I dreamt I was a leper and woke
up with no voice. I dreamt I had
a lover and woke up without hands.
What are the things the keep
you up at night? Who is left
behind once your eye is open?
I look to the blue face in the
mirror for an answer, but she
is voiceless too, wearing nothing
but a silent smile and oil paint.
I have known her all my life
but couldn't see her until now,
the sunken, shrieking visage,
eerily familiar, like a handyman
who knows my father's name.
There are things we try to forget,
and things we cannot unknow:
this is of the latter. This is the face
of Death, the inescapable; this is
Yesterday, Today, Tomorrow. This is
You, now; so scream all you want.

After The Fire

On the surface nothing
is left unburnt but dust
off the shelves and
discover a world within
itself, in the lower attics
we birthed the amnesiac
allure of a fresh start, or

what is whispered when
everyone is watching; alone
we sing songs and remember,
live in picture frames, tattoo
birthdays on our breasts,

live gathered about a pyre
of memory until someone
is brave enough to light

a match!

Tightropes

5:00AM in the suburbs:

Oleander moon wilts in the aubergine flames
of morning, dripping 
with frosty haze of first light.
Warm feet flee from icy tiles like soldiers in retreat,

eager to nestle into their goose-down coffins,
 make
love with Death’s cousin as their cell phones snooze.

5:00AM, my eyes open, soaking in a bleach-stained sky
.
Light seeping through rosebush lashes, 
tangled in thorny
restlessness
 as our great cantaloupe, the womb of Today,

dangles along the strings of the horizon,
 balancing
above our colony, wondering why
 She walks her tightrope
so diligently only to be greeted by the tired eyes
 of a silent
audience, waiting
 for an escape from 
the dark.

Pectus Excavatum

Fingers run like cables
down your chest
stemming from the recess
where your hard drive was
That concave dip
Cavernous flesh
has short-circuited my dendrites
with its electric emptiness
but together,
I am at peace with this blackout.
The limited bandwidth we share
is enough for me,
so long as you remember
our spark is but a spark
and when I reach inside
I’m only measuring the outage
and how much of you
is leftover.

Materialism and You

My guts,
my blackest blues
whittled to the marrow
(what attracts all the dogs)
Frozen lakes
through forest fingers,
the absent space
between nightmare
and consciousness:

These are my gifts to you
No candy hearts or
billboards needed.
In this certainty
I show you my bones
so you see I have nothing
to hide.

Waking Up Alone

Coffee brewed black
cold now as your side of the bed;
kisses never leave such bitterness.
The teaspoons you've given me
aren't deep enough to carry
the sweetness of your words.
Your love crept into my cavities
rotting me from the inside,
stretching roots into my jaw so deep
I could only speak eight letters,
all for you.

Below Zero

Winter born of bone, flakes like krill
in gaping mouth. Champagne powder
settles on our heads, thick sheets of
worry packed in valleys of past
become white noise -
blizzard, brain, and nerve.
"A static mind leaves freezer burn,"
you say as I kiss your frost bite back,
sweat beading like hail, lipstick melting in fever;
"You'll never feel anything warmer than here."

Changeling

Feather waves, indigo ripples
into amber like a burnt sun,
quasar tendrils shining.
Prisms of green - Mint, Mantis,
moving from Moss to Mud.
I am worn thin; aural vibrations crack
me open at the sternum,
cells blossoming in heat.

There is magic, and then there is
here. I almost forget there are others
beneath our leafy kaleidoscope.

I turn back to my feather but she is gone.
How long have I been standing here?
No one knows, so we build fires
and burn our own trails.
"What if there is no other side?"
Palms sweaty with anticipation,
We grip branches like baseball bats,
leaves exploding like confetti.

Weeds too thick to leave footprints-
we move quickly, spreading us markers
to echo how far we've come.

Anglerfish Envy

It's easy to lose yourself
in the dark, forget where
you are and face the
abyss empty handed.

Driving At Night

Light peaks around corner,
pooling on pavement. Brake

and continue.
Such is life: Speeding

in the dark toward unseen
dangers shining around corners.

Driver Woes

Dead leaf snagged in my car wipers,
our bond is superficial. 
I know eventually it will rain and I’ll be forced
to use them, clearing my view
while freeing your corpse.
I’ll watch you fly away and, knowing you’re lost for good, I push forward. 
We make eyes only for a moment because
I am seconds too late;
you’ve been eaten up by other dead leaves,
sopping heaps amassed along the road,
shaking and swirling in my rear view. 
Maybe I should pick you off with my hands before the ride starts;
I might rip you apart but it’s better than watching you leave.

Calm Before the Storm

My lips are a stone shore

but my mind is an ocean, moving in waves,

in and out of controlled consciousness,

sifting through your logic and leaving

epiphanies imprinted on my memory.

The tide rises and my mind pushes forward,

slowly eroding my lips' grainy blockade

but they remain sealed,

locking in secrets - things better left unsaid.

Moon passes overhead, the tide recedes
and I find myself wandering the treasure littered coastline,

reflecting me in the water's surface.

Epoch

Why do I feel most creative when the remains of my potential are flooding out of me?

As if all that I’ve lost is resurrected on the page; each brushstroke and new breath giving life to unborn wisdom.

I am a physician of language.

I am an empty vessel.

My heart aches for my loss and yearns for what I’ve gained through the process.

Seasons.

Last Spring I planted a seed;

I dug a hole out in the garden, near the hyacinths

and tucked you in,

nice and tight,

waiting for you to greet me.

Outside was all this splendor and I knew you,

seedling,

would only make my world brighter --

to know my hands were Makers, Doers,

to have dirt beneath my finger nails,

in the creases of my palm.

I thought you would be grateful but

your bed was too warm, your new home too cozy,

and by mid-Summer I realized that you weren’t coming.

You stood me up

but I’m not angry.

I planted you too late; I expected you,

and I wish I hadn’t.

The hyacinths have overgrown now and I’m not sure where you lay anymore.

Hopefully your bed will keep you safe until I join you, one Winter.

Ritual

Every day we go through the motions:

We wake up -

I stay in bed a few extra minutes,

You make coffee but don’t drink it.

We eat, kiss goodbye, lock our door.

We use public transportation,

stuck between sticky strangers.

We sit at desks and watch the clock;

we inhale impatience and exhale procrastination.

We come home.

We break bread.

We make tea.

We watch the news.

We make wudu.

We make salah.

We make love.

We shower (together or separate - depending on the temperature).

You take off your shorts,

I put on pajamas.

We go about our days, separate but united, interacting with others along our path, but in the dusk, when we lay in bed together we stare into each others eyes, recount the hours, minutes, seconds without each other. I laugh at your stupid jokes. You smile and hold my hand. We merge our roads through kisses and bridges and love.

It’s in these tiny recesses of space I realize that my hope for life stems from you.

Our lives are not religion;

but through our rituals,

I come closer to understanding God.

Sober.

“Maybe it just wasn’t meant to be,” I think,

as you're passed out on the floor,

drunk and laughing - a smile here, a wink

there; pleading for a drink or two more.

I don’t know if you realized how

idiotic you looked - buckling knees and slurred

speech. I’m hoping that you understand now

why I had to leave that night. I heard

that Andy had to carry you all the way back

home, because you could barely stand.

He told me you tried to grope some girl in black

and that the bar’s got you banned --

but I didn’t really care about what he had to say;

I only asked to make sure you got home okay.

Sleepless Winter*

Winter nights bring quiet chaos -
Snowfall on a frozen lake,
Leafless trees shivering in the cold.

I reach to the left and find
An empty bedside,
dead skin cells and a cold lonely imprint of where

your frame

once

fit.

Time passes in Tokyo,
Milan,
Barcelona,
Beirut,
Tel Aviv.
The world ages and greys but you,
My love,
are ageless,
swallowed in youth -

Your curls are cherry blossoms,
Your eyes sprinkled with pollen.

My skin is snow white and yours
is kissed with rays of gold -
You are my exit,
My refuge from this
sleepless winter.

--

*Tentative title

For some reason this thing isn't letting me visually structure the poem the way I want. I don't know why. Hmm.

(3/3/2010) I decided to change the line "stuck in my mind's perpetual spring -" to "swallowed in youth -" thanks to the constructive criticism I received. Plus, I like sexual imagery!

What did Man say to the Hummingbird?

"Slow down, my child, your heart moves too quick for your mind.

Don't you know that your heart

can only take you

so far?"

The Old House.

Aged and fragile, I creep up the stairs

of this old house.

I navigate its narrow corridors and

pick at cobwebs along the windowsills.

There are pictures on the walls--

black and white still frames of picnics and piñatas,

smiles and surprises--

but their frames are cracked,

dividing the photos into tiny, fractured memories.

Though the paint is peeling, the moldings are fresh--

a vain attempt to try to preserve something once cared for.

I’m trying to admire the antiquity, the architecture,

but the floorboards creak and groan,

and with each step forward

I’m afraid I’m going to fall through.

I can’t step anywhere in this damn house

without destroying something beautiful.

My Eyes are Filled with Sounds.

my eyes are filled with sounds-
melodies written by your movements,
etched forever in my retinas,
soaking slowly into my mind.
your sight makes me sweat beads of anxiety
and i,
i am overcome by your rhythm,
knees knocking, hearts pumping,
eyes locked, smiles set,
you and i, i and you and us
coming together in close sincerity
surrounded by the music that our bodies make.