Love Is the Risk

Love, the dutiful wheels

of time, the mother’s

milk, the arthritic

fingers rinsing your dish, the words

you can’t remember (to the music

you can never forget). Love is not the rose

but the soil kissing its feet and water

feeding its verdant bones and sun care-

ssing its palms lifted in prayer.

Love is the risk

the sky took, be-

coming, sacrificing,

letting the stars each take

a share of its heart to shimmer

with the generosity of a being

who has known how it feels to be

loved.

Despair

I.

you.

Alone.

Together.

There was nothing

to say. Words failed

us. Hauuuuuuh.

Me in the chair.

You on the bed.

Life is not

fair is

what I wanted to say

not cough and

swallow.

You didn’t even 

look 

when the nurse said 

it's a beautiful day

outside.

The Blue Bird

little depends

on

twit

ter accounts

even those belonging to heavy

weights

clucking all day like

chickens

I’ve Nothing to Say (a poem that is the “opposite” of “This Is Just to Say” by William Carlos Williams)

You won’t drink

the milk

that’s outside

the microwave

but milk

I certainly won’t

be having

for dinner

I'll blame you regardless

for drinking spoiled milk

that’s gone sour

from all the heat.

a 5-7-5 haiku

I climb the dark road,

till I meet another lone

traveller, the moon.

Senseless Dream

One night I slip and fall inside a dream:

Here people sigh, they groan, they shake the trees,

but branches never swing and nothing falls.

Until at last I hear a throbbing scream,

then stars begin to drop like fruits. The breeze 

dissolves, the blood congeals, and roar the squalls.

And then I notice how the senseless lights

are rolling into seas, with grace and ease,

but stay afloat, illuming sleeping dolls

that dream this dream their lonely endless nights—

morn' calls!

An Act of Courage

Open the body's gates. Now, let fear

come, up those steps of bone and down

pulsating halls, to the room

decorated with love,

chamber of the heart.

Offer your breath.

Softly say:

Welcome

home.

Goddess Panacea at work

He spotted the goddess Panacea,

in the superstore shopping for popcorn.

Are you making healing popcorn? He asked.

"No, regular," she said. "Well, with sugar

and cinnamon." But why? He demanded

to know her secret. "I'm watching a film,"

she responded, looking vexed. Will you cure

someone after the movie? "No!" she raged,

"I have a life outside of work, you know?"

And so this is how it happened that she 

punched the annoying man and then had to

heal his bruised lips, which was, not, at all, tough

except this all happened on her day off.

"The End"

Each one of us is a story with a beginning we did not write and a conclusion we cannot predict. I remember, back in my school days, a young lady named Marissa who didn't like being a story. She wanted to be the author and force her story to conclude in a particular way. A way that made sense to her. Marissa even wrote a note, which ended with "The End." But that is not how her story ended. People still talk about it, changing the narrative, drawing new connections, discussing other possible endings. It should not have ended that way, some say. It really did not have to, others agree. I remember once Marissa told me how her grandparents met on the Titanic. The next day she said, I made it up. How happy she looked, for a very brief moment, for having fooled me.

Sound Asleep

I’m the guy, you’re the girl

I am the bivalve and you the pearl.

I the habit, you are the choice.

I’m the lips, you’re the voice.

I the muscle but you the pulse.

You’re the desired, I the impulse.

You the shepherd and I the sheep.

You’re the dream and I sound asleep.

Something Black and Red

Walking to work

Covering my ears as always

Past the scream and grind

Of savage machines

My feet deep in heavy snow.

Suddenly I saw:

By the construction site sat

Balanced on the edge of a curb

Something black and red

Under a thick layer of ice

Immune to the December sun.

In those days I didn't know

what a scarlet tanager 

looked like dead

or sounded alive.

That Mythology of Paperwork

It's the thirteenth time.

Torn (no, ripped), taped back together, 

bleeding ink,

signature-tattooed,

official, regulated, proper,

destined to arrive there,

at the wrong time,

the wrong department,

in the wrong hands.

The white envelope dark

like Hades, smirks,

mocking my inability

to follow elusive instructions.

I must have sinned.

The form's my boulder.

Why do I bother?

Why do I bother?

Human Thoughts Before Departure

Fluorescent lights reflecting off the floor

Painted with jet-black but faded arrows 

That point

Not at the jasmine-scented night

Leaning against the giant glass

But soothing lies beyond guarded doors

Flyers overhead asleep in the sky

Flyers afloat with nothing—naught—to flap

Going nowhere quicker

On greedy dreams and fiery throats 

Metal swallowing beaks and souls 

Inside fluorescent lights flicker

Traffic-Jammed Intersections in the Brain

Traffic-jammed intersections in the mind. 

The cause: Again, multi-car crash. 

The cause: Again, Anger tailgating Fear, 

Surprise 

unconscious, half under and half behind 

Happy still asleep at the wheel, 

with Disgust 

ahead repelled by Sorrow and Sorrow

feeling the cracks in the pavement where shards

of glass encircle a dandelion, 

headless. 

A hollow voice from deep inside the stem: 

Could have avoided this. 

Could have avoided this.

My Old Bedroom

My old bedroom, a rotten apple,
a museum for clouds, a long knife
made of torn cotton, an empty bus,
a Godless chapel.
My old bedroom, a door with no lock.
The window with a screen to keep out
monsters. A bed for nightmares.
A voice that cackles.
My old bedroom. Posters on the walls:
Wheels, cartoons, and words. On the floor, toys,
books, and pages of poems.
My soul in shackles.

Air

One day you may touch what's wrong.
I've wrung my dreams out in verse.
Drip drop drip drop drip drop drip.
Grip strip trip—I saw a soul inside a hearse
singing of seasons past, a silent song.
Sat up, sweat pouring, gasping for air.
Sylvia, many a night, I've touched what's wrong
but woke grasping only the silvery air.

Some Nights I Fear Going to Sleep

I don't recall my dreams, at least
not the narrative: Saw a priest
wearing a cape, fluorescent green,
and warning me that West's now East.

Another dream: A vile disease;
it kills none but weakens the knees,
so people crawl along the streets
and weep sometimes and hug the trees.

Some nights I fear going to sleep;
stay up for hours just counting sheep.
My day's odd but I make it mean.
At night meaningless terrors creep. 

I die, until the subsequent morn.

Deeply thankful
for the curved edge
of countertops,
coffeemakers
than those stovetop
kettles, homeworks
done, keys in place.
I’m the morning
rush: mismatched socks,
chewing fast, tense,
skimming the news,
checking the watch,
anguished rocking,
forgotten lunch...
and then I’m gone.
Silence. Silence.
The sun star throws a ring of saffron light
that cradles every heart and calms each soul.
At night, people return and later rest.
 I die, until the subsequent morn.

May You Be Sunny

May you be sunny in this Christmas snow
And shine on me and help me brighten up;
As moon reflects the sun, so I, your glow.
Your face, my greatest gift; your smile, the bow. 

That's What I Remembered

The fluttering feelers
of a fattened cockroach
beneath the sink....You say
traditional healers
still use their powdered flesh
when making facial masks.
That's what I remembered
now when kissing your face.