Swallowing

the anxiety of tarot cards
dripping horoscopic tremolo
in every hushed glance

I expect rejection as winged
words floating in on hummingbird
breath

(hummingbirds consume their weight
each day)

the frantic nature in which
I exhaustingly keep calm

I continue eating my weight
in words for protection

it would be wrong to worry about hurting me
because it is too late by then

in fact
I would rather eat your words
and swallow whole the sky
before it can have any chance
of caving in

A Visit to the Gallows

when things change sudden
motions and speech patterns
lilting heads tilted
against imaginary hollows

each time knowing stares
turn blank

and each time gallows
creak in breezes

the sinking of submarines
to depth charges
seems romantic

compared to awkward deaths
of moments that belong to no-one
watching sand slipping
sinking

feelings don't die
expressions of love linger
on fingertip traces
long after the unsettled memories fade

how could you return to witnessing
couches morosely delved into
silence begging Freud to ask
questions that will go unanswered?

does the sting of betrayal
wash away after
loneliness settles in?

how could you say "no"
when those gallows hang daunting
images of solitude fleeting
anxiety of self twitching

last breaths?

familiarity is safer than self
in the din of confrontation
skin puncturing skin with
delicate touches


but when I witness half-told stories
collapse into patterns
I once knew

those gallows fit your neck

with my head atop

your strangling gasps

my mouth

Telegraphic Transmission

we watched snow fall together
and we probably didn't need to say anything
because it was redundant
but words were comfortable
like blankets from the cold

the car ride home
felt like rain
in unexpected deserts

my feelings and thoughts
are starting to communicate
telegraphically

_ . . _ . . . _ _ _ _
( D R E A M )

and when I wake
sometimes I don't care
that the fire in my chest
is growing

I've correctly intepreted this feeling
as nothing more than a Communist plot
to subversively make men feel
that there's something more
to life than sex

no
what more could I want?

I ask
as telegraphic friction
turns evenings to nights
nights to morns
mist to frost
dew to rain
and rain to snow

blowing around
inverted snowglobe
of my internal life
blanketed and cozy
surreptitious transmissions
escaping my chest
coded in mundane
(yet comfortable)
words

rhythmically repeating
. _ . _ . _ . _
to a unison sleep
familiar foreign dream
echoing in decay
electric mechanical heartbeats

On Today's Tragedy

life was just beginning
and the morning smelled clean
with the wind's assault
on the permanence of buildings

"good morning"

and watch the lives
stepping into the world
open their mouths
and exhale

one last time


how could this happen?

I remember drinking
pomegranite juice
for the first time
on the second day
of spring

today
Hades opens his door
marching to the world of man
with a distant sadness
befitting an old god

this time is different
greeting Persephone at the scene
he sees her lean over
the dead and kiss their cheeks
with stained lips

I will see you again
as the leaves fall
and the first frost
greets the morning
with a shivering breath

and until then
watch the world
mourn the seasons to life

how could this happen?
even Hades asks himself
as he saunters away
after giving Personophone
an old, knowing stare

Three Questions Unasked: Parted Lips Whisper

my question asked
simmers into carnival silence
as the summer winds
die down

fifteen sentries abdicate their posts
leaving an artifice totally consumed
within itself

empty

and yet
those tendrils reaching out
in still air

I dared one question
wrapped in historical illusion
as protection

my three other questions
not whispered
offer none

breathe in
as though this never happened

then count to three

1.

(How will I know
once winter entertains
tea parties and trees grow
from saplings
like grand ideas

what in my life
grants permanence
to any intense feeling
that inspires

Daedalus to try
to save his son

each time
in this hot sun?)

2.

(To speak of sex is like
asking magicians their magic
before seeing their trick

but I want to know

how high this ascent
climbs mountains
into the land of eagles

and from whence we slide
down into deep canyons
where warm rivers flow?)

3.

(How will these moments
sacred and timeless
expand into a lifetime
of epiphanies

dancing flames like
San Francisco in 1906

covering the whole city
in midnight red?)


now please
part those lips
to let in three
breaths

one - two - three

From Parted Lips

what are my solitudes
these large eyes
elephant-like peering
in my stead

there are four questions
but I ask only one:

If love were placed upon a marble
tabletop by fifteen
sentries of the high honorable
provincial ministry
wrapped in imported banana leaves
sprinkled in myrrh
so near from ear to ear
the ravenous vines of nothingness
escaping through the porous foliage
and inside lain
assunder unspeakable dreams
torn fragments of four Iliads
sensual flavors of perfumed skin
and the taste of desperation
of life moving so quickly
towards its end

would you let me
take it in my warm
hands and delve
in?

don't assume you will answer
with a sudden sense of candour
as though each moment were truly
made of the hardy gravity
of elephant tears

don't assume yes

don't assume anything
but know that I ride
waves of time's exigencies
with unusual ease and
my tastes swelter in
Suns unseen since summer
dwelled in Sumerian sleep

yes
history swells alive
and those stories of love
are stories

(yes)
but their swirling motions
are vibrant seasons
unending

cycles

so I won't assume yes
anything until I hear
parted lips speak

truth beyond magic

I spin words of magic
not truth

truth is saved for those
experiences that words
cannot explain

(and, if words enter
watch truth turn magical)

I feel some truths
each time I see certain
fingers dancing
in a certain way
or eyes looking up
with forehead creases
in that way

those simple shrugs
leaning forward
into wordless hugs

I dare not explain
these truths

not in this poem

they are too pure and real and meaningful
and I feel them too close
to lose them to words
that won't do them justice

and in spite of all this
do not think that this poem

says nothing

A Touch from Aging Fingers

my fingers are starting to feel old
as if all of time's energy
were stored within them

I have fantasies of how to use my touch
to release these pent up years
settled into my phalanges

hand to me all your inhibitions
I will drown your fears with small strokes
circulating trust's respiratory system

then I will trace your scars
with intricate tiny motions
exposing all sensitivity

to this moment


did you think that love would come

without a price?


I can only begin to wonder
how time's power sent forth
in these motions will change us

I can barely imagine how these

aging hands

could touch anything
this important

but still

I reach out


did I think that love would come

without a price?


looking for some repose

something to say,

"With love,

your touch has changed

my world."

and our bond will last

eternal

The Meaning of Red

when I talk about extremity
ignore my words
they're just prisms
reflecting refractions
light long lost
from red stars
long since burst
before their light's arrival

each holographic shade of red
projecting different truths

not the images
nor their meaning
but what they reveal

have I mentioned,
"You are so fucking red!"

and I love it
securing a favorite color
at last

these images create place
and my postmodern perrogative
to assign meaning
has given you more ruddy hues
than you knew existed

maybe this simulation
twists in dying breaths
but even death's meaning
can be reassigned

this freedom reformed
creates new love
generative entropy
exploding new combinations
of sign and signifier

you ask, "what do I
mean to you?"

today's answer
vague and yet full
baroque and timeless:

"You are so fucking red!"

I love it

my favorite color

the rest just lies in my chest
ventricles pulsating
organic internal combustion
and those feelings

overwhelming and magical
tenderness

just learn to smile
when I say,

"I feel red today"

and feel warmth expand
through all your body

intimacy

I know your color
drawn on my hand
while the sleeping day
blinked awake

I said, "good morning"
to your dark side
and she kissed me
richly on each cheek

my dark side saw the sun
stepped into your light
dancing stories of self
in enigmatic flurries

with each twist
sinking deeper in-
to each other
your pain and mine

revealing scars of self-
beauty painted red
(your color) and my color-
less dreams suffused you

I kissed your scars
they turned into orchids
weeping and delicate
like butterfly wings

fluttering memories
turned to shared experience
pain's tenderness
expressed in lucid embrace

past's transient meaning
slipping again

united impressions
rippling existence whole

Needs

I need you to get so close
that you can smell my skin,
taste the sweat's smell
that settled on my cheek.

I need that disquieted familiarity,
sense of too-closeness;
the alienation and awkward pats.
Tiny excuses to leave quickly.

I need glances darting away
looking for anything but
my eyes. Searching for
a sense of regret for ever

trying.

I need memories to pass
and moments to feel religious
like we found God singing
on a Lay's potato chip.

I need long hair stuffed
into my face filled with
tears never released and
caustic with pent-up delay.

I need to apologize
because I said way too much.