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.