Monday, December 23, 2013


there are eleven days in a week,
and the months pass by in fiery torrent
with only the moments spent sleeping containing the only clarity
that keeps the eyes of dreamers 
peeping for youth.

a transient & solitary sunflower sits
on the broken mass of a windowledge planter box
next to the spot she planted her engagement ring,
hoping to watch happiness and fidelity sprout 
into the yellows and violets and sunbursts of
long-lasting fulfilling and matrimonial promises,

but no home can bloom when it doesn’t rain,
and the months have been temperamental 
at best.

Thursday, December 19, 2013


Hoy, yo veo con la claridad
de una prostituta embriagada,
convencida de que el dolor simplemente

es un beso de Dios,

y que la mejor forma de pedir perdon
es con las manos atadas,
de rodias,

con la boca abierta
y los ojos cerrados. 

Sunday, December 15, 2013

Self Fish

fishing for my self
in melancholic low-tide and the surf
is swimming me in reds oranges & yellows
and there's not enough oxygen
no there's not enough
and i'm running out breath
and there's still so much i want to say
but there's not enough time
and i'm running out of oxygen
and i thought today would be a perfect day
to fish for self
but i caught the high-tide around mid-day
and all the purples and blues and greens
were chaotic
and i can no longer feel my toes
because of the cold
and i can no longer feel you
because of my fishing self

don't drown, kid. don't --

Tuesday, December 10, 2013

Still-Life Study

file your nails down to the wick,
grow your hair out past your dreams,
try to outrun the fire burning inside of your fever,
bat your eyelashes at the missed opportunities passing by,
close your fist trying to hold on to the last sound of my voice,
listen up for the sound of the last train that could have taken you home.
tell me all about your sunflower’d sighing and tempest coughing,
disguise the obscenity of youth inside that smile you keep on your nightstand,
dress the wounds your past has left with that beautiful dress
you hold at arm’s length as you ask me if I still love the sight of your voice,

Tuesday, December 3, 2013

i swear

i Swear by the moon with a
tumultuous      rabidity and mediocre
Howl; i Swear by the hand
of the     seven seas     , where veins are
full of the    charity of gratitude -- thunderous drapes

that linger with the sound of
the wind;
i Swear by the
nine birds of fate     which i do possess
and know nothing about; i

Swear by the whimpers that escape
the corners               of my mouth
when you sit on my belly, &
feel the         warmth of your


which ignites passion
and disaster;           i Swear by the
solemn toes on your left
foot which has not received
any of my attention;

by all of This, i Swear
that i do, in fact, love Thee.

Monday, December 2, 2013


what a roaming delirium
we are drowning in,
enveloped by the fragrant melodious harmonious 
toxic weather — that which does
remind me of your lips
and the way they smell

when you stand behind an
opened door.

O! Delirious nature of Destruction.
Whisper the many colours of 
the dreams you had
into my ear
                    when i’m not 


i know what it means
to want,
everything and nothing.
i don’t want 
that. i will give the 

Universe everything back just
to touch smell kiss

& entice you with me.


a drunken disillusion
to know that you and i
and us and we and them 
are nothing more than strangers
who have (or have not) met.
i hold my tongue always
when i, i, i, when i am afraid
that you will not hold your tongue.
i want to hold your tongue.


       o, what grandeur, what palpitating
              intrusion this chest mine feels,
     what weightlessness, what pressure
 my heart feels, tripping over its footing
   causing the doc to worry, causing the 
clock to slow down, and all the moment
                                   to catchup. God!