narrow rows

this life has sharpened me like
a fine blade from afar to quell disaster
with precision,                   can only now we saturate ourselves
in candlelight vigils. as they must rise, rise in states of anger
rise not for the petty things, rise in the heat for defusing pleasure.

halt the expense of their graves             they multiply without our voices
the innocent seated erect, bodies seated
now rowed in narrow graves, rowed underground, above ground
they are marked as a consequence of our failure.

why as we are absent and spaced from the heavy pockets of the devils
we are ever so present as they tell stories with no names
smooth the resolve of sharpened blades. we join
to serrate the valleys with our hands.
we take our children back, seat them erect in the rows
of their classrooms, in the narrow hope of their futures.


Language and thought

I try to tell you I love your words
but mine fall clumsy on the surface of the table.
Misunderstood accolades dropping.
I try to tell you I smile, I know the book.
chapters resemble the same story, resemble kindling
turn to ash at the touch of your hands.
Today the letters are not dry, they swim through the air
like parcels in the sea waving a traveller to land.
I try to tell you I hear music, coherent sounds, hooked
by the raw beauty of understanding.
We are full, finally satisfied by the mutual lust of silence.
Your eyes tell me you are flooded with visions
hello, I can breathe underwater.

from time to time

everyday is risen amongst our people
who hold the tragedy of the sun’s demise unrecognized
prepare for each other, stretch the Earth for feasting
and the table for drink, the uncertainty of the future
only a consequence, for finding the beauty of days
as I am alive, I am guilty of grabbing this life from time to time
chasing its many desires and falling on patches of regret
even the horizon must forgive the darkness for not loving its skin
with all that has come and gone, when the morning welcomes the day
I only hope to remember your name.


of the past
she brought down stars
with her hands
and caught them in the vessels of her palms
a child’s god
until death found its
way to the fireflies ahead of their light.

of the present
the feet he owns
even the cracks
that leak words
I cannot reclaim in this language.

of the future
to be inside this vessel
embedded in deep colorful light
protecting our memories, our languages
making translation
for me to know you.

the fireflies below
the feet moving backwards and forwards
the flowers weeping to know more
the world, immortal only in my mind.


I wake.
There is beauty.
It is not the grandiose type of beauty you imagine.
The distorted reality of a passing cliché.
In a golden sunrise along the horizon.
A gentle sweetness in the morning bird’s song.
That window’s edge.
That bright epiphany.
That sweet aroma carried en masse by an eager wind.
I have found its partner in wake.
Its senses in subtlety.
It is momentary
and the shocking acceptance of what is life.
All is good. What is known.
That at this moment I am in the context
of nothing special, out of a paltry dream,
a life better settled and a failure to plan the
possibilities, a growing mind, stronger
in obstacles. Isn’t it towered upon bittersweet?
The years of contemplation—
to arrive at such simplicity,
to embody surrender, the living and the lost.
Give me the moment.
Can I call it hope?
Becoming I, becoming the beauty,
the subtle rhythms of shared breaths
and interrupted meaning found only in silence,
breaks, contemplation, join fire and water with morning light
and you, my remnant, my souvenir,
replace the possibilities.
Let it be all, all sacred at this moment. Risen.
This anomaly,
this latent premise given only a second to live.
Peace of mind sudden. It is worth a lifetime of understanding.

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.