the 167th day

Who asked us to define freedom? To pluck at its string To make A chord of comfort; Freedom is not a word That should be used to Placate the masses, but make no Mistake, the masses are starving And will eat shit if that is what Is fed to them. But if we must, we must….

etymology

my mouth on yours is the word saccharine. my sigh is the word mystery. & what I give you is the word life. my retreating hand is the word home. my tongue is the word chaos. we are waiting to be read, you & I, to be painted, written and then to learn our etymology, our silence, the tenets of our…

February Poem

i There is a Sufjan Stevens song that makes me see: a circle of white, malleable fabric and you are in the middle and your hair falls over your eye–your right eye–and your clothing is white  made of earth and you move back and forth and back and your hands smooth your clothes to form to your…

touching me/you

Even now, I know you must be near a window, your soft mouth closed in contemplation and the light that is touching me is touching you and I think of the way your side must ache and how your heart must ache and how your mind must ache; but most of all, I think of…

date book

We are having the same conversation, you and I, as We had in August, when I held You close to me on that bed Before there were sides to the bed; In September, when I first opened A door, when the hurricane, when The silence; October, you so easily laid against My pillows And not…

gentle

I tried to open you, Unfold you– Gentle with your creases, My tongue along the Edge so I can softly Separate one of yourselves from The other. Who or what Should I worship? I am caught in a snare of Childhood decisions, Empty and naked but For my smile, an Algorithm with no Solving. I am…

magician

Welcome to Where jazz is played. The band is on a break; please Don’t touch the instruments or Walk on the stage. Please Find your seat and await the Return of the band. Can I get you A drink? A bite? A bit of perspective? You let me Know and I am your magic man.

yellowing

Is love only chemicals? And if so, why are those chemicals more real than the world around me? I do not pay attention to the grass, Because it does not grow in me. I do not see it’s yellowing as anything but Death–nothing tragic, only a logical next step. It does not Grow in me…

less

I’m now exploring long ignored Parts of the city Because I see your face less there The bricks melt less, I think of your lips Wondering if they are downturned Flat full pink Or bright red on pale Angel skin I watched your hands trail across the top of the edge And I wondered how…

imagination

I like to imagine you alone with your thoughts of me; how the wind may be outside your window, how the sweat is caught in your hair: I imagine you have turned off the light and your eyes have closed and you remember both my smile as well as the warmth of your own flush as…