Behind the Cracks

A blank haze flashed, and layer upon layer it tiled itself over the creeping static. The swell of vacant lots was bursting all the fences’ chain links. «Acme», read the side of the truck. Amongst the graffiti and rubble, my eyes were nonetheless fixed on the fading supermarket truck’s sign. It did not even take a touch to know that the truck was rotting; the white paint was sickly even when perched between tired cherry-red warehouses and pale dirt. So seemlessly did my gaze avert when I managed to cull pastoral memories from the depths of memory. A slight run of the finger across my skin could tell me that neither here nor there was a sanctuary disconnected from salty grit. Four stars were shining, and the jaundice halo carpeting the circumfrence of the sky certainly made me fall into laugther. Thus, I shrouded myself in the seeds of our fruitful conrete, stone, and steel endeavors. Grass still grows among the cracks in the sidewalks, and plastic bags dance on broken telephone wires like two squirrels chasing each other up the side of a maple tree.

Redeeming Cloud

The echos of inverted falling
scream tightly into the vein of pulsing blood,
as flesh curates flesh
until each is in awe of promiximity’s absurdity.
Whistle the wonder of beating light,
may reds and greens be the delights to live
inside the fractured pieces of daytime
which play back on the drapes of your eyelids.
Hold now quivering fingers,
so unsteady from the rhythm
purling inside all our chests.
Exhale the fumes of whirling hips;
let the smoke cloud
rise to the rafters
so we may all look at
the redeeming cloud
exultantly crafted by instinct.

The Wind is Always Traveling

Wind burns in crippled silence,
its howl ekes out all our names
digging ditches of which to play a child’s game
between the dark and light
balancing a reposed spite
that is paved on the bottom of waterfalls
so melodious in the fall like the owls’ baritone calls.
Down in the world’s recesses are a violence,
its scream knows the corner of every man and dame
however it is not violence of which to blame
but those who cast shades in nocturnal shroud
who dare walk in the midst of a moral cloud
that is paved onto our conscious and each downfall
as we watch decisions cover the landscape like humane sprawl,
the horizon is known to all souls wild and tame
yet it is not inherent confusion to put in shame
as not only or our ears which hear a voice so piercing and loud;
seeing as how a part of the body’s whole is so well endowed
with the melancholy gift of woken sense.

Night rises from the ground,
the static starts to rub and makes a sound.
Orange friscalating dust
settles itself on a fragile bust
beating along with the bosom’s beat
sending chills into all wanderer’s feet
for it is they who walk
who have known in these times to not talk.
For a word may spoil
years of an imperative toil,
so may the balance of decision
be met in imminent judgement with utmost precision.

The Art of Shaking Dusk

Rich labrynths sear their sealed lips
among the perched shelves of such
a well-worked widdling craft as mine.
I pull my tongue
to slither through the cracks of teeth
so that all under the fog
know what their first steps entail,
such is the calling of sweet words
when I am the rich soul
stepping foot on the untreaden ground.
Perch yourself high on veering tree limbs
to peer onto the pages;
if a branch were to break
bite your tongue so it may bleed
to leave a streak of your passive screams
on the bark.
I gobble like a wolf,
then cradle my words,
like a mother's young,
after a few strokes of saturated illumination.
Watch this foray of falling climbs and straining muscles;
surely art was meant to for those who danced.
Come then when you please,
to press your newfound leaves
vein-first piled high onto the lines of parchment
that play the pavement like a harp,
echoing wild songs of our high-head stares.

Cargo

Hear the one echo of a rolling silver tide,
that moon who rumbles in ghost-voices
trembling from the might of youth footsteps.
Those who walk in these steps of sand
will know the sweetness of salt
as the waves hit their feet
to drag their tracks
into the dark reaches of the ocean;
never truly gone
but to a great whole.
By the beach of summer nights,
an island holds memory in its arms
as I lay to rest on its shoulders
waking with the waves in my mouth,
gazing listlessly into the shoreline.

Clarity at Dawn

Hear the one echo of a rolling silver tide,
that moon who rumbles in ghost-voices
trembling from the might of youth footsteps.
Those who walk in these steps of sand
will know the sweetness of salt
as the waves hit their feet
to drag their tracks
into the dark reaches of the ocean;
never truly gone
but to a great whole.
By the beach of summer nights,
an island holds me in its arms
as I lay to rest on its shoulders
waking with the waves in my mouth
as I gaze upon the shore.

Lusty Skies

Today I crawled out of bed with a cloud.
Frankly,
it was her who woke me.
The puffing swirls
brushed over my cheek
as I turned to push the sheets
past my restless legs.
This touch resounded;
culling such a tender cylce
that strands itself in an eternal second
suspended only by the beauty of a moment
free to move in memory
and live forever in its one-time glory.
Startled and shaking
I lifted my head,
placing my hands behind me
so that I may survey
what billowy wonder wakes me
out of such a bedside residence.
She rolls over me now,
those ribs of mine
did not drop with her weight.
Hovering breezes swept me instead,
no weight was to be known of this woman
who swims in grey pools
-and on summer days as such,
the deep azul clarity
awaiting outside the window.
The wondrous floating woman
meant to speak to me,
but her breezes told no tales
except for a cooling hush
which keeps me dancing on summer’s streets
until I must sing to the mistress of autumn.
Even when that red and orange clad mistress
clasps her hands on my shoulders,
and gently bites my ear
my hips will still be in the reach
of a lusty dog-day sky.

Sketch on Self; Late June

Clearly floating in surefire struts,
is a young man
leaning back in a creaking wooden chair
outside a sandwich shop
beside all the vegetable-selling stalls.
The market sunlights
feels all the better
when all the wonderful faces
turn to look at dark-dirt born potatoes.
"$1.99/pommes de terre, tres sucré !"
A fresh stretch
into the brimming hour,
the immersed breather
carries himself on the pavement
holding between both hands
an utmost ascending burst of life.
Green park hillsides
are sown sweetly
into the woven tapestry
upon which he weaves
his stitched times of talks walks
and gliding slides of wheels
atop the longest of North-South streets.
A translation to freedom
is struck with the harmony of flickering matches
outside on walled terraces
covered by the night's hat of stars and reflected light.
In a circle of spinning tounges
he will place his phrases
alongside growing fires of conversation
Touch his shoulder,
expect that head to turn today
but at night
look for those sprawling breaths
which surely celebrate
all who dance.
Leaping between open chests,
firmly the bundled tapestry of his
will be unfurled on sunny days
where green lawns and lush simplicity
touch the tinged frays of dreamy woken-moments.

Illuminated Length

Run about the yard,
holding all our toes in a frenzy
drenched in calcium-pasted looks
delectable fire
laughing light,
as the sizzle of fat
drips and dissipates into the hallow dark.
The turning hands hold hungry eyes,
a mouth wet with peaches
fears not though
the envious hunger growing inside
when the surrounding smell is ample enough
to feed a thousand men.
I pile a mound of nourished light
precisely between both my shoulders
where my neck plunges above my chest.
This glow sits here
so all who sit and gallivant in their sweetness
may see the illuminated length
that shines over the rungs of space and vibration
standing monumentally against the stars.

Tasting the Dripping Light of Days in Laughter

A content hush took off its trousers

left its muddied socks by the lake,

and plunged deep into reflective waters

so that its very nature

may swell with the refreshing burst

held by summer and surplus sunlight.

Restless head-spins

twirl the treetops into shifting greens,

the mailbox closes as Mr. Postman drives away

a shutting motion revives a morning notion

and like the treetops

the day begins to spin away

from the kitchen to the hammock

out past a voice that soars

into the valleys

traversed by both smog and sweat.

The tones ringing out the windows

sleep in a chorus of drone

while tired bodies stretch themselves

across ruffled bedsides and on top

the painted shine of each others arms.

When the chorus echoes rise

taking the sun in both day-dreaming hands,

these eyes will peel free

to shudder and then marvel

in a foam of grass-covered hues

at the burning day and its fruits

which fall into our soft woven baskets

as the bugs taste the tiny juices

that burst forth when the fruits

splatter against the basket bottom.

Here Speaks a Waking Dream.

I stopped to write a poem and the page left itself blank. No metaphors rang out from my skull, my jaw did not open, and my eyes did not swell with tears. In white flashes of foggy laughter, running amok in sunshine, and in touches of longing did I stop in a lucid moment to bask in the sweetness of such fleeting presents. The paper did not cry for my pen, I did not yell for words, but I did ache to lay down on my side and let my memories hold me close. On the floor I fell, and surely my longing was met by the comfort of knowing that it has been these arms, these legs, this torso, and this cranium which have been the receiver of my photographic visions. Each glowing vision flows like a hushed river but also yells like a vulture; it encircles the living thinking that it has found the dead upon which it would rightly feast. The delay of sense quells a restless notion in each passing of blinding time I recall. Then in a rush of hours but in a mere burst of gracious seconds, my senses gripped my neck and chafe me till I bled dry and am but bare bones. I fell into silence, and kissed the forehead of what I saw was myself sitting deep into my own past eyes. Moments captured by a present self, bathing in the dripping thoughts of the past! Oh, how I come to curl in my bedsheets and the stone between me and prose has been moved!

Bright Flash of Years

How we speak in limbo languages!
Dumbstruck and watchful glances
raise the body's sticky heat
in midst of a tanned blind spot.
A weighted set of limbs grows ripe
upon the blisters of humming pensive gestures.
Friends born in the twinnkling eye of
finger-crossed days and head-back laughter,
the mountains in flames
are telling you to come watch the fields burn too
and let the smoke of corn
cradle the last drops
of sunlight we will taste
while our hands are not bound by blessed geography.
Leave the motor still
to let your twirling legs
twist around tree limbs
so that we may
pick the fruits of grand-girthed giants
and pull out the roots of faulty saplings
in order to plant new seeds
culled by bountiful earthen remembrance.

Blurred Lights

A burning warning
scrapes my veins
begetting inaudible tones
echoing in screaming fog
that rolls heavily along
empty corn-fields.
Our eyes fill with deep humming,
which in steaming tracks
crack in the May nocturnal reflections.
Hold tight onto this elbow
to keep watch on my flowing blood,
in the occasion that it is paralysed
by what may be a
material breach in comfort,
or
a two-tone folded cut-out
projected onto empty windows by a feeling.

Spiritual

My eyes shut themselves, and a hissing beam of white light came over me in a distinct instant. The sound of glass shattering, then waves crashing, pulsed throughout my ears. I found a rolling wheel of soft stone running on the ground. As it made its way in a dizzying circle, I caught it as it neared towards me. I picked it up for a moment, it was light and carried little density as I rested it upon my shoulders in great pride. In a dark moment, the wheel fattened itself on its own stone and grew in weight. My shoulders gave out, and the wheel did not crack as it fell to the ground but rather kept dancing as it had previously. I watched it pass as I felt the burning of my broken shoulders. I opened my eyes, then plugged my ears with my fingers and proceeded to again shut my sight-caverns. A sigh pushed through me, then a smile.

I escaped the light,
rested my head on the foaming haze
to weep for the sounds
that will never be so deeply residual.
The glow drank from my hands,
birthing its wonder from the sky.
I stopped my mouth in fear of desecrating
a flash so fragile.
How holy blood is,
when it runs throughout
a sensory touched remembrance.
A fondness so deep
ascends over my head
beyond every last inconceivable quark.
This breath
gives me a cushion,
as my weary shoulders
grow tired of stone-hewn roads
trying to pose as marvelous paths.
Shh,
treasure the gentle whir
alongside a whispering excersize in living
(I hope to be fit).

Shaking black and white photo
perfect photo portrait past mannerism
promising embrace
earth trembling shake
boundless silence;
crushing intent extant exhale
all was never met,
mercilessly
ending in mediation.

Honestly,
I cannot build a house
but I can construct great ruins
because all is borrowed
within the place of space-time
Give me a place within this fabric-
any point will do,
I shall intersect you and I
as I tear through photons
hoping to reach a fond place
by the grace of this endless circle!

If only for a hovering moment
permeating my closed eyes
I would tell the spectacle of poesy
how my bedroom appears tonight,
but that would simply
catch itself in a misunderstanding.

Liberating walk back through gravel alleyways,
wave rushing memories
quelling the loud hush
roaring at the sands of sense
illuminating the day
burying the present
touching the past
breathing back the now
timely gaze (never see)
Oh, how now
I breath deeply!

A Static Plea for a Dreamful Receiver

The clamour of rainfall befell
each mystic silence
hovering over the confounding cranium
lodged between myself and the mystical.
Now I watch from the window
the flood crawling up the darkened road
where I wholeheartedly
let my dry thoughts die
at the tip of my glimmering tongue.
Sincerity,
so sincere,
has never reached receiving ears.
If only for the sake of joy
intentions could be met
without a word
even while sitting stunned.

My dreams perplex me
beat me into the pillow,
suffocating the slightest morsel of certainty
which could cast bright boundaries within
walking day illusions of longing.

Weary of sickening notions of time,
a friend once told me
the simple days are rare.
All I replied was this;
no fell-swoop sees itself
pave golden our grand wantings.
Surly the darkened pavement
knows its own weight
only by the day,
and we only know loss
when a void burdens our sights
leaving us motionless.
It is a shame when neither
can find a word to interpret
or action to mimic.
Thus,
I am on the ground
with my cheeks puffed out
holding my breath
for a delightful receiver
if but for a moment of their doings.