Houses Lined Up

Houses lined up Like gray
military recruits.
Entering each garden
—where no flowers or fruits can grow—
I then survey
the soil and dig for roots.

Reflection

Tonight I admit this without shame:
I am afraid of death, afraid of dying—
as painless as the latter may be,
and as unconscious the first—
because it's lonelier than lonely,
because—oh what's the use of an outburst?
Its reflection on a tall building...
I see the moon drink it all in.
The moon does not look at me.
But look, I have a name,
remember it please, tell them the sea
and the ocean used to pour into me,
tell them I became
what the universe wanted me to be,
but not
what I'd wanted,
Not
what
I'd wanted.
Remember that.
Not.

Alive

The lady of the hour
looms up wrapped in whispers—
security officers standing by her sides.
The wild honey of her eyes
inside a hive of scars….
We're very happy
that you're alive,
unconvincingly utters
a voice that’s become
familiar to me.
Much later the voice pours
like lava on a red poppy:
She fails in everything, no?
Oh, how her face is disfigured!
If I were her, I'd rather die!
Something in me thinks,
people can die
even while still alive.

To Think

I stroke your skin.  I'm not Hamlet.
I'm harmless.  Like the final rest.
Look here, my heart has nails in it.
They stop the bleeding.  Oft I sing
So that I've no time left to think.

What Is Dog?

What is dog?  Darkness that howls at alien sights.
What is dog?  Foolish dark made of bones and eyes.
What is dog?  What looks dog, acts dog, speaks dog.
What is dog—if there is no God?
What is dog?  Dark inside light.
Death is an acquired taste and I still wait
For mirrors that do not work.
And yet I've seen love as of late
Reflected.  I've seen love take another form.

Myriad Dreams

In my dreams Plato practices Pilates.
Nietzche eats cheddar cheese with Chinese chai tea.
Heidegger's a haggard egghead who's hungry.
Kant can count in Catalan and Cantonese.

Failures

After my failures unfurled
with the sound of their brazen
laughter fluttering in the breeze
I, a dry sprig of blushing red grass,
I, who could not exist, how could I cease?

Grief and the Pond

I am close enough to see
a lonely frog in the light
of my white phone,
looking back,
waiting for me
to make a move.
Its unblinking eyes
are soft
despite the cold.
I can not even cry.

Or Can It?

Pigs can’t fly.
Though The Simpsons put that theory to test.
The sun can’t rise in the west.
Unless astronauts who seen it do lie.
The stars cannot rearrange themselves in the sky.
But on this moving Earth, that is what I have seen.
The clock can’t strike thirteen.
But on my digital watch that's just irrelevant.
A mouse can’t eat an elephant.
Unless it's elephant-flavored cheese in a can.
A circle can’t have corners.
Well that's just bigotry—if it wants to, it certainly can!

More Beautiful

Narcissus surfaced again,
this time his conscious rinsed
of the conceit of his own allure.
He reached for my hands, unconvinced
that I would help. I let him die,
and waited long enough, just to be sure.
In this world no other person
can exist more beautiful than I.

No Place

The gale sharpens its edge on the crags

As the night chill descends.

The unruly air carries exposed roots

And orphaned blades of grass,

Slamming them against cold rocks

And comatose boulders of sandstone.

It slices me twice under the eyes

As it speeds past me and back

against itself, like blind strength,

terrible freedom

with no place to go.

Rhyming Dream Interpretation

I dreamed of a glass teacup, doc,
filled with tears of baby crocs.
But soon the tears turned into rocks;
I puked them all, which looked like chalk,
Then woke up to my alarm clock....
Tell me, what does it all mean doc?

Young man, the teacup is your eye.
Those tears are yours, do not deny
it! No croc tears, that is a lie.
Swallowing tears is hard, that's why
they turned to rocks. As for chalk, I
think we've run out of time. Goodbye.

Spring Carnival

Oh the feel of the vernal air!
April arrives like a carnival
Of living aromas and colors,
With parades of blossoms
Riding the sun-soaked breeze.
As we dive into the fertile green,
Their cool caress against our feet,
We hear daffodils laughing
Softly, like when breath tickles your ear.
Wish you were here.

Under the Spell of Rhymes

I came across the third word, spell,
in the local library's lost and found,
next to a smartphone heavy as a dumbbell.
The second word, the article of the,
was bestowed upon me by a grand poobah,
the young, recently crowned Maharajah.
My readers shall not wonder much longer
where I found the very first word, under:
I discovered under right above
the fourth word, the preposition of.
The last word, though I seeked many times,
it was only at the end that I found rhymes.

Cookie

The bedroom air is perfumed
with the aroma of coffee
and freshly made bread.
A tall glass of orange juice
sits next to a closed window
that overlooks a garden.
Past the garden of dancing tulips
and blue hyacinths in bloom,
invisible from the house,
lies an empty lot,
that long ago belonged to a church
and once to a lottery retailer.
Here a halting ant,
having lost the way home
in search of food for hours
in the storm the previous night,
comes across an old ad
for Ant-Killer bug spray.
But a series of gusts
lifts the two of them,
the ant and its magic carpet,
and finally places them
next to the house where
inside someone is now baking
trays of cinnamon sugar butter
and chocolate vanilla pinwheel cookies.
The ant is flooded with scents.
The door is suddenly opened.
A child runs out laughing,
eating a cookie, a small piece
of which falls right next to the ant.
That's the way the cookie crumbles.
That's the way the cookie crumbles.

This River

This river of lava flows,
bleeding orange and molten gold—
oh the scent of hot stone
and anguish, the sound
of charring tendons and bones….
Meanwhile miles away the sheep
are returning from grazing in the field,
and the shepherd’s face reveals
a faint smile—that used to be
me before
this river of shame flowed
into me.

Wrinkled Light

Dilating light
Lifting it flies
Wrinkles and sinks
Darkness in kind

Pleased

The burial was a lollapalooza
I hit the slopes at midnight
Under the blinding light
of the gibbous moon
So cold was the arctic air
I shivered and wheezed
but then I saw a raccoon
with glowing eyes down there
it looked so lonely and yet so alive
that something in me felt pleased.

I Saw Rumi in my Dream

Asleep in his tomb in Turkey
I woke to Rumi in my dream.
He held a gold glazed pitcher
of rose water and mercy,
singing a soundless song.
Is life what it seems?
I asked him in Farsi.
Will you meet me there
in that field you said was beyond
our ideas of right and wrong?
But Rumi did not respond,
though I saw his eyes tear,
and suddenly here
I turned into the pitcher,
became the infinite container,
meant to serve the thirsty—
I, who parched myself, full of despair,
a desert myself, what could I spare?
But Rumi did not respond,
though I saw his eyes tear.

Sun's Face

To awaken to the sun's face each dawn
As though this last night was the very first
Time you had slept apart from your lover
To kiss the golden curls that flow and shine
And warm your elbows and knees under cover
That's what I wish you feel each morn deep down.

The dead. But grieve they not.

The dead. But grieve they not.
And tears would drown their rot.
But us that breathe must grieve.
And us that grieve should breathe.
Inside I’m dead, shall never weep.
And fearing dreams I never sleep.
In fluid pain, I'm not afloat.
The desert in me needs no boat.
Alone and stiff, my island dry.
My stars appear blurry and bright.
Tonight the stars I hear them cry.
I dipped my toes in tears from skies
that poured like rain in my own eyes,
into my soul so close to rot,
my body its burial plot.