Not a Lie

To say I stumbled across your picture would be a lie.
To say that I saw 2 pairs of eyes looking at me,
1 familiar, 1 unknown,
and I was not at all surprised
to find that once again
you were not alone
would be a lie.

To say that I was relieved by the debut
and that the joy in your smile
buried all doubts
that I was ever over you
would be a lie.

No.
To say I never searched my mind
for those few good moments we had
and wrapped myself in every micro-second
of your flesh and breath
and grip and grin
and laugh and wrath
and every molecule
of space that you
took up within me

would be
a lie.

White

I seek sun like a Pilgrim.
The cascaded beams
are my holy waters
and I am filthy.

The stench of heat,
the aroma–
my moans stick
sugary sweet
to the insides
of your cheeks.

I breathe through
your nostrils and ache
when you drift between
awake and asleep.

And when I see white,
I know I am home.
The blinding color
of my versatility:

I am everyone’s and no one’s.

I have one T-shirt
I keep rolled up
in a heap, stuffed
in my wooden drawer.

And when I smell fire
and sage, I remove it
from its cave
and dip my nose
in the throws
of blue-hued
memory.

You are sawdust.
You are a workshop.
You are oily rags
of motor fluid
and cheap laundry soap
weaved between layers
of cotton Hanes
undershirts.

I nightmare often:
that we are strangers
in the dust storm
and we pass each other,
walking aimlessly
in the White Out.

But upon awakening,
singed hairs round my face,
splinters wedged deep
between fingers,
I feel your mass:

the warm weight of your eyes.

Bullets of Sound

I dreamt I got shot,
the pierced flesh
blood-whipped
and hot.

The imprint of your
lips, the comma
splice kiss
so new.

The swivel of hips,
the break of bone–
synco
    pated.

I bled clear fluid,
licked tears off
threads of
regret.

Cursed unctuous
air, the rain dangles
moisture
and sin.

Falling backwards I
lifted a solemn
chin to
smile.

To gush and spasm,
to suck and bellow,
I thank
bullets

of sound that repeat,
greet my memory
with ice
and lead.

 

 

Ameloriated Bursts

I was looking for the dark lessons.
The outline of a storm cradled my face
every time I looked upon the past.
And it was time to banish
the flash of every wintry season–
freely create heat,

friction
to warm my veins.

Emerging from the wet cave,
youth in my eyes,
memory-thickened hair,
a love spell on my lips,
I engineered a figure,
each shape co-mingling,
dancing, morphing,

and you:
the door left open.

Pan-handling to my demons,
it was as if I bled
a buffet
of poisoned tonics–
and into the dust,
out came the rest,
ameloriated bursts,

us two,
free to collide.

Dual Fool: A Curse on Memory

Like the pages of a newspaper,
90° and perpendicular
angles fold,
deep creases
form order of content,
such a sound structure.
Oh! The ease with which
one reads them,
then throws the stories
in a smoky hollow
of their mind.
Only to be retrieved so rarely
and yet owing so much in rent.

Let’s cut to the chase:
The uncontrollable
addiction to thinking,
and how it creates
the refraction of body light.
The mind hoax
screaming like a banshee,
“You fell for it again.”

I am in love with
the replay function.

Can’t live with them.
Can’t live with them.

Forgotten syllables
from crowded parties,
silent invitations
to your bed,
rejected nightmares
of floating orbs,
an expansion of the forehead
and of the shrunken ego.

A plural dual fool
I have become:
too many bare edges,
my center uncageable,
and with aura-splitting nausea,
my memory wounds
weep comfrey oil.

Your poetry refuses to die.
The wisps of brain matter,
warp into a fucking vermin trap.

And here’s where a shadow resides,
the gulps of its fingers,
the tingly, wet warmth
of words escaping its mouth
and snaking inward and upward.

I avoid blank pages,
quiet moments,
and empty glasses of liquor.

For when I hear you in those silences,
I abandoned the moment,
so I may sit,
fondle the tendrils
of vapor that slide
through the cracks.
I allow the sickened passages
to widen,
so I may inhale poison gleefully,
leaving behind blanket fire
of heavy want.

I am a snail,
bathing in salt.

Echoes of Scents

Echoes of scents linger,
the Patchouli-sickened gaze
back into my memory tomb
is a vertical slit upwards,
blood that pours evenly,
stains in patches,
grips fabric in concentric circles:
Venn diagrams
of all the reasons I left.

I’ve decompressed from you.
Gone to the desert and back,
gulped men and women like fire.
My inked flesh scarred over,
leashes unbuckled with teeth,
chains undone with feet,
I had bare skin illuminate
like moon veil and sheen,
and all wind-chapped regrets
leaked into the Earth
like whiskey spit.

And then things were lit
with matches:
a photo,
every haunting crescendo
whining from speakers,
and that downright
terrifying smell,
where I shelved you
and let you collect dust,
where water drips crisp
each page,
enveloped between layers
of black romances.

And there you ghost my evenings,
light the river of oil,
until I am an ocean of burning.

The Center

The smallest of wispy threads
spewing force,
sucking the lava hot current
of life, together
concoct the universe.

Not the dog,
nor the horse,
not even the mouse
is denied.
It’s an all or nothing
raw deal
of inclusivity.

One is likely to go broke.
Being that well connected,
resurrected, suggested
friends appearing
and reappearing.

Be lost. Get lost.
Find where
you’re lost.        And there.
Feel the primordial
compass tick,
a bass thumping–
no, not your heart,
the needle point edge
of passing over.

Masquerade

We wear many faces.
Removing and adorning
colors and shapes
with our skin flats,
weeping neon,
grinning child-like,
forcing every liquid
ounce down,
tasting anonymity.

Our naked masquerade:
shortcomings dissolved
to climaxes
to plateaus
to dark denouements.

With chest cavities spread,
drowned demons
met decadent
dooms,
timber for our resurrections.

I see you now more than ever.
Every layer as exposed as the last.

Desert Senryū

Unlike traditional haiku, the Japanese senryū tends to focus on human experiences and perspectives. I like to think of it as “Earthling stories.” These poems delve into our personal realities and revert the microscope inwards where human emotion resides, towards our hearts and souls.

So for awhile, we left the natural phenomenons at peace. Let the sun and moon rest. Let the wind and dust take a break. And we concentrated on our Earthling stories…

Woven patterns, a tapestry of fingers–
our voices, the force, the loud Let it gos.
I am here because of you.
You are here because of me.

Less is more

Ahhhh, what a success 2017 was! Back from the dust and the world is that much brighter, more appreciated, and full of inspiration! I had the lucky opportunity to share my love of poetry with the burner community and it was enlightening. I hosted a haiku workshop and the results were amazing. Why is it that those who deny their language abilities so vehemently end up being the ones who write the most stunning lines??? I was so impressed by my participants! Their words shined so brightly in my heart that I was high on their lyrics for the rest of the week.

Here’s one I penned myself, amongst my lovely burner companions.

Moon outside window

capturing light and crystals:

Proposals exposed