Hidden

Hidden

Stolen rhododendrons in my hand—

the old imperfections of a heart at large.

I draw near my rope’s end shrunk to common size,

ignored in this tawdry harbor, hidden like a lizard

beaten by history’s hazardous lack of action.

Unlucky hero born in the province of the stuck record

where the most watchful tailors go jobless

and scissor cut their own patterns.  

Blameless children stand looking

at a field of horses, necks bent,

tails streaming against the green

backdrop of sycamores.

Rough

Rough

disaffection, 

do not look at my skin

nor touch my lips. 

The exterior that covers

my bones in revelation

needs to be moisturized

with truth.  What are you

seeing in my mirror

this morning?

The ease with which

you deal with your pretentions?

For I am your brother

corrected and already raised.

I have known you over

and over again

as I’ve lived throughout

this city.

Reseco

Reseco

Áspero desamor.

No mires  

mi piel ni toques

mis labios.  Estoy reseco

sin esperanza

de humectar la dermis

que me cubre. 

If It Ever Happens that a Candle Goes Out

If It Ever Happens that a Candle Goes Out

It’s never the same longing

that leads me into the dredges at the fishery.

It’s always something unclear, muddied

by what gathers around my eyes.

Something like a cuckoo calls the hours

like an old clock, only not the hours

that are essential.  I think I see the day

tossing back what it is shown.  But you cannot hope

backwards or in reverse.  Someone I love

has died, I am certain, but I cannot tell who.

Inventory

Inventory

the tyrannical empire

of the absurd  

the tears waiting

at the curve

the way you sheltered

my heart

the silence you dispensed

like a wall in the dark

lofts of desire

the mother that died

when you were a child

the kiss that rotted

on our lips

the beach inhabited

by worms

the bed flying

in a void

the avalanche of gods

and myths

everything given and taken

the shit we hopelessly dumped

on each other

the bread we shared

the caresses,

the weight of our

open hands

fifteen and empty

fifteen and empty

fried green tomatoes

unable to get past

the first two lines

broken in combat

the last thing

I’ll hear is me

Breaching the Discipline of Time

Breaching the Discipline of Time

Someone once said

I wasn’t born

for the thick prose

of hard labor,

insisted I was pure

and agile,

like the sea breeze,

a wave of fragrance

in the petal of a rose

breaching

the discipline of time.
Aren't we all?

In the Woods

In the Woods

We found each other in the woods.

His touch did not alarm me.

It provoked a soothing sensation 

as if I had been slightly salted.

Our cars were still running.  There were cats

everywhere, wild cats on the prowl 

wanting to mate.  We got out of the cars

to talk but soon enough we were touching

each other.  The silence was thick.

We allowed nature to watch.

Aubade

Aubade

I want us to watch

the dawn

while our faces turn

toward each other

and the clothes

we wear burn off

in the newborn light.

You said we should always

be brave.  I try to be

every morning over my toothbrush

and the waning stars.

I stare through your eyes,

your firm heart

beating peaceful rhythms

with determination

and a brush of bells. 

haiku

old calendar… 
a museum of Mayan 
tapestries 

Your Name

Your Name

It is time

for me to crack open

my skull,

see what’s inside,

invent a new way of looking at things. 

I know I am dying

but why should that make

a difference?

People die one day at a time.

I shall build a house

that will stand forever,

with a smile folding at the corner

of my mouth, and a star sitting

on my tongue

like a stone around which

your name blossoms

distorted

Haiku

old calendar …

I let the dead sleep

as they deserve

For the days when the lights switch on and off by themselves

For the days when the lights switch on and off by themselves

and all the voice messages are from enemies

or other people

Only the good old days

lie

between verses

we have already written

For the fruit of fear in each December

Will this be the year

earth refuses

to forgive us with a blush of green

For the assumptions

of next winter’s chill

and for the quiet days in between

Your face mingled

in the poinsettias

after a brief rain  

haiku

waning moon

trying to touch

what matters

On my Bed Thinking About You

On my Bed Thinking About You

If I could touch

without hurting you

I would run all the way to the river

and back. 

But nothing has changed.

You are voiceless,

crouched

in some long-forgotten childhood

hiding place,

a dark jungle where every tree

looks like every other tree.

I long for your scent,

your knees pushing against

my thighs,

but what is asked for is often destroyed

by the very words that seek it.

My bed is a fossilized prison

where I learn to make love to you forever.

haiku

window shopping…

the conversations we won’t 
be having

Haiku

shrouded moon— 
feeding a chicken 
to the boa

Eulogy

Eulogy

For Yorelys

Beaten, raped, and murdered,

our child lies in a coffin

brutally deserted.

What monsters with nightmares

hidden in their eyes

do things like this?

Neither day nor night

can heal her now.

Soon the heat will fuse

her lurid eyes 
to diamonds

her sullen tongue

to quartz.  

Then she will fly

and never bleed again. 

Ghost

Ghost 


A dark jungle, 
looking like a dark jungle,
is where I am never quite myself.
I don't want to trip 
over its silence.


I don’t want a life apart 
from the pain I conceal 
from portions of myself,
from your voice crying 
to someone else 
come play in the rain, love.
This is not the same summer rain.


Our first season of separation
I counted dead roses 
in the back yard.
I didn't write our names on the mailbox.
You couldn't listen to my dreams.
I couldn't question yours.


The scars are there. 
I don’t know how many years I spent 
trying to forget, afraid of how many years 
I spend trying to remember.

Haiku

twilight— 
a hawk builds its nest 
in a windy place

haiku

new year’s morning...

the hawk builds its nest 
in a windy place

Seasoning

Seasoning

My eyes are rehearsing

for when the winter solstice ends.

As the light wanes I see

what I thought was reluctance covering

my face.  I want to expand

every moment into an emotional chemistry

that includes the smell and texture of

every lover I’ve had.

But the solstice is ending,

old recalled lovers who look

like glasswing butterflies

stretched across other summers

find the pot of gold at the end

of my rainbow.

A Litany for Survival

A Litany for Survival

For A.L.

An elephant walked into my bedroom

reciting a litany for survival  

She spoke about her brown mother

and sister having died too many deaths

that were not their own 

She spoke about redemption

and a new religion

She spoke about winter people

taking off their blood masks

and monuments for the children of war

She spoke about hunger and blind feet

trying to find their way to the sun

She spoke about a greedy black unicorn

that was not free

She spoke about having two faces

and a frying pan to cook up her daughters

She spoke about two men with stone eyes

making love in the hallway

they were lying like felled maple

Soon the hallway was covered

with these beggars
and I couldn’t pass over them
Perhaps I wasn't meant to survive

Caetano Veloso

Published Haiku

fading light…
the steady thrum of rain
on the windows




plowed earth…
bullet-riddled boys
littering the streets






vacant sky—
a graveyard angel rising
above the pebbles




hurricane season…
the severed branches
still green




autumn rain...
I collect my thoughts
and turn a page




moonlight moiré …
autumn waves foam
on the sand




shoulder to shoulder
we stand at his wake...
autumn rain




boarding windows
the hurricane moves closer
to my island




autumn twilight...
crossing the river
stone by stone




sloping hills
now and then
a crow caws

At the End of Night

At the End of Night

I exist

to be conquered

I, set against all other I’s,

even nature, am a stillborn

poem taken out

of  my mother’s pain. 

Once I was immortal

beside the sea

condemned to endless mornings,

empty of the knowledge

of manmade rituals

until out of my mouth that knows

came the shape I was seeking

for reason.  

Now I am lost among 
the stiff trees.

Haiku

autumn deepens …

the taste of rain

and sunset

To the Survival of Lizards

To the Survival of Lizards

Call me

Narcissus for I complain

of being lonely

call me what I miss

whatever it is

call me lizard and arrogant  

nightmare on your blood moon

your itch to destroy

the indestructible

faces of important men.

Call me diseased

with problems of original sin

because of my worries

call me your myth of father

and son

your determination

in the most conceited image

within me

for I am you

in your most moral

assumptions

scuttling through the cracks

created to admit me

in your living rooms

my honor

comes with your hate

by imitation

and your refusal

to live on.

Haiku

red moon 
summer falling away 
from the trees

That Side of a Shade of Sorrow

That Side of a Shade of Sorrow

My daily crucifixion

is to be alone.  

My voice has that side of a shade

of sorrow,

it is calcified.  Perhaps from the anger

of both

my father and I. 

I dream incessantly

about us working in unison,

but my dreams

eventually turn into nightmares. 

I just realized

my home

is not his house

I am free to come

and go as I please.  The altar

has fallen,

and I shall learn to conquer yes.  

I never loved you,

so free me

quickly

before I destroy us.

Paper Thin Walls

Paper Thin Walls

He speaks

in a scorching voice

inventing what he cannot promise.

I wonder if my neighbor

listens

to my toilet flushing,

believing

the other is always lying

in wait.

Nation

Nation

Look mother,

I peeled away your anger

and stopped building

sand castles

by the sea.

The nation

is riddled with thieves

and no door opens easily.

My childish dreams?

Fulfilled, and laid to rest. 

poem was entered into a competition

poem was entered into a competition

The Deadly Mirror

The Deadly Mirror

Inconclusive thoughts

are what I hear inside my head:

because the mind’s eye lit the sun. 

Must I give up the world

to be saved?  Shall I forget

his lips on my nape to write

what I perceive to be a new earth?

My imagination flutters like a swallow,

and cries like a hungry baby.

I sit and play the saxophone

in self contemplation.  The mirror

tells the truth, but not enough

to merit constant thought.

I am folding inward over

and over.  Six inches of words

and I am betrayed, hypnotized into

believing I have achieved

all there is to achieve in this art.

Therefore, I start a new contemplation

of the swallow and I listen to the fragment

of phrases like Imitations, Life Studies

and Notebook. I will never find the one

flower that sustains all the earth.

at the hospital

at the hospital

a sudden change

in temperature, malady

of autumn

I am utterly empty

only a name tag to identify

me as survivor

tulips search for me

but in this winter light I have

wanted to efface myself

the air is calm

yet tulips fill it like a loud noise

I must concentrate

commit myself

to rest, place all my attention

on taking it easy

Headache

Headache

Soon I’ll be a fugitive

of my own skin, raw.

I’ve chosen the rare

sensation of  tainted

blood to outfit my

bow of thorns.  Today

I will not clutch a fist

in the wind’s sneer,

nor will I disenchant

my examiners. I will

wait for the postman

to deliver the world turning

from my rented attic;

wait for the headache

to ease, or go away

all together.

Rain and Sound

Rain and Sound

Listen to me as one listens to the rain:

we are distracted once again.  Night

approaches with its dense cloak of fear,

an assault for which there is no cure.

It is never winter here,

yet the hibiscus have been censored

like men trying to show their affection

for each other.  Air, water, and flower

there is no weight in these words.

Night has the figurations of mist.

Listen to me as one listens to the rain:

(Censor my desire for writing you poems.)

Not attentive, not distracted, only as if

I were the rain. Hear me out until

the asphalt is wet.  You are you

in night steam.  You enter my eyes

as your steam crosses the street. 

The sun does not varnish the curve.

We are both steam.   Steam of another

censored flower, lotus.

Haiku

city of enemies…

wet hibiscus glisten

in the light

Haiku

love crimes…

the imprint of a fallen angel
in the line of fire

Deep Within

Deep Within

The alchemy of inner worlds,

Can I possibly explain it?

The chemistry of silence

Hidden deep within to protect

The unborn word from the lions

Roaming about the middle earth.

The comatose twin that does not have

The speech impediment and writes

Riddled poems in shorthand.

The rapture of inner worlds,

Can I possibly clarify it?

The strength is there, yet the will

Waits peacefully hidden from the mind.

A day like today I will find

The strength to sharpen the pencils

And sit down to write.

Haiku

summer night… 
the heady scent of gardenias 
and mown grass

Haiku

summer night…

the heady smell of gardenias

and mown grass

Un Solo Dolor

Un Solo Dolor

El sol se destroza en pequeños arcoíris para cruzar mi piel

y hacerme sudar como si estuviese acostado cerca de una tortuga

en el piso de un jardín botánico.  No quiero seguir viviendo,

solo espero que se apague mi corazón de un solo dolor.  Luego

me iré a dormir con alguna serpiente mansa en el casco de la ciudad

para no aburrir a los gallos ni provocar tormentas.   

Haiku

autumn dusk . . .

the creak of broken beams

in bamboo coves

Curled

Curled

Soon my heart will stop,

and I will balance my affections

against a different feather.

You won’t anticipate the pain

that rocks me, my soles curled

like a sleeping infant’s.

I will gather the lilies and set

them on our bed, but you will be

missing, absent, gone; going up,

going down, with a stranger

brushing your arm in a hotel

elevator.  Yes, stuck with another

man cruising and brushing his

arm against your elbow.

And I will not be there to save

you from all the gossip.  You will

slip away with him into a corridor

until you reach a door that he will

open.  Then you will enter the room

and I will be missing.

deleted

deleted

haiku

tiene credenciales 

callejeras, gata sin tejado

madonna de barrio

Haiku

butterfly kites flutter

against the ocean air

El Morro

Haiku

plowed earth

bullet-riddled boys

littering the streets

haiku

sloping hills
now and then
a crow caws

Haiku

the steady thrum

of rain on the windows…

late autumn

haiku

brisa salada sopla

sobre nuestros cuerpos

noche otoñal

The key you have not lost

The key you have not lost

                           

is there between those spaces,

not by or in, but flanked between

the here and there, living like a fugitive

on your skin. It is a prelude to our

memoirs, the text of a poem fused

with nectarines, an exploration

through Copper Canyon, visions

of Haiti’s angels licking my ears,

a hypnotic dance on sands

matching the colors that mesh

upon your hips, an experiment

we refuse to put down, an invitation

to cross the doorway of the home

I no longer occupy.

The key you have not lost

is not the manual for a digital

camera, or calendar entries

for next month’s readings. It is not

the Popular Mechanics article

you wrote to put food on our table,

or a classified add on craigslist.

It wants to be the bungee jump

into the pangs of a deer in heat,

the obituary of bolted doors,

or a listing for all the vacant walls

on which we'll scribble our graffiti.

haiku

from the text of a

slavers journal, words that give

history an iron taste

The Illusion

The Illusion

You punish me to provide

a spectacle of excess—tamp

my testicles with affirmations

of your power. Your mannequins blow

and breathe urgency

like naked bald-hydras morgue

between Santiago and Lima

where desert sands are voiceless.

What is different between us

is the intensity of our attraction.

Oh, how many nooses

I've stretch around the necks of gigolos

at cul-de-sac social clubs

where cellos moan

and mouths wilt as I listen

to tangos and pick up sugar

dropped on the table

trying to ignore the blood

on my recently buffed shoes.

On Family Days

On Family Days

You don’t try hard enough, she’d say.

All the while, his thoughts grow increasingly gray. 

She can’t smell the fear he inhabits,

a macabre work of art from which he comes and goes,

the run of wind at a deserted murder scene. 

She forgets, as he forgets, control

will arrive soon enough,

and that brachiated spectacle of blame

and praise will dissipate

like hurricanes dispel after they touch land. 

They’ll both be left wondering about the pieces

of debris, the river’s current,

and how much to fix of whatever comes undone.