what comes from the pen but sorrow
swimming in hope, from the mind’s world
what will not become real runs in paces
through the imagination.

i dreamt in days of sunlight, tracing hands
piecing through my body’s landscape
to find me again present in your eyes is to find life.

in this world all is imagined
even what we see outside of our eyes.
so let it be parallel in separation and touch
until we run in circles to find the center.


and all the grief that left the bodies became crowded in the chest of trees
years of temperless cries eroded the vertical outline of the forest
for it wasn’t eden from which they fell
and created this stream of deceptive patterns
much to ponder from the view of a plateaued stone
much to know when the breeze carries the prayers of humble worship
hums the stories of forgotten pain, bodies of curved, eroded trees
volume of water stagnant, you were meant to leave this place
unaccompanied by sighs.


I facilitated nothing that meant permanence
so this context can be called something like
a home for a lost citizen devoid of tradition.
the others build homes with punctuated
decorations that wave based on the weather
of attitude and storms.

lost I decorated you in the resistance
because it was natural to
want to stop drowning             hidden here now behind the metaphor
behind moist parallels, the exits and entrances for light.

I can hear voices back here that dare to tempt growth
fantasize compassion, perplex us in years
for just one reason for being.
keep asking while I prefer to listen, she blessed my ears
with the hope for something not yet heard.

the shape of in between

in flux, in between words, in time
what haunts each side of consciousness
is destined to meet in the middle and complicate the future with loneliness
i wait in between and meanwhile absurd,
look towards the eyes that dot the landscape
in pairs of festive spheres and outlined
so deceptive in purchased shape, as if to swipe a set
without commanding speech is to find the world inside
a merry set, a pair-

air. can I continue as is, no matter what the time
no matter what ghosts immigrate below monuments
I can continue, heighten my voice, be satisfied by the sound
of questions that become echoes blinking in the absence of answers
existence itself is my refusal to answer the future with lies.

what have you given me, if not a single answer,
not even the path to a mutual smile
I wait in between, meanwhile alive and breathing
looking in the mirror at someone’s empty, wandering eyes.

water is still life

droplets fall from the sky
cascade from my eyes
as I am again deceived by
the presence of tears.
I long for you, the stranger
yearn for the tight night
the flood, choking on still water
in other words—I provide acceptance
to the mind deny the current, give it up
the one who continues to be nevermore
I know what you’re thinking
that the words mix when we can
breathe in between them
that the silent temple tomorrow
provide oblique heaviness for hope
and I was asked to create the impossible
recreate future, I walk with mirrors that fail
the shape of my body and fresh bloom
still the same, choking on still water
tastes so fresh, so much like a new illusion.

deep and empty promises

fallen, that, like worded air
scrolled, touched
and departed
the mind in regret to have forgotten the probable importance
of something great.

kept, in pockets, abstract
you are mocking me in your metaphorical sarcasm
and the sun is wide in its breath.

while so many secrets are caged in our pockets
I find it shameful
especially here.
I smell them like cold coins
waiting to buy freedom
aren’t we done, tainted by time
dead in your lack of air and revelation.

you told me the future, the upper reaches of the sky
would be blooming and kind, settled in their beauty
nothing more to tell about the insignificant
the parcels of tomorrow
someplace to rise
enough, enough
the more you talk
the more I dig.


so the animals can talk
about balloons and soaring to the sky
and the children can hear through
their eyes what those with
caged dreams have come to leave
unnoticed. only seconds before
I forgot to read, I mean the Earth
I mean the creatures that feed the Earth
what I used to imagine through words
in highlights of the sun, so does it mean
a life of writing sorrow
an ode to imaginations, some artificial
some glassed, empty quench can you tell me
under your hair so gray and aging
how you keep the fairies alive, the seated fish
the lonely sparrow whose home is now with
the storks, what are my words if they don’t prove
life abstract drawn by the evidence of a wandering,
maladaptive mind. I can’t take it back
your childish words, your magnificent story
born out of the palms of talking hands.

how water travels

there is nothing beautiful in crying storms from the screams of discontent
falls black into shadows without the reflection of light
beautiful tears can fall from my eyes in current at the softness of your voice
they travel after a song to my palms, the surface and the curvature of my fingers
when gently fisted from joy, they fall after the rhythm of these words as they move
from keys like a prayer, today I am suspicious
of the sky; the tears will fall like rain and settle like growth
and the children outside my window will become flowers, flippant and colorful with hope.

the city of this uncertain mind

you are not a grid as you were asked to be
so simple it would be                  to turn in the direction of home.
towards an oasis, at the center there is a garden
flourishing with scripted ideas, titles have been read and read
by others             they grow the ground as if it has been untouched by created things.
sidelined are the bodies, fertile but undisturbed by adjoining skin
left to find their way through the crowded streets, millions speaking in passages
in intersecting roads and the patterns of skylines, these borders play with daydreams
unspoken outside of the architecture of the wandering mind.

I return home in this daydream and all is as it should be, skin to skin
speaking the words that walked the winding roads of the city
hearing those of others as they contemplate what may never be.
the symbols drop reminiscent of the footsteps that have marked the ground
I know I have walked these roads before                   though they seem young
possibly built for a perfect world.

every sense and place of the word

time dissolves in this essence and doesn’t belong to me here
keeps my hands equidistant from the hazel light of morning
huddled to lose sense                will be safer than our relations
for haven’t you said what is subtle destruction is misunderstandings
what corrodes the borders of day         makes them dark and misty
is to stand           the skin that seeps along it joints
any attempt to grasp youth, to escape the whispers of gravity
I remain              spinned, aging skin distant from sense
from movement the road becomes empty and untouched
whether it will end at night or in day imagine
the mind broken before the bones, what a blessing
to not know the pain, to not know the beginning of the end.