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.

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.

Falling Angels

I time these minutes like something will be lost otherwise
the falling of the crimson leaves above my head,
the peculiar smirk of the sly squirrel perched on the corner of the fence.
I will marry the sun when it peeks one more time from behind the clouds
my temple of pure, unadulterated occurrences living outside of perpetual weeping.

These are only simple visions we can hope for in the coming days
those of natural life, still abiding by the order of things
unaware of the angels falling at the waist side
how many can we bring back to life.

It must be said again and again that hope can live on.
Will you marry the sun with me and sleep with the moon?
I have known many angels. I will not bury them under thoughtless men.

To Windows and Dreams

The end of the day
when the body rests in harmonious partnership with comfort
an oxymoron to uncertainty, the human will relive
its subconscious babble in the dream.
how many manifestations of destiny exist behind windows
when life is about choice and time is about limits
bury the rest in clay of different colors
body from the Earth, mind from the Divine
peering through the windows of what is lost
the sight of mounds and mounds I sleep.

I sleep now feeling weighed upon by all I have lost to the ego.
There are dreams to be had—in tonight’s I’ll be flying.


The day has broken into a piece of the night
The ground is pregnant below my feet after the rain
We are left wet with echoing screams
What a fool I have been to wish for the passage of time,
costume myself as the conqueror of life the faster it brings death
thunder claps and now we know more of hidden power
the shattered rib, the beating heart, ear to ear
self to self, self to sky, arms high
the spectacle has become familiar posture
enlightenment as a voyeur’s delight
God has given us life to know one another
(I know you too well to escape the screams of mutual thunder)
the Earth will wait as fertile body
human seeds sprouting violent and anxious for sun
we are wet with hope
He made us to know one another and it may never be
tonight you have life only to know yourself.

Midlife Critical

This is the midweek hump
The honey of my breath
I want sticky on my fingers
This is middle earth
tired limbs, aching bones.
I remember birth and death
come at the other end.
Sanity in intermediate flux
Here we stand. Middle ground
Hungry for equidistant passages to inspiration
Middle fear, mid life
Whys and hows and hopes
The book of ours burying thick
pages on its own in intimate layers.
They know each other too well—
sticky fingers can’t seem to flip to the end.