Wednesday, September 5, 2012

Maybe spirits bleed into each other;
yours, crimson. mine: a pale gold.
Deforesting olive hearts.
Natural colorations
shimmering onto our fingertips.
Late September manifests itself
in qw-oj2infwka zxm,o3qwjaspLMZ<>
A heart, a fortress, an overbite.
Sitting with your father and still feeling nauseous.
Was a
a dream.

Thursday, July 5, 2012

python sky

A second hallelujah, for your celebratory wineskin.
there was no closing, but a masculine ridge;
a mass pierces the eternality of a suffering
which faintly glows in caverns
beneath the interiors of totalitarian starlings.
Fragrance is scheduled to appear and dissipate
once your basement factory shrivels
and we marvel at the sight!
I hiked three miles uphill, I split atoms in two.
Experiential jealousy;
all while framing your face with my acoustics.
Events occur in threes:
your house,
your home,
your spectral, magnifying heart.


complementary artificial instructions,
a deluge
to fornicate a suppressed suffrage
on the ninth of july.
frightened glistenings and a hearth to warm a second form;
in Samaria.
woven hands clap together as one,
creating sparks between the wings of fireflies.
therefore came a textile bloom, of purples, baby pink
ostrich feathers bound into growth
banging bells together creates a lowered, less commercial harmonic polygamy.

Monday, July 2, 2012


Find our hands entwined from the lattice of your spirit-breath.

Yes, winds are fresh
and they carry moisture from your sunkissed lips.
Fluttering up my heart.

I've found a beating beyond sunsets
and towers tumble to their
In deep summer, odorous heat.

I could. I could carry you, but there
has not a single beating drum to match
my previously harnessed words.
I am undressed, and angry.
Whisper to me the deliverance of nine sunsets.
I will hide you under burnished grass,
and when the sun beams on the attic door,
we have a single, pulsing hope.

For forgiveness and sparking illumination
when our feet hit the mud.
Shiver through horizontal spines.
Primordial filaments
which gather in fire-deserts;
the suffering of everlasting existence.
I am aware this stings your consciousness, makes you short of
Creates and weaves barriers between
your father and mother. But still they have owned and
replicated their histories. They have
admired the stars overhead and the
specific marks on your palms. Among them,
I will wave branches for your
arrival. There is nothing yet to be missed.

Wednesday, February 15, 2012

pleasure tension

Dreamt of giant pulsing veins,
and museums in Paris.
Whitewashed buildings, and a grey sky.
Blankets strewn, dark blue, woven at your feet.
And your arms to the clouds, pulling moisture from your hands.
It propelled, and expanded; a precipitation of pure white.
Falling across your face.
And therefore spun unraveled crumpled papers, into motion:
years achieved and yet I entered, held, and transformed.
I believe you increased, since I did. Generally, there are red skies.
Bones crumbling, and I am unaware of the implications of these dream sequences.
How they glimpse into rushing time.
I whispered that armies of chaos will stumble into their assigned places, underground.
All will then realize: silence is the most effective lullaby.

Tuesday, January 31, 2012

a raised line

Hand me your breath,
and your curled hair in mid-winter
down by the harbor,
I can see black shimmer through almost-opaque glass.
A single wavelength, and I find a second in
the orange sea.
And weave through me the lattice of your heart.
Stars descend,
and clap their molecules.
Noisily shatter,
create a fire-sky.