June Storm

The Sun is being lazy today.
Night lingers weakly. Gray
smears the sky like melted ice
cream made of cinder blocks.

Is this a premonition?
Should I await heavenly tears?
It would be a welcome change
from days of perpetual warmth.

Bundled up on an overcast beach,
the bite of cold wind,
the anguished churning of tides,
small beach bars all but empty.

It would be a perfect day to be
together, to find peace in a storm
where others would flee
to rooms of warmth.

Nature is just as beautiful
in moments of distress.

under construction

There is a better version 

of myself

I have yet to create.

bridging

Mute transmissions
sent through psychic vibrations

you don't believe in any
of that

Stepping back
through antiquated means
of communication:
-fax machine
-rotary phone
-telegrams

though, morse code
still has its uses

bridging distant shores
one continent

cannot kiss
the sand of another

water serves as messenger
winding around the cape

of good hope-
reaching for another shore

Mid-daylight

Waking and falling back
to sleep. Waking and falling
back to sleep. Reading
a familiar book, finishing
quick, hold lines safe
from forgetful memory
with posted notes
marking pages.
The Sun has been out for
hours and hours,
but you've been home
reading and dreaming,
reading and dreaming.
Unblemished blue
raining down
as if night were
merely myth.

Drinking Amber

Nothing is as peaceful as an empty bar 

on a Sunday night.

The bartender walked over and asked

what I would like to drink.

I asked her for an Old Fashioned.

When she set the drink down

I noticed she had turned it 

into a miniature art installation. 

The cherry sat perfectly centered

on top of the large square ice cube.

The orange peel rested across the glass 

like a support beam for a roof that would 

never be built. I told her I had never seen 

a drink be so well presented.

She thanked me for noticing.

It's evident when someone takes

pride in their work, no matter 

how small it may be.

I drank it slowly, the ice gradually

melting into the rye.

The glistening cube towered

over the orange slice and cherry

as they moved within the glass.

Despite small measured sips

the drink was gone all too soon.

The bartender came back 

when she saw I was done. I told her 

she had done an excellent job.

She smiled. I asked her her name.

She said Christina. I ordered a beer.

The bar was just as empty as when

I arrived. I was fine with that.

Bored and apathetic is no way to live.

don't call this advice

They say it could be worse

and sometimes it isn't

though oftentimes it is.

They say things will get better

and sometime they do, though,

often they remain unchanged.

Let's not give hollow platitudes

in lieu of advice.

It will be hard.

There will be uncomfortable sacrifice.

There will be fewer friends and family

after large reorganizations.

The right ones will remain.

Take my advice when I say

stop listening to the voices

that populate our cities,

that fill our eyes with flash.

Turn off your computer,

your phone, your television,

your car, and walk outside

for a moment. It might be sunny,

overcast, rainy, nighttime,

it doesn't matter. Listen to the world

around you without headphones,

see the world around you

without a screen between you.

What you hear and see

will be more honest than

what is given to you, to us,

every day. It is not my place

to tell you what to do then.

There will be a voice speaking

once you have agreed to listen.

It will know what needs to come

next. It may be wrong, but more likely,

it will be right. Excuse me.

I need to leave right now.

There is some place I need to be

with someone I have yet to meet.

E without the accent mark

My Happiness lives by the ocean,
she is beautiful.

I don't wish to sound so cliche
but I supposed it's hard to sound cliche
without the appropriate accent mark
over the 'e'. In lieu of sounding cliche
I wish to say nothing of worth.
I wish to say that my time on this world
has been spent searching for something
beautiful that I have yet to define.
I know I have found it when my skin
bumps with geese, when my eyes close
yet see the world I have been seeking
with no map. I don't wish to sound
so scatterbrained but it beats having
no brain at all. I wish to not have to justify
my existence through socially defined
confines of worth. I don't recall seeing
crocodiles clocking in for work.
When I sit in traffic I marvel at red lights
marking my slow way forward. Other
creatures like myself sit, wait, wonder,
and hope to sit home, either alone or
with someone worth whiling the time
away with. I know she waits for me,
though, at this time we occupy two
places, for now.

My Happiness lives by the ocean,
I will go to her.

Not Every Lost City 

is Waiting to be Found

Broken Hearts and Spare Parts

Beneathe the Harvest Moon

We have yet to dance beneathe 

the light of the full moon,

still, I dream of this future memory

as though I were remembering

the last time I held you.

Actor

I am a flawed actor

playing out a role 

I was born into.

Common wisdom 
isn't as common
as you would think.

A Wait

It was four in the afternoon but it was his first time outside
that day. His eyes took an extra few seconds to adjust to
the overwhelming brightness of the sun. It was no surprise
that the driveway was as hot as it was on his bare feet.
She had left him a message saying she would be there
but he didn't see her or her car anywhere. He stood on the
sidewalk with his left hand shielding his eyes. She had
 to show up. She never ran late. Five minutes passed,
nothing. He went inside, disappointed. It wasn't like her.
He cracked open a beer from the refrigerator. He sucked
down half of it in one pull. His body began to sink into
the soft cushions of the couch. Where was she? Why had
she not called? He finished the rest of the beer and sprawled
himself on the couch. Each breath rose and fell with precise
regularity. His mind went on standby. As he lost track of
the time he could have sworn he heard the doorbell.

I don't want to cheat death,
I want to beat it fair and square.

This Is All

There is not enough time.

The alarm didn't go off.

The hot water is too hot.

There is only decaf.

The car is almost out of gas.

There is too much traffic.

There is an accident on the freeway.

There was a fatality.

The parking lot is full.

The meeting was postponed. 

There is talk of rain.

The wrong person just called.

There's no time for lunch.

The body is hungry.

The hours are crawling.

The daylight slips away.

There is too much traffic.

There is an accident on the freeway.

There was a collision.

There is a note taped to the door.

There is nothing to say.

Past Lives/Present Fictions

Let's get rad together, forever.

Sometimes it's just nice 
to be awake
early in the morning.

The Past and Future Lives of Ghosts

Am I ready to go back?
I ask myself this question from time to time
as I remember
the pains of my bodies as I aged,
as woman and man,
as baby, child, and adolescent.
My heart and mind suffered
the changing times,
the constancy of our fallibility.
To be freed of corporeal restraints,
such joy! My lives have become
a continuous film with moments
of intermission as I drift
in the bliss of renewal.
There is a bit of sadness as
short-sighted perspectives rule,
it will not always be so,
though it may seem that way.
I cannot wait for my moment
to return, to feel the touch of a world
ready to be changed once more.

Breath & Buck

Dreams breath and buck
against soft restraints holding them
by the wrist.

I leave the window open at night
so I can feel the chill of evening.

Work will be the same today
as it was yesterday, as it was
a year ago, as it will be in a week.

My heart slows when driving,
my mind begins to wander
restlessly.

We are not trapped in amber,
merely in a place of our own
voluntary surrender.

Have we sold our eyes for a vision
that is a facsimile of life?

My feet miss the water, miss
the waves, miss the rush of the tide
as it desires to run up my legs.

I do not wish to be numb or blind,
only to achieve a closeness,
only to be free of the unnecessary.

bells

The church bells echo through the neighborhood
as they always have. I can not think of a time
where their sound did not punctuate the day.

As a child I always wanted to take the stairs up
towards the bell tower. Those steps were gated
off so I have yet to see them. I thought of what

it would be like to stand by them in their silence,
how massive it would be to stand in their presence
as they were struck and began to fill the world.

Perhaps

once we have fallen 

we can look up 

and see how vast 

and beautiful 

the sky truly is.

5 fragments

invocation of the apocalypse

united through mutual fear and awe

sights too wondrous to be denied
to horrific to question eternity

my bones are not for sale
I haven't even died

There's nothing alcohol can't fix or fuck up.

Singing into the void.

There is life growing in the dirt, like it always has.

The World Above

Conquering the sky

We swallowed each others light

God could have laughed but maintained
established silence

Fields of fractured black
and broken blue

Walking hand in hand

Swallowing light

A new Eden
found in conquered plains

Leaves Speaking

The leaves are restless
and have begun to speak in waves.

Are they speaking to the Sun?
Is there an urgent message for me?

I'm not sure. I am listening,
hoping to decode an ancient tongue. 

Topographical Map of My Soul

Reclaimed by the Earth

tethered

The early morning chill creeps onto my skin
and causes my flesh to bump with geese.

I should close the window but I leave it cast
open wide because otherwise I could not

hear the sounds of the day which is beginning.
The world begins with the dissolving of darkness

from the horizon, sky being painted over in a shifting
palette of pastels, smearing, smudging, lightening

by the movement of the planetary axis. This is
a common miracle we often miss because of sleep,

because we are tired and half awake while preparing
for work and fixing bag lunches for the children

to take to school. The ambient sounds of early morning
peace become subsumed by the restless vigor

of our daily demands, work, and other obligations
that consume the hours of our short time.

The sun is not aware that we orbit around it, or any
of our names. The weight of its being is so great

that it never has the time for details, just the constant
journey for which it burns through infinite darkness.

Gazing Down

The ocean is in no hurry as we stand together,
waiting for the next wave to come.

Cold water washes over our feet, gently pulling
sand beneath us back to depths we cannot see.

Overcast skies watch us through a gray haze,
but what must the Sun think as it sits pendulous

in the heavens, looking down at the swirling
pools of blue surrounding the small pieces

of land some of us call home. Does the Moon
wonder the same things? Or does she see us

as constantly tired creatures, sleeping under
her calm gaze? Perhaps she worries about

those who cannot rest, or those who work
overnight, getting home just in time to miss

the first rays of a new day. How often do
the Sun and Moon embrace? Not often

enough, though they take delight in waves
crossing distances, watching creatures

as helpless as we, holding each other
to create a small fire of warmth.

6 a.m.

The groggy sun is just beginning to rise.
Birds chirping in the trees
are hungry.
The black horizon begins
to metamorphose
shade by shade
into a gradual blue.
If there were a rooster near
it would begin to crow
but there is not.
Yawn stretched mouths,
hand rubbed eyes
pinned by green crusted corners
are getting used to being open again.
Hot coffee is starting to pour
into the pot
as she remembers
the cream has expired.
She adds it to her list
for the grocery store
after she gets off work.
5 p.m.may as well be a life time away

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?