purpose

this is naive
this dress, this heart
it will live outside this body
and talk              as death surrounds it

what else is there to do
the wind says no more for you
the sky scolds, only color left to give

down pink clad woman, heart known to all
death will find you too, quiet
regretful of what never lived at the hands of your love.

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my son at the end of a love story

he weeps
solitary, dark
without knowing what
others will think
when he comes into his body.

he watches
the lovers embrace,
separate and then imagine what life
would have been like
had they not been torn apart.

I tell him
be a man focus on strength
continue dropping those heavy tears.
the women who will know you
will thirst at the thought of your love.

it rains again and again in my mind
at the thought of his tears
moistening the ground
of our dry, neglected Earth.

here he is trying to play the song from the end of this film.
can you guess the movie?

Writing and Knowing

I’m feeling inspired by the poetic guidance in The Poet’s Companion: A Guide to the Pleasures of Writing Poetry. Presently reading the chapter “Writing and Knowing”… hence the name of this poem.

Writing and Knowing

I know the kitchen, the confines of its smell
sometimes escaping the borders
of acceptable behavior. the waft, the clouds
the cycle sourced from my hands.
this delicate surgery has transformed into
an excellent prognosis, bubbling
but cohesive, wet without being soup
love without being complicated.
sit with your shoulders up. elbows
off the table, on the table—it doesn’t matter.
service is inconsequential, shape is a secondary thought.
we are empty stomachs and full hearts released
from responsibility.
our destiny is no longer in my hands, maybe it never was.

reading

kindness in the book I hold
before me, resting in the calm of my lap
it is in these solitary moments
that I remember intimacy lost
turning pages and the soft touch of words.

forget me not beyond this window
speed rolls by in cars, the wind,
the rush of a child’s legs
escaping the confines of home.

here in rest, the quiet title
yelling in the mind more,
more, tell me more about why
you love this world and
our uncertain place in it.

The Preacher

You are a beautiful skeletal inspiration
projecting truth, provoking emotional congregation
humans can’t help but respond
eyes can’t help but correspond.

Isn’t that how it has always been with love?
The sound of the wind gives up telling.
The brightness of the sun gives up blinding—
all is matter not mind, ripe fruit
without an avenue to reincarnation.

Fallen, this body into the ground.
Achingly present in this Earth.
Forage me now so I can be found.

Colonizing Relationships

I loved not knowing you for those longs legs
of time, of distance in thought
pulled you out of an abstract ocean
for new tastes.

Commodity is a flower of comfort
you thought meant love
transcendence in the highlight of company.

I am the new age, the colonizer of body and ideas.
Translation is loud, thought is a catalyst to movement.

I continue to reproduce, reap from the gardens I find
pull bodies from the oceans we buried them in.

Graves are the honors we dig.

I came to you puzzling words. Translation is loud,
I expected you to find the pieces
of my body.

the passages of suffering are thundering in your eyes

until I become your speaker, your menacing clouds

we prostrate together side by side irrespective of Gods
claiming answers.
you prostrate to your world for all it knows of pain.
I hold the weight of my head.
I know what my people have done.

Retreat

in the tradition of holidays lost to anger
I revolutionize the art of walking away into compartments of the mind
retreat is permissible if meant to ignore the dark shape of eyes
rural minds ask no more from forgotten lovers
the freshly washed skin or the salted scent of ocean air
here is the intertwined physical harmony where I am no longer a child
the sand receding below my feet is taken to a place of greater meaning
some wholesome shore where you find what you want in cherished love
where I am who I promised you I would be, the ordinary and unspoken.