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.

no borders

halt the abstract concept of a new land
sing to the skies for a deeper understanding
let me watch the highlights
run my fingers across the hills of those sullen eyes
it will be us swimming the boundaries of this Earth
never to find a resting place for wonder.

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.