beautiful are your hands and face:

your hands, because they make

me see your face in a way

you are (and you are)

handmade. imperfections

(eyes i've never seen before

composed in such) display

your reflections, betray all

things inside: like a

dimly-lit liquid soul,

shaped in a volumetric

shell, not unlike

your eyes, so beautiful

the hands that made you are

you aware of how far

they reach?

1,000

the bitter cold- the kind that

drinks the warmth

from your coffee,

colors red

onto your face,

seeps into

your holey shoes-

that wasn't what shook

my trembling hands.

(death)

i was sil(houettes of a million planets,
a million suns halo heads
of granite in of a trillion tons
above the dark and breathless plain,
beneath the rings and rings of lights,
radiant and high in swirls,
and there, where sta(nding
at the street corner, again.
why did the apples always melt?
the puddled resin looked back to the sky.
above, a red light glowed bright,
i blinked back in reply, but
six directions, no access
unless i cross- i could break the rules
but the a steel-stream line of
c)ars would dance, unaware
of anything but orbit paths
millions of miles from the center
millions of bits of rubble quiver
in belts below, in velvet seas
reflecting the pres)ent for a moment.

surreality
like the morning haze,
denies its ascending
or descending
depending on if
you wake
and decide
to rise
or fall again
into
sleepy grays

embraced by a you-mold,
i subtly changed my shape
to include the presence
of eyes, arms, words. . .

when i woke,
a shape where you
had pressed against my cheek
when i wrote,
a smudge of ink
left on my hand
and when i left,
something on my tongue
so bittersweet

yesterdays and yous,
and evidence of
negative space

reluctantly,
bilateral symmetry
ends at the scale of a single body
one body ends a beat before the rhyme
i am literally short one
iamb
and unreluctantly,
my rabidly eclectic heart
swallowing those lost art looks from a form
rests on the left side, one dose at a time,
eliciting apologies
from me

(i tried find the shift in the line)

and the drums
fell
down
the
stairs

not unlike
a

d e v o l u t i o n

fast-forwarded.

i saw a tree undress for sleep,

a stoic beauty underneath the leaves

slow revealed in staggered fade,

falling

around a wrist and tracing lines

all rough and darkened, pressed against the sky

simple, naked gesture names

a reach

(then rest)

Awakened by the cold of day

she poses her arms with just enough grace

shivering in slender dance

that betrays her strength to stand

still

a silent structure much more pure

her silhouetted

form against the wind

makes my footsteps

seem

so

vain

when just enough grace sustains her reach

and the beauty of autumn is underneath.

i. amo

i drained the plastic cup too fast

to quench the august afternoon

remembering the august morn

when (for two hours) i sat with you.

cool, your words drenched and fell

on infatuated ears,

off the table, evaporated

you left.

but i though we could re-enact

our sentimental, seated dance

i thought, but then i never asked

you

twenty ounces didn't last

as long as i'd wished them to.

ii. avatar

from a chrome ceremony

next' bicubic glassy glow

flittering in bright-eyes blinking

flirting across the room

and

against the glass

shattering incandescence

reflecting on the vanity

of khaki shawls and earth tone-sneakers

clinking cups

and sounds of lips

sipping

drenched, and dripping

with liquid decadence

dharma evident in air

and smells

iii. eucharist

every time we are, it is

every place we go it sits

(departing) every time it rests

and waits a day for our return

in this place, every friend

a delicately made vessel

the meal isn't on the plate

but in eachother

common room confessional

and sometimes-chapels in our chairs

with cups that sip away our sins

and bread to eat away our fears

you and i are all we need

and it is here, amen

amen.

opportunity cost

are you bitter, mother branch

for weeping such a cost?

a leaf's a love at last sight,

a leaf's a love at loss

are you blind, old man winter,

pruner of all hands?

the cold's a crying forest,

the cold's a woeful land

november yawns at dusk,

til dawn's warm hand

touches her shoulder,

reluctantly, she wakes,

realizing

she's one year older today,

and so am i.

are you safe, darkened room,

a coffin like the ground?

a bed is but a seed's rest,

a bed is not a sound.

are you tired, empty road

of traffic's rumbling drone?

a passing car's a past away

a passing car's gone on,

alone.

and november yawns at dusk,

till dawn's warm face

brushes her shoulder.

reluctantly, she wakes

realizing

she's one year older today

and every time i wake,

i'm also one year older

than the day the trees began to cry

and this place became colder.

1962

you spoke a concrete womb,

a people being born

in a distant land away

from your only son,

they said your temples saved

and praised you when you came

neglected your departure

on a bathroom floor.

but to his eyes that saw

the towers same as they

and edifices stoic,

passion's abstract face,

saw ev'ry mocking ray

and shadow on the wall

remnants of a distant sun,

name without a sound,

every brick a tombstone

failed affections' resting,

and memories of your face

a dead-beat god of one.

now i cry with God,

paling is my artform

sounding up to His,

weakness under strength

thunder swallows heartbeats

storm drains swallow tears

even my delusions have delusions.

i can't blow kisses
sometimes,
and if by respiration
i sigh,
the leaves off of trees
like ideas dying,
like the torn-out pages
will only reach the ground
blinks before fate

is a funny word,
worn like a coat button,
worn like a shoe
it's alone in the cold.

sometimes,
i'm sorry for my lungs
to take in air
inside your door,
as if i did not walk
here in the cold
taking of my coat
for you-
but i am no leaf,
or page torn-out,
so i'm sorry if
i breathe a breath
of self-preservation.

articulation as a house would never work,

more or less like how i say the words

and it fails to make a frame

or a door to keep you safe.

(i'm tired of pens and pencils,

vocal chords, keys and screens

wasting all their precious ways

on all these abstract things.)

a house is a world and the world a house

inside out, telling you things

about themselves and about yourself

about you and me, if you listen closely.

(i dreamt i was an envelope,

your story lived inside of me,

i hid you from the sun with lips,

and dark flourescent lights and eyes

of sentries of a mess of lines

would never smudge a line of yours

inside a paper wall, locked away

with a kiss. )

half of love is letting go

half of it is doors and windows

the things that deny each wall

so dialogue can whisper out and in.

i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry.

every time i hear a step
on the creeky wooden floor
i hope it's you walking in
i hope, but know it's not this time;

as if you could be in one place,
as if your being was a state of "here"
that i was meant to enjoy
or not, if you walked out again.

i wish the world were just a room
and everything that it contained
i knew was mine, and concrete walls
sealed the things that were never there,

i could never lust again,
i would have no need to dream,
just the need to close my eyes,
here would be my state of being.

the world is the inverse of a room,
it is everything that hides outside
it is everything not in my mind
the world is a state of everywhere.

give me more of that

keep it up,

you can do it,

chin-in the air

anthem

a beat and a

beat again

and a repetition

pounding

not unlike

the organ drums

behind my ribs

the kind of strength

to keep my eyes

open, looking

forward.

a beat and a beat

and a beat and a

beat again,

pushing in ,

pushing out,

sigh

never known her eyes to rise,

soot with no seed within

rain with no hope of end

yes, this an only song:

"listen to the rythym

of the falling rain..."

every drop a rule reminding

splashing dirt, filling ground and

pixelating lowly hums

of funerals' forgotten drums.

for no flowers

are storehouses

like the silos

for our grain,

when some flowers

wither too soon

and out of season

fall the blooms

cursed by wind,

or word or cold

or heat or drought

or time (most of all)

-some have tried:

a florist's hand

at natural cloth

is no match

for looms in grass

and fields of waving thread.

you died too soon

(we would say)

and no more

are your petals

and for no flowers

are storehouses

like the silos

for our grain.

but we, weeping, try

to bring you back

fruitless is our hand:

our vain attempt

to change the season

withers like the grass,

again.

word's aren't perfect,

and neither am i,

you can see it

in my shoes:

threads unraveled,

sole near bare,

from gravel and glass,

from running and typing;

all the lefts

and rights i spoke

only to return-

"i'm so sorry"

doesn't change at all

the fact of the trail

or the taste on my tongue

or the shame i feel

when you look down

and see the wilderness

on my feet.

we built broad roofs,

wings upon wings

raising the rafters

higher, higher

avian homes, in our hearts

arose to shelter

dreams aside dreams.

(we drew the plans

in secret rooms

pens and trace

layer on layer.

lines unflawed

were hopes and hopes

to synthesize

an unbuilt hanger)

months and months

have passed along

since visions

of a nest had hatched,

now wings unfeathered

and rafters rusted

we have yet to call

the sky our home

i miss
the late night air
and the morning breeze
around cafe scents

i miss
the oaken leaves
and the red sunsets
behind the clouds, wisps.

i miss
the hum of cars
and the sound of your voice
over locusts' hiss

i miss
the cycle of the days
and the end of all this.

a man
is not
enough
instead
crawls back
into
an egg
each night
to hatch
each day
again the same.
his feet
a drill
into
a pore
the face
of which
will host
his growth
until
he flies away.

i.

you and i,
we are two houses
on a ridge of our realities
founded on philosophies
we are brittle, and square
and it is known that wind opposes
all perpendicularity
but almost unnoticed
the nuances of the air

ii.

the sky spits on the ground
the hail rattles on the ground
the way the windows also rattle
when the sound of thunder invokes their fear
and so each pane
in the sun is an eye
but in the storm
is an ear.

iii.

lanterns flicker
dancing tongues
speak out into the night
people move about inside
songs are sung as light.
you and i,
we must construct
such a glass around ourselves
so we may too
dance about
unafraid of weather.

i do know why,
but i do not know why
i dictate silent paragraphs
use sighs as exclamation points
and breathe in extra-deep.

something i have lost,
or not lost anything along
remains as black-stain letters
a cloud of key-stroked ink
too deep to speak with breath.

feathers belong to birds
and cursive words (permanent)
and to the air, floating free
and to my story, if only
described in silent breathing,
or something i have lost.

delamination

my pen will not last, it will run out of ink, alone, before i can say

a letter to (you):

i awoke to
an actuality
for which
i wished up a cure,
in which
i will swallow grains
of
sand
for days on end.
(for you)

until,
these transforming pills
reach the end
of each
(jealous) cornea
(apathetic) capillary
(indecisive) tendon
and it will
weigh
down
my
(overused) diaphram,
ridding my language of
those sighs.
next,halting both
(wandering) feet
and
(opportunistic) hands
to a still, quiet,
sleep.
and
then i will become a
sedimented form
that can

be

because
movement of these
ill-formed parts
create a make-believe
that i can not partake in
if
i
wish
for you to know
the real me.

(statues are monuments
and dwelling places
for the ego.
statues are not opaque,
but transparent.)

i will not last
when you discover
a new satisfaction,
reaching into wet-sand skin
of a malefactor (once in disguise)
and realizing that this
still form
should be
pushed
back
to
the

sea.

(you walk away.)

lung clocks push
each breath through
your lips
maybe i'm just buying
time
as i listen

unimpressed and stoic
she used her strut
to straighten sidewalks,
punished by each step
they nervously align.
her tongue lay heavy in her mouth
but steps betray her vision
behind those puddles
of caramel glass
self-sufficient eyes,
south of destinations.
sitting, he asks himself
why he dare bother
and before he said hello
he'd said goodbye
to embodied indifference
in the span of one stride
nothing more to offer
had she, but her stare
forward, and her pride
that floated on his two words.

defeated.

either way, i fell

and the greatest thing
to happen to me
just drove away
in a car.

been dying to try
something
and then the moment came
it was right there
for awhile
for eternity
it was a song

our hearts in the air
the waves found our ears
and soaked through the bodies
in the room
lost in the moment
lost in song
i traveled nowhere

then
your
eyes
knocked
me
down

from my flight
i lay on the floor
sobbing for when


i'd been dying to try something
and then the moment came
it was right there
in the fog
in the rain
it was you

lost in the moment
lost in your eyes
i once was lost

and i carry this, it's heavy
a weary blue-eyed soul,
but no american atlas story
a gentle serpent's hiss
not a prince's serenade
and i've lost all the pens
to write your name.

hand in hand
we ran behind
cars filled
with
all
our
friends

and

arrived
at a flat
filled with all
of nothing in it.

dust we'll go
maybe days
sooner than the others
but tracks betray
our ago birth

bitter we are,
bitter as dust.
and nothing
can grow here
either.

only water
is our tears
we chased
we followed
to
our
des___ation

so she stands in front of me,
still as her offer
hand outstretched
reversing fruit
i dare not taste,
i'm long past deciding


see, you and her
so intertwined,
so opposite,
you carry seeds in your palm
questions that feed a lifetime.

mother fate is in your mirror
she holds a needle in her hand
i write the word "intertwined"
in her eyes
my pen is weak,
my soul, not strong.

the longest half mile
side by side,
each step a tear
and stride a sigh
my left shoe, repentance
and penance on my right
i walk down sidewalks
of words and silence

i thought i'd left it
another night ago
on a ten-mile run
in a sleep of crying
but it came back fast
true as an arrow
the pen proves
my quick is no match

there's not enough tears
no number of sighs
to bring me out
of where i've tread
the longest half mile
i'll awake from
to find my self walking
again.

i used to dream
songs for eyes
your lovely lashes
were my muse.

i carry on because i carry this,
it is both weight and goal,
it is both smile and swallow,
down,

immeasurable distance
through visceral time
i drag it along
slowing
slowing

and i look back again-
my looming trail behind
my eyes feel the tracks:
it carried me as well.

bright suns await,
i wish i could promise

this

to you.
but i know:
like jewels sparkling in the dark,
you reflect some distant light
in a color

immeasurable.

i'm running in place,
wringing out a rag
ridding the fabric of every flavor;
aspirations melt when the
power
goes
down.

i'm running in place,
wringing out a rag
air is underneath my feet;
solar systems fall when the
sun
goes
out.


and every word on their lips
praises potential
and everything they do
looks so good on
paper.

and every one these people
has ground to run on
and every one their smiles
looks so good on
faces.


i'm running in place
wringing out a rag.
but i all do is lag behind
cars filled with
all
my
friends.