Miracles are an everyday 
occurrence with the right
perspective.

small tokens

Hands fall into one another as naturally
as rain reaching the ground.

Small comforts of warmth, tokens of affection
soothing unseen parts.

Caressing your nape, breathing you in-
you do the same.

The world grows silent around us,
the wind raising the hair on our arms.

Today

I have died three times

and been resurrected 

with lips ready to kiss me. 

Fat Lemons

I confirm consciousness
                                       through various
aches
                              the sun knocks on the window
wondering if I have woken.

I wave back    

            he seems content with my answer.

It's nice to have friends checking in

just to see how you are.

                               This day is a slate marked

with a few tics of chalk-

                                      nothing too serious
to do

to worry about

                        just a slower pace than

            what I am accustomed.

The lemons on my tree have grown fat

and yellow
                  against green leaves

and brown branches-

members of the household
they will soon
have to leave.

The rhythm of this day

                    as steady as my heartbeat.

There is a fluttering of wings

by the lemon tree

                            I wonder-

who could it be?

West Coast Cool

her tongue is an improvisation
running scales into me

sheets of sound blare
forcing my eyes to close

skin keeps contact against skin

fingers comping chords
right hand plucking

a melody from nowhere

breath as smooth as trumpet
lines from the school

of west coast cool

warm tone
of upright bass

I become upright

as everything drops
away for the deep toned

solo played with a bow

leading in with a crash
our heads cock back

landing on the one

back on beat

like always

hollow 

like bones gutted of

their marrow

cutting sky 

above me 

the plane soars 

the pale belly

of a flying frog

Versions of the World

The sound of change is the sound
of ambulance sirens cutting through
the silence of early morning.

When the piercing scream has passed
the birds can be heard in the trees
once more, their chirps calling

to one another, wondering what
the great disturbance was.
One says to the other

forget about it. The sun is only
beginning to warm up. They say
it's going to be a nice day.

The World Doesn't Need Another Love Poem

Most analogies and metaphors are useless

when it comes to describing the feeling of love.

They fall short because of the overwhelming 

force with which love occupies the very organs

of the body- bonding to platelets, and eventually

seeping into the marrow within the rigid frame

work of the skeletal system. Once this is achieved

thoughts begin to soar with the grandiose dreams 

of so many lovers from every past age, as if love 

were a force being reincarnated from one life 

to another, a ceaseless and essential function 

included with every life. Automobile manufacturers 

describe this as being a standard part of the package. 

Love is no automobile to be driven for the sake 

of practicality and fuel efficiency. It is a fearless 

force that occupies wholly and could care less about 

how many miles per gallon your vehicle gets.

If love were a car it would an American 

muscle car, curved metal begging to feel the wind

on a summer morning, V-8 engine sucking up

every ounce of gas in order to roar across freeways

and back roads with the kind of abandon you felt

as a child the first time you ran across the sand

to feel the ocean, cold and powerful, touching

your small feet and soaking you with a chill

far greater than the coldest water in the bathtub

at home. Love is a power that realigns perception 

of ones true relation to the world. Love is more 

than flesh, far more than a car, and an equal 

to the forces of water, wind, earth, and fire. 

Love is content to not have to worry about how 

to describe itself. It knows it needs no introduction.

Love makes appearances at just the right time,

like a guest at a party who shows up just late

enough to bring up the mood, especially 

because they happened to bring a healthy

sized bottle of top shelf liquor that most people

never have enough money to splurge on

for themselves, let alone bring to a party.

Love is beyond my comprehension to describe

but I figured it was worth a shot. Love made

me do this. The memory of love made me

do this. Love willed this. Love doesn't mind

another attempt to describe it. It's all harmless,

perhaps moving. Love will send me to bed

and remind of the one I love through every

dream I'll forget upon waking. I will feel for her 

body, when my hand fails to touch the skin 

on her hip I will begin my day knowing 

there is a much greater distance to cross. 

Love will compel me forward.

SCARS

Without our scars,

both psychological

and physical,

we would be

nothing.

It is far too easy

to get bound in

by the walls 

of your own past.

defining perfection

cream white pages

        the book          so beautiful
devoid of words

the look of
                   
                    perfection

Destined

for obscurity.

It's ok.

It's not so bad.

Everyone we know

will be there

waiting for us

with open arms.

Book Lovers

You can tell the discomfort a new book feels

From the first moment you hold it.

It stiffens as you flip it open to a random page.

The crisp virgin edges may try to cut you

Quick so that you set it down.

After a few moments it can begin to relax

If it senses good intentions through

The fingers feeling its being.

Given enough time it will

Open easily to such familiar touches,

It may even be fine with new hands

After some time. It won’t mind

The little bits of wear at the corners

As they become rounded

From repeated readings.

If ultimate trust is gained

It will permit marginalia

And highlighted lines of text.

It will grow despondent

If you part ways

But it knows there could be

Another set of hands

Another set of eyes

Waiting for the moment

To meet and share

The most intimate of words

From deep within its pages.

Who

am I 

ready

to be?

scattered brain blues

Recommit to the promises I have made

to myself. 

                It's silly addressing oneself

in the third person. 

Do you remember your imaginary

friend? 

            When did the two of you

become estranged?

I don't remember if I had one.

I have failed

                    and am learning

to live with setbacks

                                 that is all

we can do sometimes.

Am I getting sick of my shit?

I suppose so. Personal responsibility

is a good thing to make friends with.

Ditto with accountability and discipline.

What are we grasping for?

I remember now

                          I didn't

but if I did

he would have been named Raphael.

How can anyone trust me
when I've broken
so many promises to myself?

She Prefers Mustard

I was making a passionate case for mayonnaise
because I could not accept the continued existence
of miracle whip. I told Bea this while she drove
me home. A night's worth of whiskey and kisses
fueled my rapidly tiring body as my brain entered
power save mode. My ears rang, my knees ached,
I would have stayed up longer if all my systems
hadn't redlined. Sitting in her car, in front of my
house, we both knew this is where the night had
to end, at 4 a.m., racing against the return of light.

Once you have known love 
everything else pales in its wake.

Cracks

Finding the strength

to push yourself

to the point of sha ttering
night after night

dark rooms
that reek of sweat

and   alcohol

amplifiers   doing
         what   their
name implies

howl ing    writh ing

hands     gripping

slashing    pounding
night after
                 night
wondering
how long
                can it
go on

before the first

                         crack
forms in the

                   glass

remember

I do not remember being born
I do not remember my first birthday
or even my fifth
I do not remember the first time
I began to realize that a world existed
beyond the doors of our home
I do not remember the name of the teacher
who made sure I learned to read
I do not remember the first time I fell
when learning to ride my first bike
I do not remember when I began
to live more and more in my head
I do not remember many many things
but I hope they are tucked away
into the corners of my mind
in some dust covered box
waiting to be found.

I remember trips to the library with my dad
I remember cutting my finger horribly
in the kitchen
and blood pouring out of me
like some pint-sized soldier
I remember falling off my parents bed
and splitting my eyebrow
I remember bringing home my dog Rocky
as a puppy and how much i loved him
in the way that only a child can love
I remember my mother taking care of me
when i had the chicken pox
I remember losing a baby tooth in mexico
I remember how tall and ancient
my father's parents seemed
I remember the first girl I thought I loved
not feeling the same
I remember how disappointed I felt
when I had to start wearing glasses
I remember feeling so awkward
for so so long
I still feel that
I remember thinking my parents
didn't love me
I remember the only time I saw my father cry
and how completely helpless I felt
I remember Rocky dying
and thinking my chest was caving in
because I was hollow after all


I don't wonder about the women
who broke my heart
or the ones whose heart I broke
I don't think it makes me callous
I doubt they ever think of me


So many nights
I've tried to forget
the small tragedies
the perceived unfairness
nights spent alone
wondering if I was ok
if I could get through
the next day
just that would be enough
and every time
I did

I remember all the times I've blamed bad timing
for the shortcomings in my life
I remember when I had to stop blaming
every one
I remember looking at myself naked
in the mirror
and knowing I was the only one
in the world responsible for me

I want you to know that I remain here
less joyful, less whole
than if you were
here sharing a silence by my side.

a quick respite

heavy eyes closing

sit and rest for a moment

many steps to make

T.Monk

They say he had a piano
with him in those final years
but he never played it.

Could it have been because
there are sounds too beautiful
for the world to ever hear?

i was not alone

as I sat beneathe blues waves

fish grazing my skin

underwater

Leaves rustled and did their best 
impression of ocean waves.

I closed my eyes
and couldn't tell the difference.