Mystery Apex

Concussed by mornings

sharpened light

grasping cotton silence

each breath was tentative

alone

without the other

that shadow fragment

of a once upon a night

recalling synaptic responses

she knew

he had departed

but to who

or where

tears where of no consequence

why shed them

fuck memories

and fuck those

who fucked them

Mercury Drops

paper cuts once

more painful

than the striating

marks on the heart

each ventricle incised

life a blood force

poured as if from

an unblessed chalice

closing eyes

cannot make you hide

slow each breath

coax intuition

to help

it is going

yield and go

fear of life

the greater threat

even with her

whisper kisses

Eggs….

I broke an egg

soft boiled

watched the yolk

spread

in the whorehouse

of my soul

i thought

of my yolk

spread

over your breast

as I kneel

and urge

over

your sleeping

shape

my mess

your anger

limp disaster hung

itself

on my brittle facade

you left

exit by the door

i now look at

knowing

this egg will

not taste any better

 

vessel is broken

oscillation of my heart

a thrum of false applause

nova wheel turns

in loose hands palms sweaty

streetlights searing flares

in greasy windshield stain

accelerating with measure

not panic

plastic neon afterglow

rearview shadows and transcience

nicotine once craved

alcohol once craved

cardboard cup balanced

lid slipped with brown liquid

it’s smell filling nostrils

along with dog

and after days perfume

arguments

those voices thrown and snatched

can be taken back

into a street

cop car drawled on by

tree lined urban paradise

front porch orange glow

parked

engine silently waiting

would she disturb the curtains to see

nothing

was he wrong

then he remembered

she was gone

they where gone

counselling for grief

counselling for depression

arguments outlive those who shout

that once beautiful house

invaded

shotgun splattered

with crimson design

rocking slowly to and fro

applause had silenced

into the false abyss

he would be in the shadows

a footnote on a headstone

living without a porch

accelerating

foot on gas

rubber black stained

breathing in circles

window open

a destination yet unwritten

The air has shrunk

Coughing out the lightness in

smoke and spiral motes of dust

mutable bed and our body acquisitions

cuttlefish ass damp from before

if I was not so ignorant

i would feel again

the tapestry of tattoos on her flank

precise inks more trustworthy

than my cock of threat

in denial and veiled seduction

pressed against her

the hum of bee air conditioning

positioning for me with rump pressure

she felt I could make her sparkle and shine

instead that tremored gasp

returning to her back

looking with a certain knowing

that I was a flake

who would leave and  betray

adding to that pile of detritus

and awful decay that was her life

22

they told me about the garden of love

which I knew never existed

just like the dew settles

a feeling came over me

reaching touching feathery leaves

someone lurked in the darkness

a glimpse a furtive shadow

i needed to draw out of the gloom

no fee to be paid

as wallet forgotten

my fingers picked a rose

holding it aloft to the sun

shadow emerged reaching also

for the rose

sunlit face exquisite beauty

naked radiance for me to see

entranced entwined enthralled

in a boiling swell of passion

i was consumed

infused with the flowers and trees

the garden in this garden

i would remain

many stories can be untold

but this one cannot

i belong to that once furtive figure

no more in the density of foliage

but with me

together as one

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Together always

22 years of marriage to be celebrated

Hard Sugar Stars

sweet seminole land
lost to those who came
a fallen Orlando Reeves
left only his given name
to what becomes
a city of attractions
and life
pulse pulse pulse
history now bound and woven
to pages of dusty books
to a place where love can shine
or so we thought
that lone gunman
with whatever hatred came
pulse pulse pulse
a beat a rhythm
where lovers dance and kiss
hatred spread its dense fog
leaving many fallen
ones we will not forget
and share our hearts throuhgout
pulse pulse pulse
hard sugar stars
affixed in the firmament
lighting with their pride
our every day

Residents of San Francisco and the Bay Area lay flowers

Carlos Drummond de Andrade – The Girl Reveals a Thigh

The Girl Reveals a Thigh

The girl reveals a thigh,
the girl reveals an ass cheek,
only she doesn’t show me that thing
— conch shell, beryl, emerald —
which blossoms, with four petals,
and contains the most sumptuous
pleasure, that hyperboreal zone,
a mixture of honey and asphalt,
a door sealed at the hinges
with a giddiness held captive,
a sacrificial altar without
the blood of the rite, the girl
doesn’t show me that thing.
And she is torturing me, this virgin
with her modesty making me dizzy
from the sudden blow struck
by a vision of her luminous breasts,
her pink and black beauty
that winds itself into a ball,
wrinkled, intact, inaccessible,
that opens, then closes, then takes flight
and this female animal, by laughing,
dismisses what I might have asked her about,
about what should be given and even beyond
given, what should be eaten.
Oh, how the girl kills me,
turns my life into one in which
all hope is consumed
by shadow and sparkle.
Rubbing up against her leg. The fingers
discover the slow, curving,
animal-like secrets, yet
they are the greatest mystery,
always crude, nocturnal,
the three-pronged key to the urn,
this concealed craziness, it doesn’t
give me anything to go on at all.
Before it never would have provoked me.
Living didn’t have a purpose,
the feelings walked around lost,
time wasn’t set loose
nor did death come to subject me
to the light of the morningstar,
which at this hour is already the first star,
violent, rising up like nausea
in the wild beasts at the zoo.
How I might know her skin,
where it is concave and convex,
her pores, the golden skin
of her belly! But her sex
has been kept a secret of the state.
How I might know the cold, dewy
meadow of her flesh,
where a snake rouses from sleep
and traces its path
back and forth, among all the tremors!
But what perfume would there be
in an unseen cave? what enchantment
what tightness, what sweetness,
what pure, pristine line
calls me and leads me away?
It might offer me all its beauty
and I would kiss or bite
and draw blood: I would.
But her pubis refuses me.
In the burning night, in the day
her thighs come together.
Like a deserted inn
closed on the inside by a latch,
her thighs seal themselves,
seclude themselves, save themselves,
and who said that
I could make her my slave?
I could debate this possibility
without a glimmer of hope for victory,
already her body erases itself,
already its glory tarnishes,
already I am made different by that thing
which wounds me on the inside,
and now I don’t know for certain
if my thirst was more ferocious because of
that thing of hers that I might have possessed.
There are other fountains, other hungers,
other thighs of other animals: the world is
vast and the forgetting profound.
Maybe today the girl in the daylight . . .
Maybe. For certain it never will be.
And if it hides itself away
with such fugues and arabesques
and such stubborn secrecy,
on what day will it open?
What would need to change for it to offer
itself to me on an already cold night,
its pink and black blossom in the snow,
never visited by me,
that boat carrying incense that I can’t board?
Or is there no boat carrying incense at all . . .

* * *