To Earth, The Parts Of You

At oceans I feel the sulfur of your hand
scratching currents,
spinning shadows into shoals
frenetic;

your allotropic breath
in the sky
going every which way--
bones shifting in your axis,

I feel the indifference of your breath
shifting along tree tops,
the age of you
in patches,
and now

there are crowds to be heard--
protests and rallying cries.

I want to climb to the highest point of your horizon--
closed like a lid,
away from the beating heart of you
coaxing me to lie upon the ground
and listen.


a glide crawls from the ocean
suddenly aware that graceful
is its memory,
the sun a spritely angel on its surface
now still in the sky
becomes a metronome
in the unyielding space of time,
measures gracefulness in how far we reach,
the debris of our world where heaven should be,
the sun coiled in its corner,
the last fading bands of our light
collapsing into the cold--
infinity moving away from us
like purpose that wishes not to be known.



As the memory goes into a new era

The years
collapse into a moment;

a hand,
a hopeful ghost
skirting heaven

smooths down the sun,
whites nights
and photos,
the blueprints on the backs of lids;
falls limp on the glass
a permanent fog;

resurrects to die in square screens
under the blades of pixels--
hues strained into lines,
days stripped of grey
ineffable finger print,
and proximity to touch

the helix
of white balm
down clear glass,
for the sake of seeing the rain.

[Be < Feel]



Why The Night

Because the day makes too much of a fuss
dangling horizons in the distance
as the asphalt cracks,
and curls up against the sky,
fatigued,
and the sun is just too large to shine like hope.

In Rituals

I keep love in its nest,
hold the world together in my path
as sirens sink into my steps
between cracks;
watch possible uncertainties
bargained away in numerical chants.
But my presence is the harbinger of storms,
and it is this that informs me
that in the end
the world I leave behind
will be a world of shelves,
and roads are all that remain.


In The Distance

it isn't the webs
that hold these walls together,
the spiders that keep cells moving,
or the dust that has settled into the humidity
and keeps the glass
from blowing into the storm,

it is the world we let fall
between the cracks,
the floor that waits for you
even after it has lost its color--
the sky that continues to search
for miles
where my feet can't go,
the only thing broad enough
to run from time.

     i

These Shoulders

I became a spine,
two magic oysters opening
above the flesh of cheeks,
shadows riding beneath  --  
shooting upward
in a continuum of movement.

Youth is the arc of a wave;
the hollows of me
falling back
into the vacillating shades of the ocean.

     ii


The crowd I still hear,
after long ago
falling asleep beside it;
the cheers, applause, rain  --  
static on the TV,
there was no transition
between any of them,
to this noisy sea.


By The Shore

no sound has to fade for good,
no crowd, no laughter,
no intermittent cheer,
no traffic as far away
as the breadth of a view  --  
the world of analog,
of static,
of sleeping through
the rain;

think of it as applause
remaining
like the light of stars,
of endless ovations..
no pinhole of light
against the black of a screen
leaving you in silence.



More Than Silence

The waves settle to a softer sound,
proving that none ever
really begins or ends  --  
no distant chatter, no laughter,
no intermittent cheer from a crowd,

no sweep of traffic on a highway
as far away
as a window left open,
of sleeping through
rain;
the world of analog,
of static,
of all utterances at once
unparced
beneath a lid of clouds;

applause getting farther away
but remaining
like the light of stars  --  
pinholes against a dark
sky,
sound and sight
one in the same.