A Proposition

Let's become


Forever the Messenger

Here in this place,
on isolated mountains
without cloak or crown.

Here, in this place,
where man seems more himself
than sleeping in the ground.

The doorkeeper's fate.

A deep religious vigil
of the gate.

Forever the messenger.

Never a god.


In the Midst of Sumacs

Where shall we go? Can we escape
miracles or molecules
of our own making? What use
is a virgin with dark, fragile hair?

You have to ask yourself,

once everyday...

until the weave unravels

and ashes taste like bread;


the moment arrives
in the midst
of the sumacs.

In warm, moist air.

Red Threads

The injured and the broken howl
all night- their wounds, mouths
of wolves. Gathered in packs.
A cry against the silent evening.

In the corner of an alley, a roll
of clothes. As if the body dissolved
away beneath them. Red threads
turning blue and grey. Something
small crawling away.

Everywhere signs. In the city
of the dead. Of arms and hands
and thorns. Of faces, beautiful
and damaged. Of sound, the rhythm
of a black, forgotten hour.



The trees have not moved
in many days. Birds
perch on their bones- praying.

Still-born the night
within its tight womb.
Every death hidden.

If the world is turning,
no one sees. When light
descends, the mirage
of movement dismissed
as dream, the heaviness

of grief...

how it stands still
in the far corners
of a field, downcast

as grave. As trees.


Midnight of the Soul

The hour has gathered its strength.
You sleep in the next room
as if there is no trauma
in this life; as if your breathing
is heroic and kind. Today
we barely spoke, hardly met

like the twin black hands
of a clock. Round and round.
In short, sudden spasms.
Without touching. Without seeing.

You wake up silenced- a certain
midnight of the soul near you.
How does it feel to kiss
the mouth of the universe,
a large tomb in the center
of your heart? As the sweet

great heartbreak remains.



... and we tried to save ourselves. "How"
was not the question- but "if".
The old man guarding the apple orchard
knew better- "when".

Blood in the cloth, the stain
of berries absorbed into skin,
even earth in small smudges
were impossible to remove.

So we live in the garden. Collecting
tools of destruction. Wearing
disguises. Death's severed hand
in our pockets warn us
of the insufferable
existence of struggle.

Our fate has a name. No one
has transcribed it. Yet,
we continue to speak
of returning. Revival. As if
we never lived. (Our footprints
alive in the ground)

We aren't coming back. The old man
has decided. His fruit chained
to the trees. Poisonous snakes
in the hair of our children. Winter
created on our final day. A reminder.



We lie beneath the sky,
a clear decision. Un-moved.
It is easier to understand why
we are called "nothing"
with stones at our backs.

Your guitar set aside.
A fallen tree with wide hips.
The sound of the strings,
now, birds in the hills.
Our silence, a testament.