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.

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.