Coontree Mtn.

I can breathe again.

Light soulful shadows

taken in from the right,

forgotten from the left,

surefooted as mules

passing upside

the next mountain.

There are places here

where houses should have

been for a moment.

A haiku wavers but

is not mine.

Flat stones

knock against leaves.

A tree caught in the fork of

its neighbor catches itself again

three doors down with its own fork.

A trap against a patch ,

confederate clouds.

Bare branches

spidering this feeling

into my veins,   the

ups and downs of trees,

exposed roots like teeth

chartreuse moss,

hewn ends left for

something deep in my brain,

wood pecker-holes,

wind-driven, creaky doors

driven between earth and sky.

February 26, 2012.

Mariposa

Mariposa                                                   Butterfly

 

 

Soy una mariposa invisible,        I am an invisible butterfly

creado por las desilusiones.       created by disappointments.

Estas alas,                                           These wings,

aunque ellas parezcan bonitas,  although they look pretty,

nunca déjame descansar.            never let me rest.

El viento constantemente me levanta,   The wind constantly lifts

                                                                                  me,

me guarda de la desilusión,          guards me from disillusionment

al mismo tiempo esto me forma.  and at the same time shapes 

                                                                    me.

El sol me dirige                                     The sun guides me

y me quema al mismo tiempo.    and burns me at the same  time.

En el día, soy una mariposa      In the day, I am a butterfly

quién sueña que ella sea una mujer.   who dreams that she is a

                                                                            woman.

Por la noche, soy una mujer             At night, I am a woman

que sólo olvida sus heridas cuando ella vuela.     who only

                                                  forgets her wounds when she flies.

Iba a ahogar en estas penas          I will drown in these pains

hasta apagado, volvera       until I’m extinguished, then return

con alas mas brillantes.             with more brilliant wings.

Ellos dicen que este es normal            They say this is normal

para una mariposa.                             for a butterfly.

June 2, 2010

Quantum Physics, time, blah,blah,blah…

Me&You

 

We were synchronized metronomes

that didn’t keep time from the start –

a sandstorm of minutes and hours,

days, weeks, months

that blew by

 

marked validated on stamps,

 

star struck wickered and wonder-blind parked.

 

Two watch hands have stopped

atop one another.

 

Now we are everything. We are not

 

night riding the transcription of miracles,

 

stories told slowly across pressed paper,

faint, wood-scented pages,

 

early morning mist made of vapors rising left-over from cooler nights,

 

hot water poured carefully over tea,

 

divining each other

once time’s gone back right.

 

We could chose metaphysical cruelty,

a thousand imagined blows but don’t.

Instead we will be circles drawn over and around

each other with sea-smoothed sticks in sand,

 

marble carved to rise astride a shelf outside both sides

of the record book of life.

 

It is noon and we are two intimate beams

entangled in a box,

emerging from what was hidden,

cleaved to follow a path to the beginning,

communicating zeros,

unbounded,

continuous,

observably linear, but not.

 

 

August 31, 2010

Loving Spoonfuls

My god has been cooking all day,

sugar and oranges – not just any globular fruit will do—

made to set, beautiful pieces of peel,

gene-twirled

to keep men whole.

The Fish

You heaved and gasped so hard

that one end of your body

could have used that special force to curl itself

over and above the other end

of your body—

project itself right out of the white-white sheets,

through railing, stroke its way around a maze of beeping tubes,

and rise above the smell of things that are too clean—

to become her favorite painting, a silk-screened koi

happily swimming paired in circles,

belly full of messages.

Your lungs that used to be so silvery

sounded heavy as boots pulling free from bog,

the fighting suck of air between sole and wetness beat us to pieces

and we stood

horrified

holding on to anything we could grab, wishing

that false coin would slide from your tired chest

so we wouldn’t have to touch it.

Instead, it stayed there, a tiny ship caught between two waves,

swirling around memories of your true shoulders

as they heaved from the sea, viridian tattooed across freckles,

three passengers on your back

laughing, trying to glue

ourselves to your slippery surfaces

before we dove again

and all was silenced by the dark, green rush.

July 23, 2010

Matryoshka

 

She opens with a twist,

the intricacies of her little worlds

and sits on a little shelf

where radiation smiles upon her painted face but not her painted heart.

 

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Acrostics for a Few Weeks on the Peloponnesus

  

 

I.

Geometry is present in every surface –

Acres of glassy, gentian water, bay sipped from sea,

Lissome ropes of climbing flora hiding a neighbor’s house,

Impregnable shelter from ancient rays of sun,

Neat rows of sea urchins

Intercepting illicit, daily plunges through ichor.

II.

Nights when aunt did not cook

In front of a stove fueled by memories of your childhood,

Galaxies of stars twinkled above as we

Headed to the nearest port,

Taxied to meet the night ferry

The Janus Factor

The Janus Factor

          —In memory of Anyssia Escamilla 2/3/1994-5/11/2010

 

I can sit here in this studio laughing

at your crazy male antics,

comical lyrics,

never-ending hard-ons and such,

but the truth is that for

each of these priceless moments

and collective white energy,

something dark has happened.

 

You didn’t want her

sung lyrically

over your bass and tenor refrain

is a sad line indeed for the girl who was

dumped like trash this week,

a baby just taking root inside of her,

losing oxygen with each heartbeat.

How long does fifteen minutes feel

when you don’t know time?

It’s the exact length of a brain dying.

And this is nothing new,

the way the storyline

is passed around the wire.

So what if you had another child by another man?

If you were only fourteen at the time?

Honey, this one took away your choices

like a child snatching another child’s toy,

robbed you from the playground

because his family didn’t approve.

Well goddamn!  What’s a mother’s approval anyway

when you’ve got your bare dick inside of her,

you’re shooting your sperm inside of her -

and probably not for the first time?

We don’t know how you died,

only that your body was easy enough

to hide

in a trash bin,

grabbed by an automated arm

unseen by morning garbage men,

because some monster

didn’t want to be a father.

May 25, 2010

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