lo que veo es lo que quiero

you are in my sights

&

i can't look away

Dear Olive,

It has been a long time since we spoke. That's not unusual

for people as busy as we are. I do think about you from

time to time. Sometimes it might be one of your songs

that comes up and catches me at rapt attention. Other

times I remember some of the words you have written.

Last night you came up in a late night conversation at

a bar. We were having drinks, discussing literature and

the like (I'm sure you would approve). I've been thinking

a bit more about feet, (un)stressed syllables as well as

building realities with a sense of plausibility. Basic things

that make me feel like a beginner on some much longer

path winding through the forest in the fall. There is a

certain romance that springs forth from people when

discussing, the 'Art', the 'Craft'. It's a lovely idea but I'm

not sure how much of it I believe. There is always more

to say but finding where to end the line is a skill unto

itself. I hope these words find you in time.

Sincerely,

_____________________

Willful Isolation

This fiction writes itself easily as you sit in front

of that infernal screen. Your laughter is canned,

howls at me like a beast on the savannah. My

hands run restless as the shadows leap between

a supposed intimacy. You could call to me but

never do. I could call to you but relent to your

familiar isolation. The bridges break down,

collapse over the harbor, blocking any vessel

from entering or exiting.

eyes without a face

You stole my eyes a bit

too easily.

I stare blankly

at nothing at all.

the night ran away from us

beneathe a blur of sound and

hazy action. living in darkness

is not as bad as everyone

thinks it to be.

Are You Just Like Me?

The light

was lost

before I

ever had

the chance

to find

it in

your eyes.

another incomplete fragmented idea

the pendulous weight of your head

pulls you down slowly, stopping every

few steps to straighten yourself up.

A Preferred Method Of Sanity

Spitting out words by the key stroke

is a simple relief to minds dragged

to the gutter of disillusionment.

Better than taking ones fill of drink,

better than the empty arms of a stranger,

better than the isolation of a darkened room

with no clacking keys to be heard.

This creation is an act taken in solitude,

in need, in desperation, in heartbreak,

in drunken rapture, in depression, in

hopes that salvation within grasp.

What The Night Does During The Day

restless night wakes up

earlier than it cares to,

looks around at the hazy

grey, goes back to sleep

until the setting of the sun.

The Loneliness Of Winter

Winter sings lonely from her canopy bed,

a kingdom of glacial white and leafless

branches marks this passing season of

death. Songbirds lay quiet as the beasts

slumber in wait for better times. Snow

falls from her face, cascades softly to

the ground with the gentleness of a kiss.

Winter, how lovely you are in this

frozen isolation. Winter, how lonely

you must always be.

Bury Me In The Sky

Let this useless form feed

those of carrion wings. Let

them descend and rip flesh

from bone. I will ascend to

eternal pastures as the empty

vessel returns to its earthly

home. Do not avert your eyes.

Do not shed tears for an

impermanent form. "Everyone

before you has died, so shall you."

The Ring

It speaks of ancient bloodlines,

connections birthed through the

flesh of father and tongues of

ancestors forgotten to time. It

is a small token tying an uncertain

present to a golden past. Uxmal,

Mayapan, Palenque, Kabah,

Tulum, Xcaret, Xel Ha, Izamal,

Tunkas, son lugares que yo a

conocido en otras vidas.

dedicado a la extranjera.

Let's Be Clear About This

It's good to be clear about

what is being written and

talked about from time to time.

Other times you wish to hide

yourself behind masks of your

making, disappearing in

your minds eye to somewhere else.

3 Tankas

I.

Forgetful

The past always comes

back to us. It never waits

for our memory.

It is easier to let

it return at its own pace.

II.

Concentric

The endless cycle

of being spirals like a

whirlpool in the sea.

Water swirls into circles

taking us to the next life.

III.

Promises Made

Lover, waking you

slowly in the morning light,

kissing your warm cheek.

Eyes open slowly in the

new dawn. Our promises kept.

Compass

After my father had passed away I began to look

through his personal belongings and found some

thing I hadn't seen since childhood: his compass.

I was twelve when we went hiking to a forest about

an hour out from the nearest town. We started

early in the morning and walked until our hunger

forced us to eat. We ate some of the trail mix my

mother had prepared along with a can of beans.

Green and brown covered everything. The rays

of light coming through the forest canopy made

me feel like we were in church, not the phony

church everyone goes to on Sunday mornings

because they have to but, church as it was meant

to be. Aside from the sounds of our steps all

you could hear was the wind, creatures scurrying

at our encroachment, the bird songs calling back

and forth. As night began to fall I asked my dad,

"Are we going back home now that its getting

dark?" He said we were since we didn't bring

anything to sleep in. "As soon as I find my

compass we'll make our way back." He dug into

his pockets and into his bag, his movements

became frantic. "Do you have it?" I asked. "I'm

sure I do. Let's not worry about it. We'll make

it back just fine, I'm sure of it." We started back

in the kind of silence that you can only find in

the forest. New sounds surrounded us in the

coming darkness. Every stick and twig that was

trampled underfoot sounded like the cracking

of bones. We founds ourselves back at the car

beneathe the full gaze of the moon. I had never

felt so relieved. I fell asleep as he drove us back

home. When I woke up the next day I asked him

if he ever found his compass. He placed the brass

object with a cracked lense in my hands. As I looked

more carefully at it I saw that the arrow had broken

free and sat uselessly on the face.

Question:

Do you

want

desire

OR

Do you

want

control?

Beautiful Grey

old scars run deep through asphalt in dark lit corridors.

---------

spit out a few hackneyed words

to fulfill an obligation.

--------

its never as beautiful or as ugly as you think it is.

-------

Wishful Fiction

there is a grace in your eyes

I cannot escape.

let me feel your silken hand

once more, fingers gliding

softly over mine.

grabbing you by the hips,

drawing you into myself.

where did this night go?

Good Company

smoke wafted from your lips into the stillness of

the late night air. your hand reached over to mine,

handing me the device of our sublime relief.

breathing deep, sweetness filled my lungs.

we exchanged stories of hope and heartbreak,

discussing the lessons learned from life's even

hand. the sleeping world dreamed while we

spoke of all possible things. holding each other

close, the silence of the city spoke of all our

words left unsaid.

Reminder

I hope you don't forget.

Do you want me to call

and remind you?

Ok, just make sure you

remember.

It's very important.

Love you too.

Burial

On hands and knees, she was practically praying

to the tree and its roots. The dark and moist hole

of dirt held one precious thing. The cream colored

box sat there patiently, waiting for its eternity in

the ground. She started tossing handfuls of dirt

over it, sullying its flawless facade. The color of

cream lessened, disappeared completely. Once

the soil had refilled the ground she stood and

stamped the dirt down with her feet. Black soil

clung deep to her fingers and below her nails.

As she walked away, the wind whistled through

the leaves, a scattered few fell to the ground.

10 10 10

We are easily captivated by the beauty

of a perfect numerical sequence. We

marvel at it like a newborn child or

a windfall of wealth to a friend. There

is nothing mystical in these sequences

other than the logical progression of

one number to another. It still looks

pretty. Perfect numeric symmetry,

achieved through no other means

than simply being a natural order.

Two Trains of Thought

There is a certain sadness to fleeting moments

we had together.

______________________

Bricks have no means to create,

only the potential to do so.

fr agm e nt

caught in your safety, the days

pass like months. a pattern of

predictability guides the actions

of your days.

Finding The Ones Worth Suffering For

it is a search without end.

never forget that,

stranger.

we search

and find and

search

some more.

never quite content

with the game

or ourselves.

seul

We are

alone

as we've

ever

been.

The Mirrored Hand Of History

Memory mirrored itself

the other night.

Saying goodbye in much

the same way

we had done before.

Falling away

from the weight of

it all, it was

for the best that we

said goodbye

again.

Maybe In The Next Life

Concentric circles

staring into mirrors

reveal the only

truth we'll ever

need to know.

Couch Sitting

Sitting across from each other on your couch

we were as close we'd ever been. Feeling that

attraction once more, the light which had

brought us together. I wish I could have had

you again, forgetting what had happened

and believing in second chances for just

one night, to show the world it can be done.

Getting To Bed

You are already under the sheets when

I get to the bedroom. Lifting the covers

I sidle in besides you and cover myself.

Listening to your heartbeat,

lull me to sleep,

Listening to your heartbeat.

The Ocean Is Falling From The Sky

Endless dream changes from

night to day to

night to day.

_________

The Ocean Is Falling From The Sky

Predator

tiger prowling in his enclosure,

snarling at the tourists snapping pictures.

ready to strike, ready to embrace

the wild once more.

le coeur de la nuit

the invisible tide comes in

through slatted portals.

gooseflesh on your skin.

recollection wanders deeply,

a night of silence,

le nuit et tu seul.

P.O.V.

Sometimes

I'm just

a spectator

in my own

life.

Debtors Prison

always a debtor,

always beholden

to another.

captured,

caged,

enslaved.

Sirens of Morning

Sirens blare through the silence of morning,

a nuisance to some,

a matter of life and death

for others.

The Birds of Morning

they sing their song through the leaves,

call to me lover from tree to tree.

sing your song through the leaves,

dawn breaks beautifully.

Drama Queen

Don't make me laugh at the obvious,

we're both still here, isn't that enough

to prove the point we've battled for?

I swat the fly buzzing by, looking at

you, what more can I say?