Showing posts from December, 2011


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


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  


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.


window shopping… the conversations  we won’t  be having


shrouded moon—  feeding a chicken  to the boa


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  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.


twilight—  a hawk builds its nest  in a windy place


new year’s morning... the hawk builds its nest  in a windy place


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.


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.


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.