily sands, the ghetto streets,
like the disappeared, in dungeons,
cell blocks, sidewalks, captives
of capital isms that contrive
to unite us against ourselves.

nighttime girl

dark flame shadows hidden
fruit, sunken soil sung
toward deeper things
deeper. as laughter.
so is the night, her rule
outs the moon. shine
obsidian water, her
dark crystal sets. the sun
is her diamond blood,
feathers unseen yet
she soars. as laughter.
that is her, passing
flowing by, waft of water
solid stones the craft
of her mineral eye.
someplace to be lost.
someplace to be found,
buried alive by mystery.
her secret arts.

art girl

an artist
'sheart, or
her art
displays her worn sleeve
fitted like love
wrapped in skin
such rapt attention
to life's detail

that
'sheart, felt
deep in the wine
imbibed blood drips
skin like tattooed paint
mural dreamscapes
wilderness escaped
into her living ballroom

such is her heart
'sheart, her
art is not art
but real in the real
movements of her eyes
slaving raw beauty
as elegant as autumn
corks the vineyard naked
pouring libations sculpting
vintage sips of sophistication

sun girl

simple is sky meets
horizon, her eyes on
par with pearls, her
own wisdom is wonder
full of more wonder.
as if she shines, the sun
shine is hair
strands of light she
smiles those rose petal
palettes of spring color.

she is as such, such
splendor and candid
sweetness can swim
like laughter, her wit
is grafted to her spice.
sugar, sure, or ginger
roots her existing to this
corporeal, her heart sleeves
she bares transparently, owing
to her sun risen skin.

dream time

it may well be, we
built this only with time with
summer turned twilight now
piled leaves autmned
toward this heavy valley's
stars through the fog. it's here,
stream or wave sounds
like hard stones soft
when dirt decays eternity into bones
on fire. there is a heart beat
and it dreams. we adhere, we
hack away at perpetuity
sinking entropy gathers moment
-um- and then dreams
invent our daily. suddenly.
days nights in between shadows
two darknesses dragging, the moon
paints a mournful longing of the sun.
the meantime echoes with mirrors,
what you do is repeated returning and
refraction of your own light
kissing smooth silver. the eye
the be-holder. the earth lives
your life, you make the motions
give matter meaning
let the river pass or
get trapped in the sky. no
matter what it gets in you, binds
to you and
so graves exhale the future's past
where we sleep dream descend
into fruits whose trees
we never thought to touch we
were busy believing that time had anything
to do with eternity.

copper girl

some how she
is a shimmer, her
swimming fire bright as
if time erupts. prose
of her twilit lips spoke
in sea shells she
is, the shore sings. such
mysterious evoking
poetry, life petals feeling. her
unfurling metallic.
spring air
borne of sun
light. her copper's hair burnt
clouds pass by
the post-noon laze languid
intoxicating language in pints.
so we laugh crepuscular, our
lips kiss metaphor,
dreams wandering
the sky written. words we tie to
mind's tether, together to gather
sumptuous fruit, some common
we nurture and tap roots
poet trees.
rare earth gifts, she present.
this now. love
that is, like laughter.
wordless. a possible
prose.

blue girl

you always, why then ever
night behind a curtain?
the sight of you, only
highest treetops in the final light.

fled the sun, you hide the moon.
even if evenings fill star lights,
chart of your astronomical heart.
why do you become a dream only?

empty, my voice the silence, lament
your name written in skin tones.
my eyes your eyes unfolding mere sights,
open hands hold solitary wishes.

i am dark. you are darkness.
between us some light endless with
shadow, neither hot cold nor us.
needing sails, the wind is elsewhere.

grief lament? you aren't supposed to
be here, idle as passengers, factual
like mirrors. still. nothing is lost,
though none has been gained. painful.

the night you ever are, hiding
behind a curtain. i cannot see you,
only the failing light at last, high
in the final treetops' fading.

I Am Michael Brown

Unarmed, going home.
Unarmed, reaching for the sky, like
every youth, dreaming.
Arms not now for hugs,
never again for greetings. Unarmed
heart that stops. Arms not now
for art nor sport, neither
climbing nor reaching. Merely
the end of the road. Of life.
Arms now for violence.
Arms for fear, for strangling
this stillborn world, struggling
to be born peacefully.
Arms for embracing, never again.
Arms that kill. That kill.
Arms that kill and kill
unarmed generations.
Armed to the teeth this police
state of confusion. Arms
wrestle with lies inside a squad car.
Finger squeezes trigger
squeezes lifeless nigger
unarmed. Again.
Pistol pointed, poised to execute
justice at arm's length.
Again. Goddamnit!
Not again!!

Music To Go Home To

For Julie Marston, in memoriam

Tears, moving.
Deep muddy rivers flow
through many histories
borne of love's nurture.
Some distant futures
unfold upon open
outstretched palms
like pearls in the world's
oyster. Earth is an altar
and children are candles.
Learning lights
their way. The way home
lined with smiles,
linked with hands clapped,
clasping this unbroken circle.
Music to go home to, when
burdens are laid down.
Music to go home to, when
tears flow away on jazzed notes
blowing away. Joyful sadness
as one more saint goes marching
in. To our hearts
inward. Outward in word
and deed. This is music
to go home to: all of us
singing in her name. Music for her
to go home to.
Finally.
In grace.
Gracias.

except

your moon soft glow of my sleep
deprived dreams, this haunted
absence. a creeping silence you uninhabit,
not arriving. your name is not. my name.
your body is not. my body. no scents
to splendor this hollow.
you can't exist.
except

the minutes pass the hours. pass
daynights one long continue
empty trains through fog, misty
forgotten that which yet appearsn't.
there is distance, none. only
the infinite span. be
tween this agony foreverever now
your uncertainty.
except

i wait i wither
i look i linger
even as i search i see
age exponentiating.
will you come for me
my final death?
bring home me. comfort
able.
except

thought touch

see hear:  this
thought touch impenetrable
as if watery stones, waves
that I live farewell
these uncertain window curtains
to the soul such as eye
lids on the sun’s ramble. under
stand? my grief is far. entrench
habits well worn, cumber
some words meaning
less. afflictions are arithmetic.
equations that require balance.
pay homage to entropy.

happiness in drag. weather
or not whether, it rains. upside down,
the moon is a lie. life is not
prone to your beliefs.
because of this
I insert silence into space
surrounding the ambients, or.
its ambience. to possess
lingual finitude. an end
less will begin again.
cyclical pair-o-docks i am
moored to. more to this, add
infinitum.

dexterity. it is written
in tongue, ink well worn badges
of honor. tattooed to abstrusion.
i am an example of this.

back words

of distracted desires and deadly dreams
i carry this cloak of heavy humidity,
where in raiment melancholic
is found ingredients for some stretch
of fraudulent seas. this pallor. colorless
as hues of confusion, crystal clear,
as tears joyfully remainder, or
remind a heart's echoes beating.

where in meaning is found
? this place of birth, my misplaced
worth stretched across worried furrow
lines streaked upon sullen cheeks ?
mad hatter of matter...what's the ?...?
answer, this response. a question
of beauty, of what's real, or real.
of what? 's worth my time running
out of. before it was granted. taken
for a ride on these wingless despairs.
something i've done before, oh yes.
backwards.

get back,
words. give back
these words of wonder.

laziness

self anarchy: an arcane
anecdote antedates this
anachronistic chronicle
of a death foretold. four fold
wings flock frivolous triviality
really not reality.
relatively, inactivity lively
thrives in riveting river
droplets of time flying
through this hourglass eye
of the needle. stitches seem
tailored to precise incisions
knifed in surgical steps, or
increments crept upon. sneaky.
like surprises. packaged presents
here now. after
thought. as in life. an
afterthought.

happenings

i guess this is how it happens:
you meet, you grow,
into each other with
deepening roots. you
sing and cut through silence.
your blood flows in the wine.

we are always made for each other.
allofus. two hands knead one bread. we
speak in turn laughing together.
common fire and endless
oceans, skies in your
eyes. my lips,
whispers.

it happens. it goes unnoticed
until your heart wants to know.
the meaning of this vacancy,
the limits of nights.
sunless dawns. wanting to know
when you will return,
flying. it is as if you never were
yet suddenly were my every life, my
sole purpose.

and so things seem normal in this way.
you pass through your curtain
of tears, looking for the hammer
and saw of your redemption.
and i grow toward your light, you grow within
me. we go on with the day,
outlasting sun and moon, digging roots,
whistling over the sand,
sinking in dreams.

sommer

this earth is for flowers.
planetary petals, foliar
and fragrant. my skin
is tattooed with the sun,
my soul. solar. sweet
and salted sweat
these days baking
in the heat. waves
and wine. alcohol’s
delight. light the night
skied with smiles.
we sing with laughter.
sleeping on the moon.
shine on…
shine on.

i am soil, sinew
toiled, labored
bone. marrow
and sorrow. dollars
today, none tomorrow.
i am this wither,
weathered hands
and planted
into this planet. seeking
sense within sensation.
my season. this
sun. shining on
the moon.

be=longing

some tabled mass,
thronging laughter its
passage i cannot
comprehend. my
dullard’s intellect.
something
lost in translation.
that culture i
strayed from. and
it bites me. not
understanding. where
i cannot belong.
if I should. no
matter my desire.
no matter
these insecurities.
my language
is faltered. failed
at what i
communicate.
passive eyes.
i watch. vacant
silence within
me.

stale mate

this.
the latest in
stallment, life’s stale
mate, joined
at the hip
to this
listless wish list
of demands
for a cease
fire in my war
against poverty.
novelty, like
concepts of self
perception, except
i cannot
believe all.
that iam seeing,
being blind
deaf dumb.
not believing.
this. self.
yet to receive
disguised blessings
unmasked.
a matter of pressing
import. i resort
to exports of re
morse, code words
for dis
stress, this signal
overture to overturned
dreams capsized.
i drown in this
renown of failure.
pail imitation.
sure to succeed
again in this.
remiss with
mrs. fortune.
inopportune.
appropriate this
ruin. to rue in
self destruction.

the sound of civilization falling

witness then this silence,
life as still as
the day you die. that
day of birth, always
fading toward oblivion.
chains civilize your husk
of abandoned womb,
shackle you too.
this povertied life.

those hands choking
your brain, stroke
of midnight clogs
your heart. the fear
they feel into you.
flee then this love,
forced into retreat.
man woman child
overboard. drown sorrow
in debt.

how remarkable, macabre
mask dance of civilization
possesses you like spirits
of dead presidents
presiding over your
papered green fantasy.
you break upon the rocks
shored by desperate
waves of loneliness.
alone in this.
you fight for breath
in the middle of america
clear cut. yet confusing.

this tangled mass of arteries,
coronary bypass the off ramp
of wilderness. no service
due to lacking funds.
a nation falls, no one
pays attention: does it
make a sound?
like bombs dropping,
shopping bags popping
or hearts stopping.

long, the fingers
that choke your brain.
feeling fear into you.
still we wither.
dither about this,
that and the other.
crawl back to mother,
her welfare checked
by unbalanced federal
branches. the bough breaks.
a nation will fall.
bombs drop, hearts stop
and the only sound
is the echo of this
impermanent folly.

oakland

dragon on fire, breathing
smog. bejeweled in refuse
strewn. the city. its cement
beard trailing, eyes of steel.
car-clogged arteries. hardened.

represent, represent.

this land of worthwhile
representation. graffiti
history, jazzed murals
frame backdrops. black blood
drops. a struggled past,
a confusion present. un
certain some future. rituals
of blood sacrifice, beats
sensational. hearts
defy concrete barriers.

still. the people make
their way. whether crazed
or sane. they must
make their way.
this world, full of children
grown up too fast.
coming of age. garbage
heaps of city streets
their jungle testing ground.
losing their innocence
just around the corner.

a woman begs change,
none forthcoming. (is it
shiny coin change, or
should we talk about,
you know, real change)
some man babbles his
nonsense, battles his
mental enemies.
young blood nods my way,
fist bump of respect.
flowers bloom bright.
a dusty landscape. here,
even the crows speak
like concrete. the gulls
cry like tired water.

my children, unaccustomed,
look for bird nests.

olympia

it cannot be born in this
word, not in this world.
a shrinking sunrise scatters
the window. in a city
dead end to the sea.
there are those faces whose names
will never die. they were
never even born.
spastic and callous. the street
the sky. horrid freedoms
of artifice. not unto love.
not unto hate. just this.
unhoped for. a pretense.

swirling smoke. drowning
time passed in cool. too cool
too hip so as to be forgotten.
chained to sidewalk wilderness
morality. not even vicious vomit,
churned up soulless fauna,
nothing. sully this
citizen pit.

without liquid monotony
how would they find their way?
already forgotten by the sun.
mental disorder no spirit of history
can cure. this madness.
it only makes sense to those
senseless.

woman of my dreams

that warm bone running
through her thigh. naked.
where can i? find it, joined
to my entwining,
marrow and sinewed
to this desire.
her fruit. yet
to taste me.
i branch out
into her sun
lit skin, swim
those watery wonders
under her moon
shine. cup her wined
lips twisted in vined
kisses. i want
her hot flesh, her
oceanic mouth over
mine.

where can i? find her!
that warm bone, naked
in her thigh. those eyes
delightful, those hands
like wings flighting me
into her clouds. dreamy.
her tears to rain
over me. does she
call to me? would she
know me if i come?
where can i? find her,
with her warm bone
through her thigh, running.

i want only to lie down
with the persistent
figure of the woman
of my dreams, the one
of whom i have dreamt
for so long. for so long
she is merely
a dream.

linger

a season, once. ablaze
with consumptive
passion. fruit like
lips feverish at night.
distant fog
horns blew. we
sank, dreaming.
entwined between
softness. and sighs.
her eyes. immense.
crepuscular.

yet, sinking. waking.
past shadows, present
as now, as then. it
lives in dreams, though
sleep is rare.
you rest with
in me, as if. we share
some thing in common
still. we do.
as if.

when i need
to forget you, traces
of your being cling
to me and my lives.
stray hairs unwind
from my clothes.
strange sleep
i was sure you
were taking part in.

seemingly, echoes.
or memory. the small
things. the sea does
not hide. even now, in
habiting my dreams.
at night, your voice
in my ear, a smooth
touch silken to my
skin. fleeting. like
approaching dawn.

sighs. softly.
i am not safe
within myself.
imprints inside me.
somehow. this linger.

such are the affairs
of my heart.

blues hues

blue. as in
the blues. hues.
as in those
skies. eyes.
as in
her. blue skies
i flew in
too. blue
as if dreaming.

her memory.
an anchor
aweigh
in me. my
heart. moored
to her blues
ease. these
blue seas. a
drift i am.
tied to. tide
too strong to
resist. those
blues eyes.

her anchor
to me. these
blues. for me.

i'mpatient

life is
n't waiting, but
i'mpatient. i'm
here, merely
this
fleshen bone, skinned
with sunshine, thinned
out by the wind.
there.
where i wait. i'mpatient.
or resigned, skied by rain
clouds of color
aloof.
my vision. of
an afterlife. after
life begins, or
ends (which way am i
going?), things look
up. down here. i
find peace. or pieces. but
joy?
it is in
describable. subtlety. it is
all that remains. to be
seen. to be believed.
i believe
nothing.
feel everything (this joy
of painful living).
of this i am certain.
nobody survives
life.
such as it is.
killing us like this.
softly and with
sweet surrender.

the day nothing happened

life went on. do you
remember? that day when
nothing happened,
when everything else
was going down? shit
simmered and water shook,
those passing clouds
dissipated elsewhere,
flocked with birds
from nowhere.
remember? we never
knew. we thought
we lived, motionless,
astray with numbing
thoughts, though hearts
beat. maybe we stopped
believing because nothing
needed believing. did we
understand? it had to
happen. we lost track,
nothing happened and everything
else was going down.
not that it matters now.
we are always.
failed for destiny,
in my hands.

nothing?

nothing,
as in what
isn’t potential,
yet may
be some kind
of possible.
though it is
nameless, so no
thing. in
describable, in
delible in
my mind, in
credible insistence.
so. nothing
then. and i can
not even imagine
what it
is. much less
talk.
about it?
perhaps emptiness,
or hope. i
wish. it
was this
simple.

hope fools

this wall of frontiers,
perhaps tears reaching back,
flowing in reverse. this
is no river. a backwater.
backlogged, waterlogged,
clogged sense of self.
some denial.
we can live? only
after the killing
off of certain selves,
those parts of me,
them hopefuls.

hope fools. shapes
shift. scrapes and scratches
a living. this hope, full
of poverty. a pot empty,
nor pissed in. this then
is what is called
life? give me then
death, so i may see
what i’ve been.
missing.

living is

of this life, it is
piles of books, clutter
and the haphazard chatter
of birds this morning.
the frogs last night. fitful.
at times unfit, others
perfect, bereft
of dissonance.

living is
collected pages memorized,
forgotten when it matters
most. times
of abundance, inevitable
like decay. in this
way we navigate
the streets and alleys
of our lives, begging alms,
window shopping, tripping
over the refuse of falling
time. we seek our gates
amidst the squalor, find
a home and bury
our wings.

wind

wind. when you
remember your
self, active
in trees. soft
whispered, or
fervent. restless.
you sigh. i
am in you.
breathed.

wind. when you
express your
self, pressed
into wordless
voice. a feeling
afloat, or
tumbling. frantic.
you hush. i
am silently with
in you. your
voice.

life science

life, friction - less fiction narrative diction pertaining to directions in relation to ships sailing under seasides skied by mountained trees freed by birds called to the wild side of seeds sown by blown winds blind to our naked eyes bent by bough branches bowing to these breezes which pleases as it does reasons to season this spiced life frictionless like the first breath bereft of belief systems that stem tides of third eyes aligned to inner truth and its pudding proof. i sooth and see the truth of me reflected, inflections of speech fictionless teach a direction less inclined to impeach the mind but reach up to climb a vine toward lips taking furtive sips of time spans of rivers running serpentine courses of course snaking the sea to shining sights seen under suns set against her-eyes-on the prized apples of eden feeding life’s given blood flooding our veins in ancestral DNA that play their part in beating hearts charting a course upon expanding seas while i’m standing between these stars far apart but part of these galaxies within me which begin and end in me: the science of mind is this seat of my soul, the whole equation sums up the parts of particles accelerated into this accreted matter but minds over grown with religions, superstitions and other fictions contrary to thinking are critically sinking this ship wrecked on the shores of respect for terra forma numero tres suspended in space in a place we call this Milky Way and the way we respond with ability is our responsibility to circumvent this circumspect circumstance that perchance will enhance our understanding of ourselves within this cosmic happenstance.

window shopping

in the window, shopping
for sensation, explanations
of expectations to acceptance.
excepted excerpts of incidents
coincide with perceptions
of perspectives pertaining to
stray thoughts entertaining
fictions, fantasy and fantastic
magnanimity in prismatic
realities pragmatically related
to this understated poetry.

there is more to me as there is
less for me to see in order to be
free of fetters. freedom from
need feeds sunlit seeds sown
in fields grown green via my
unseen pen inventing rhyme
schemes that seem premature
yet for sure i answer the call
when drums need dancers.

and i swear this sun
is one way i ascend while i bend
my back and thank my lucky star
that shines all day in this way i
relate to divinity when infinity
is wrapped up like prayers in this
present gift-wrapped like a wild
christmas tree free from need.

impasse

impasse:
i’m past the present
in passive retreat
to times passed
through the hourglass.
hour by hour
this heart lays
passe, fasting
from feeling.

impasse:
i’m passe
about possible
realities in passing
through this
dark passage.
pressed against
the passenger
window, my passive
eyes perceive
green pastures
laying fallow.

impasse:
this impassible
pass, impossible
to press on,
improbable to trod
beyond. so
i am imparted
with this passion
for impersonating
the sea’s impression
upon a pallid-faced
moonscape. i
escape into this
narrow passage,
passing my self
and its passive
participation in
the persistence
of time, passing.

what music does

As now, when
it's Mingus among
us, or a funky Monk,
mellow Miles,
or even a Trane
full steam ahead,
I am out
there, with a
Bird, and I wander,
lingering longer:
lost in Dizzy thoughts,
out on prolonged
Holiday, losing
parts of my
self, returning to
myself, lighter.
Isn't that what
music does?

baile de serpiente

el paisaje, nuestra
tierra, baile de serpiente,
llora lagrimas transitorias.
la verdad de su destino verde,
llueve este mar ritmica.
si.
con sabor.

Trayvon

America, standing her ground,
blindly tripping over her feet.
Slapstick Lady Justice impales herself
on that double-edged sword: word has it
there are loopholes in everything,
and what is law ain't necessarily so
just cuz it's written. Ask any Indian.
Or slave descendent.
If you think we've come a long way,
we've got even further to go.
America's forked tongue speech:
fastened to the barrel of a gun, enforced
by the hammer of justice smashing
truth at the pull of a trigger. We got laws,
oh Lawd, to deal with niggers. Down
in Floriduh, in Amerikkka, in a world
diverse like a pack of Skittles, another
name is added to a lengthy list of wishes
washed out. Whitewashed. Lily, like
lies. And to think, Martin had a dream.
So did Trayvon.

sorrow's cavernous joy

caverns of sorrow
streaked. tear streamed
cheeks flow
down sedimented
streams. seas
swallow dreams,
spat back as strewn
seaweed. heaped
and confused, fused
to shifty sand.
salted, these
wounds in sorrowed
canyons born.

rise now, tears
that fell like rain.
rivulets drip rivers,
driven by heart beaten
blood drops. surging.
pulsing. purging.
the weeping proceeds
where tears precede. then
recede, finding joy, fishing
in the sea
of forgotten dreams.
where all streams
>joyful | sad<
finish journeys.

memories.
where shadows
carve out the light.
when sadness takes
time, making
space for joy
to flow in
too.

futile light, or (futilight)

what mysteries this
light may bring, dawn
breaking down
the sky. night was
a womb of lingering
memory. long. the
darkness stripped down
to day. today.
another lamp lit.

where does it go, this
light that flies, then
fills, invades
the very dark
i cling to? bands
abandoned, spent,
rent from rays displayed,
portrayed as seeds of
hope. where weeds
grow in heaps. tilling
the night. shades
of shadow.

how wasteful the light
scatters its rays. wasted
on gray shores before
this gray sea. now
drops of moonlight, adrift
at sea. cut
loose from memory.

i navigate this sentience,
solitary confinement
shackled with silence. this
penitentiary darkness.
penitent before altars
shattered of innocence. this
sea. dark with mystery.

algorhithm of agonies

one two many.
won too many
hearts for two
hands, four times
two many lost
adds up and
the hour is
L8.

once, i
found. one
butterfly
with tu
lips. mine,
trembled.
where do they
go, with
two feather
less wings?
to yester
days?

a deer. head
lights
the way. 4 ward
in time...one
plus one. summed
up. equals. us
too. 2 of these
hearts. plus their
beats.

dragons breathe.
fire, blood.
moons that dance.
us. conflagrate
in two. tear
drops too.

this sea. find
me by her.
divided
by tears of
laughter. her
tides. salt
ridden by
rhythms. hymns
and weathered
whims of fancy. dance
we, four
played years.

winter is.
summer was.
one, with ice, those
skies. blue dream.
twice streaked
eyes. rains
clouded in
shrouded non
action. subtraction.
difference other than
intention.

one, two, many.
one, two four gotten
promises for nothing
remaindered.
two, four, 8n't
life. a bitch?
zero.
as in never.

summed up. of these
parts: total area,
circumference
this science.
put to test.
as evidenced:
this mathematics.
unproven theorem.

grave thorns

there is love
      ?
is there love
      ?
love is there
    where
upon i find
  this
trail of blood.
  hounds
seeking bleeding
   hearts.

bushes, full. of
    roses
with uncounted
  thorns.
nothing comes.
  without
a price.
    still
we pay.

my grave, my
   burial
           ground.
there, in the
                      future
near.               or far.
   still.
plant for me a rose
        bush.
my tombstone.
       inscribe
my tears trailed,
     that
perfumed triumph!

on jazz

music is a narrow
word. that art
of sound. jazz
is a thin moniker
for black magic:
washing over white
lies like
fallen chains reclaimed
as instruments of spirit
speech. structure re
formed from some
enlightenment
reverting back to dark
drums, remembering.
the freedom of a fetish.
feverish
and spitting fire.

there, the skies
that float. scraped
by buildings. the rain
trumpets some
melancholy. a
dampness in dark halls.
precise. airless
and sinking, you,
pulled inward. friction
only in spare number
when it’s a freight train
blowing by.
you shiver.

this is never done. but
now. it screams
to a boil. echoes
multiply. a simmer.
and magic tricks
you into understanding.
this always was.

butterfliegen

as if
to re
treat, myself
to a luminous
past more
like happy
memories, or these
wishes for her,
to be, present
in a prescient
future I see
but cannot. it is
only now. with
out_her. over
there. in an
other life, yet
intertwined like our
wine, grapes
traipsing around
vineyards of time, inescapable.
as a kiss. though
we missed that
harvest.

and this, a
new season, aged.
are we any
closer to completion?

my heart, beats
it never forgets:
her rhythm
in my blood. in
my bones, her
reverberation,
an aching echo.
yet,
her laughter. always.

midnight musing

in this firstborn night, of
you I muse, of you
and your mystery.
outside the air stills, frost
falls in a glassy touch.
those distant stars that dream
my children and their quiet sleep.

moon turns to me, to you
and your face. your lips.
do they think of me?
my eyes, dark in the dark,
search for you. this long
yearning that unfolds. this
palm upturned for you.

earth that becomes your flesh,
my fire for your fire. desire
waxes, moon wanes stars
in its wake. these quiet moments
so long and wistful. your touch!
my fire for your fire. this night,
hidden the way hearths heat hearts.

unknown certainty

it is never
enough
to know
for certain.
unknowing
is a backwards
certainty, though
I’m not sure
I understand.
even still,
what I want
or need meet
in some middle
battleground
of crunching
thoughts and
combative feelings.

this irony of love.
paragon of heartbreak.
opportunities missed,
chances taken.
or not. unspoken
dreams. the tumult
of this timeless
struggle. still
I seek clarity. from
distant eyes, flamed
lips, smiling
mischief, her heat
subdued.

the far away

a wandering, less
in familiar forests, dark
and disparate. some seeking
of information in form
and sensation: a new season.
a different bridge
spans that unknown river.
we navigate. construct.
into frontiers tears precede.

a life as wholly capable as this.
a love unwrit by broken lives.
to carry a dream
unfulfilled unto its own illusion.

we cannot understand, even
with wonder.

eyes closed, leaping into
a crazy abyss.
the way we commune. consume
those flames of unrelent.
some circumspect
emotion trailing off
into wilderness. still
we follow. who
could write such intrigue
without narratives of circumstances
dictated? by some innocence?

love is a transgression.
we crucify ourselves nonetheless,
seeking redemption, some
form of understanding. even
where none is forthcoming.

intelligent negligence

intelligence, telling
in this negligence
of what’s
known: this
is not the time
to dress in petals.
flowered perceptions
perfumed
by lust.
must I really
think
there is some
     --one
     --thing
out
there for
me,
in this
with pretty
please topped
cherries?

merry meet,
merry part.

I have met
that part of me
that hates,
which loves,
who has no
thing to hold on
to, just
smooth-illusioned
mirrors.
fickle
like the sea.

imaginary

imaginary, an
image mirrored
as if
mind
is miraged. mislead.
to think
as truth,
yet
there are
only these
fictious
scenes enacted as
played stages.
playing
the self. the
fool.

a clown’s
act. in jest
of surety. so
sure
this is
real. fucked up.
like
a pile of junk
dreams.
I could’ve lived.

so
I do.

to reconcile, somewhat

to err with air within
un-circulated blood, air
in the veins or
water on the brain.
this emotion. inert
struggle turned innate,
internal churn of barbaric
words. backwoods
forwards towards
times forewarned.

this is as before. now.
before now when it was
as it is. within this.
circulated blood, platelets.
floodgates precipitate
outpouring of thoughts,
feelings. foraging for healing
words, vegetative speech
reaching for restorative fruit.

exposed wounds congeal
clotted blood, a flood
of water falls like
tears for fears
washed away. what
misunderstandings stand under
light of day. lightened compassion
lends tensioned fists un-tightened.

evol love

a simple act.
like opening the eyes,
as subtle as
the north wind, which
ain’t so subtle.
yet we beseech
an open heart
kept, as if
this tenderness
was automatic,
like waking up.

and don’t fuck around
with it. love
is such a selfish
immolation. cute
sideways murder,
so studied, pondered,
pandered to the petty
bourgeois masses.
nobody remembers
anything anymore.

just the last dead lover.
or mind-authority parentage.

ain’t it true?
that love is an evil word?
backwards, in a word,
evol?
love can be inside
out, like
ripping out your guts to see
history’s gas chamber. you
and that self, if only
because you can.

fantasies disturb
deep waters. therein
lies fear, reflective.
evil twin love.
a double-edged sword
seeks blood.
we give willingly.

rote night

it is at night
this is ritual. when we
invent some word
of mixed company. we
find some way past
time. inching closer
to fantasy. to
discover flesh
like the first time.
trying to enter the temple,
we need to talk to god.
this is the way and we
cannot let go.
even with sweat or tears.
and sometimes blood
or other parts
of a protein ocean.
this is the only time we
talk to each other.
to god?
we end in sleep.

begging belief

it begs then, to reinvent.
to begin again. not being
what was. it gathers
those rain clouds. sunny
elsewhere. we want to shine.
and way too long have we
missed, out of sight. hindsight
disappears in reared views
mirrored by this
tortured culture. we
look for hope, but, like
where?

we beggar our beliefs, lie
in a child’s face. what
world is this? it that is
born. infancies, toddles,
falls decades headlong
downhill until death do its part.
where do you find this
life along the way?
discounted, taxed, lotteried,
tuitioned, or miracled, or maybe
in the trash? this world.
which one is this?

billions of them. under threat.
imposing. at war over the way
you want to die. with life
somewhere between the lies.

these beliefs. we the beggars.
and it begs reinvention.
or something.
backwards vision of some
redemption.
or we die, lying
to the children.

unnecessity

unnecessity, in
essence
escaping, scraped
bottom churned golden
dust, must
needs wanted
mustn’t coincide, with
in l/imitations.
imagine: miraging
mirrors meant for no
one but me.

there are things.
they are perhaps un
true. or miss
lead. weights
upon a mind.

once,
upon a time
less
like these, but
f/rooted in
abundance, once
upon a wonder
ful life. and it is
inward. in
word.
and deed.

this history reads
like novel
concepts, except
it is off the
page, staged
in outer --

     space.

it’s
what’s needed, if
I must.

fall feelings

these days, air sharpens
the crystalline
light bronzed
against the autumned
leaves departing
for winter’s burial ground.
geese flock south, seeking
their summered spring boarding
in warmer pastures.

light is longingly drawn
out, stretched
beyond horizons
topped with reflective
mountains.

all things still, stilled
like distilled thoughts,
a season
fraught with naught
but potential for future
rebirth.

waves of placidness punctuate
these
moments, monuments
to planetary motion;
autumn is an emotion
and leaves
falling are feelings, crisp
with sweetness
as if
apples were really
eyes, beholding
this otherness,
this togetherness.

we all sink, suns
set and we rise
to meet this
new day.
always.