The trouble with leaving home

I have not known this place until now
how the Earth seems to settle at dusk
and my silence is a disguise for a circus of thoughts
and intense contemplation. Seeking answers
as to what may live beyond the boundaries of comfort
guilt from frivolously accepting this as a condition of life
where my years have passed without tragedy
the days have been often alone, but not lonely
the middle of life, pensive without sadness
blooming without seasons. They say
my home is the country of empty promises
where everything is for sale, including our hearts.
Maybe it is true, maybe flight predicts the safest landing
but today I would sell my soul for contradictions
and a bit more time lost in the American dream.


how can I catch the poem running
through my mouth
it can’t remember the texture
of your lips, this aging mind complacent
of sensual possibilities
youth felt like this, soaking wet
views placid, crystallized
as if time shined without the need for sun.

how can I catch you running
reincarnated into new words
but the same body, aged only slightly
parallel trajectories
arriving in similar worlds that cannot touch.

it will never be as we imagine
lips cracked, the sun so strong
our mouths so thirsty.

Birth Control

I love you, I swear I do
an ode to all the stranded eggs
living in purgatory for my sins
a wise man (yes a man) once said
that a woman’s body remained
with a neglected mind
women hear the voice and tuck it away for safekeeping
until the invaders arrive.

how many more
will rise
from still waters before what unravels
cannot be put back together
the world screaming for us to plant new seeds carefully
those thrown frivolously are lost to the wind
the ones I grew
stand tall
penchant in disregard for this absurdity
this world and its flowering stares
understanding confusion, how humorous
a compensation for the forgotten destinies
that would have meant my death.

Open Casket

death should be closed especially when it is young
and his legs of the body are straight and the space is open below
his tight lipped curls they said would relax when he grew into a man
years tightened them around his words
until we could no longer hear the sound of his voice.
open death         silent, the living         cosmetic,
paint our bodies we will never stand upright
for fleeting pleasures
for lies told not to see
that the color left the cheeks of that boy years before
door shut tight, black and white
he lay in bed that night in the same exact position,
unable to save his own life
even when his mother said his name,
again and again.

For My Brother (The Only One Who Doesn’t Know Them Too)

bed of thought
I protest, you’re done
here too
sheets small, the sin of the father
the innocent man
only takes women without a ring.

we can never forgive
love helps
only if we’ve been introduced
I met you lonely
take comfort in the friends with pretty names.

no crazy medusa
no headless shark
no bodies to wrap and bury
say goodbye with a heart
it’s too hard to choose which one—the mother or the father.

Old Westbury Gardens

clouds of rhododendron, close to our Earthly surface
distant enough to consume oneself in visionary pleasure
close enough to invite each visitor for a fleeting, delicate touch
we feel today colorful hope, these gardens
lined with planned pathways of artistic design
the moments a performance of colorful surprises
this visage an open door to hypnotic scents.

imagine these fields in their infancy, divided for an entitled few
the fruits of labor from numerous, unrecognized hands
oh lonely garden—now open to the eyes of the world
to those who continue to grant us these gifts of uncompromising beauty
you are the clearest mirror of majesty and bloom.