Reports From Nowhere
Hello there.
I have nothing to report from nowhere.
I have not been strong.
And could not hold you,
But the idea of you, I could hold,
But carefully.
I am sorry to have made you cry,
Especially when the seasons have gone dark.
And when warmth is most important.
My absence is not my intention
And as follows—
Not my choice.
As you can see, a kind, black cat scrambles
And furnishes the yard.
I have come to you in spirit,
So you may not be so lonely.
Regards, my dove.
| 2024
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Romance on the Internet
Kneeling down in makeshift galleries, flattening their newspaper ephemera.
Drawing up wholesome, silly faces at the improv camera.
Spreading robes of butter on shards of glassy rock.
Slimming jaw gently pushed up moonward on the breadth of the boardwalk.
This is how muses and creators reach.
Their exchange on the medium, it's brevity in action—
A capped speech.
| 2023
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Pupil
I want to learn.
I want to learn to be a lover, but mostly a fighter.
I want a walking-style.
I chill like sorbet. I shimmer like emerald.
I want to learn to turn my claret from a Midori melon.
I want to learn to fight, not bury, the floor with my soft tummy.
I want to laser off skull caps as if they were mushroom tops.
I want to stomp like triceratops.
I want to learn to mine sweep; those awful tongues do creep.
I want to casually swipe away marigolds.
I want to casually swipe away ankle biters with a porcelain swatter.
I want to learn callouses.
I want to learn to be harder.
I want to learn how to calcify.
This antique carcass is riddled with osteoporosis.
I want to grow.
| 2013
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Arroyo
I am a reservoir displaying
My graffiti ribcage.
I squeeze summer-kissed lemons
Into the tall glass of my hope.
Uneven hope. Undeserved hope.
Nightcap: a spring of
Lemon cashew bars and steaming rooibos tea
Steeped.
I want to sleep under the warm neon
Of a cyberpunk alley
In the fallen evening of a colder spring.
Marching spiders, climb my slopes
—Silence me with your venom—
Invigorate me
With your danger.
The obsolete train crows,
Bounces its song
Against my functional halls,
"If you know, you know."
Let loose my collected water
And let slip the rites of spring
A web of nature's own graffiti
So abundant,
A tattooed sleeve observed
From space.
| 2023
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Refurbished
I come to see you under the curtain of your hair—
It moribund; split-ends, its tassels.
San Andreas made a fault of you;
Its consequence— the mosaic
Of your reconstituted stained glass.
I come to find you in the rosewater of a tea cup;
Its mime, a reflection of a Breton-habillé,
An Edie bouncing off the factory walls.
Cosmetics made a CoverGirl of you,
An inconsolable sadness
Inhabiting your raccoon-lined eyes.
I come to want to spray-paint for you,
Not an obituary, but a curriculum-vitae.
Mothers weaned you off of the dogmatic oranges
Of convent gardens and put inside you, sweeter tangerines,
Immigrants, the elements of Tangiers.
I come to find you, refurbished,
Rarefied and holding it together.
Your optimism hanging precariously like a grape,
It's Chardonnay, your draining sun.
| 2015
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C'est moi. - 2024
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Sarsaparilla
Root beer for the languid belles and parched cowboys.
Let’s build on that.
In the saloon, a Tiffany lamp,
Will alight her temple, where the bones fuse together,
To form an alliance of undiscovered country,
Whose boundaries are drawn up
With hair with the notes of sarsaparilla
And streaks of auburn tears:
The clay of a woman bleeding
Through her head
To confess the lifelong dread
Of the side-effect
Of constricting corsets
And the barren callouses
That will undo
Those same corsets
To adopt
An inheritance
Of Cowboy Bebop
And spat tobacco-chew tar
And a pound of flesh
That flutters
Like the Pieris rapae
Does in the wake
Of the collapsing cove
Of a cabbage leaf.
Hardly thirsty. Hardly lazy.
Just vintage and tired from the morning.
| 2021
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Birds With Weights
I feel so strange.
I feel like a lead stone.
No matter how hard I try,
I am a bird with weights
On my feather-bones.
I am a scaffold built on quicksand.
Man, I am not ready to join you.
Death, I have not found my tribe.
Yet, I still continue to move.
And daydreaming, I could fly
In a group,
(Aimless) with no visas.
| 2023
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Aura
On a night that will empty me out of my corsets,
An evenly clad bishop
Will chomp on my beet liver
With the cavalier of one sampling bean dip.
My cranberry tail will be there for anyone to strip.
Auras will pluck the aura out of me.
Auras will launch deadly traffic lights at my head.
You, my darling, will drain me of all my color.
You, my darling, will turn me into a shade:
A shade to attack.
You, my darling, will weaponize me against a see,
A sea of red Italian cypress trees.
I am the soft trajectory
As inconsequential as the wind
Through the copper leaves of spread maple trees.
You, my darling, are the prettiest.
Your squibs spray-painting my rosy chest.
| 2015
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DIY
Dangling, a beautiful, white hibiscus-lei
Made from toilet paper and shoelace
Onto my center— my bullseye-incarnadine
With a green, pulsing tributary
Impressed with more color at the light touch;
Its hill reaching the center,
Composed of a splatter of blood,
A nose reaching out into a spreading star.
They say that your hematic panic
Cannot mix with my waxen synthetic,
But the silk's train fell on the nexus
And my chassis broke with joy.
| 2012
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The Calcium of Your Shoulder
Placing a round ear
Onto the calcium of your shoulder.
Barely-there-shoulder, a small knob—
It barely warms.
And the ear’s place is precarious at best.
You have no discernible neck.
That's okay, though.
It excites and one cannot fathom why.
Just arch it this way
Towards this warming sigh.
| 2013
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Mise en Garde
Her shrug is a dancing sleeve of Jolly Rogers.
Her teeth sheathe a dagger of ice.
Her aesthetic is bully techno geisha.
Her head is a nest of pastel orchids.
Her gaze is millennial all-knowing.
Her tattoo-sleeves are marbled in a cascade of blood.
Her tableau is a magenta sun.
Her kimono is zebra. Her obi is paisley.
Her point of view is neon—
A flagrant sun.
| 2021
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Destruendi
Late spring, your school of whitethorns
Practicing its lazy magic
Of morphing into
Blistering-red fruit.
You were screaming passages into my journal;
Yet, timidly whispering in the corner of my backyards.
As medicine savagely sewed up my back passage
And put me to bed,
You continued to console me
With your promising, fertile red.
All these things to be destroyed
Under the cover of night,
Only for us to be expected each morning to rise.
And to recreate, again.
I stable my horses in the freeform ribbons
Of eelgrass;
Ready to mount and to charge
To that simple destination
—The finite point when the clock blissfully stops.
But the billows and the pillows keep coming.
I'm all wet again, grazie.
Destruendi. Driftwood spat up,
Prised from the tree, the structure
(Its original and secondary context.)
Singing siren,
Whom has stolen my voice to praise you,
Whom has stolen my choice to sample you.
Enthroned, on a rock of sea samphire, she haunts your wilderness.
You break apart on her kingdom, her shore.
I have the idea of you in the bud of a hawthorn
Roasting in the West's sun.
Ideas are lonely.
I can't touch them anymore than
I can touch the horizon.
And anymore than I can touch what nature took back
When it destroyed.
And what proximity killed
When you took her scaly hand
To decorate in the hardy reflection
Of my drying reservoir.
| 2023
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Vox
Vox:
For the things, unmade.
May the northern zephyr
Swallow these unborn, whole.
Vox:
For the reconciliations, unsaid.
May the silent tormentor freshen
With a sarcasm, très drôle.
Vox:
For the memories…
No star is as dark as ours.
No other chill quite smarts
Like the dying star
That is ours
With a voice that dies on all fours.
Vox, vox, for the memories.
| 2008
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I Knew Myself
The hoarfrost chaperoned my walk.
It knew how to beautify the dead.
Delicate and crystalline,
Those unsung confessions dispersed into the ether.
They tiptoed under my breath.
Dead elm leaves or discipline—
I didn’t know how to collect
Either.
Last night, as the root vegetable formed its bolus,
I knew I was in for a real treat.
Always, always the dream—
A night of wholesome spiritus
Condensing at my cold feet.
| 2024
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Wolf Moon
The wolf moon split in half
This morning: half the promise
Drained of its orange
Replaced by only silver
A rejection of a half-dollar-
Suitor.
Last Saturday, the wolf's moon
Was lucky and enormous
A fertile promise,
A wine-stained satsuma
Wizened by age and experience
And the repetition
Of calling too many cards...
The lovers have split
Their juice leaked out
Into a slick spill
On the grinding river.
Suspicious men dragging
Their cargo
To their gods— the expecting wolves.
| 2022
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These Orangey Shifts
Like the copper and the vermilion on leaves
That won't hold their sway,
"So goes your attitude;
It's your attitude, day to day."
The maple leaf is lovely,
Especially in its falling humility, it reddens.
Yet, we must still consider
That it is still a martyr to the manic winds.
Like the undependable dew drops
That sweat away,
"So goes your mood;
It's your mood, day to day."
Yes, those jewel beads are quite appealing,
But what is one drop in even one ounce of salty sea?
Come now, reason follow me;
These orangey shifts don't accomplish,
Not even one success
Out of mistake's three.
End, end the manic sprees,
Even though their colors are appealing.
Like the copper and the vermilion on leaves
That won't hold their sway,
"So goes your attitude;
It's your attitude, day to day."
| 2009
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