Spills Dream

Out of the palm of my hands,
from the creases of my skin
my story unfolds...

it is not unique

but speaks

a strange language.

In the mind, it takes
but minutes for death
to overcome the ripened flower...

the sweetness of fruit
sleeping in the sun,

the odor of life
disintegrating.

In my bed, the sun sets...
my shoulders- earth,
my mouth- the song of wind

in the breast of trees,

my body a vessel of Spring

spills dream.

In Ancient Beds

I am not deaf, I hear
what you do not speak

the widening silence
between thought and extremes.

You move in a world
of stone.

My feet are wings...

the reason birds
have hollow bones

while rocks sleep
in ancient beds

without the joy
of dreams.

The Purpose of Rooms

At the end of the day,
worry is not a question.

No one asks the dead-

"why?"

At the threshold of the door,
there are two concerns-

leave or live.

Rooms and the purpose
of rooms becomes a riddle-

inside of all of us,
an unfamiliar puzzle.

The night, the city,
my stretched skin

my captured soul,
my unended beginning...

becomes a room.

I dreamt I was born
in the hollow
of a wooden shell-

somehow, at the end
of the day, (incomplete)

Half of the Beginning

Not long ago,
a child knelt down
at the knee of her father

not with reverence,
something more...

like a moth settling
upon un-natural light

or the way
the moon clings
to divinity more tightly

than the rafters
of its sky.

What is a father?

Half of the beginning,
a guiding bell, the sound
of which leads us

to higher grounds,
a tree whose leaves

remind us of ourselves.

Dragonfly(incomplete draft)

The hidden is often revealed,
but not just for honesty's sake-

the center takes the mystery
out of life's design

and makes it tangible.

We also, should be less obvious,
like dragonflies occasionally flit in-

then unseen exit through a window,

or sacrifice ourselves to beauty
like the golden subtle rose.

The Aging Sky

We have recovered
what was lost-
the aging sky

We were born
to remember.
It's in our blood.

The night
weaves a garment
for our bones.

How lovely
its threads gleam
across our chests.

I am convinced
of the purpose
of stars and stones...

even as we sleep
their meaning
survives us.

This world
is burning. Everyday,
the aging skies...

the ashen heavens
of our flames-
ignite.

The Density of Delight

Of my delight, the world
finds meaning... early morning
rain, a beard of clouds
obscuring the rising sun,
the sweet breathe of a newborn sky.

Beneath my window,
flower peddler of silver-wet streets-
first steps of dawn in a city

that unfolds
like orchid blossoms,
a blank blue page.

Here, we'll write today
of gardens, of twirling leaves,
dew-green trinkets-

a necklace for the wind.

Of my delight, we'll write
how grateful are the eyes
emerged from darkness
held proudly on their stems,

alive, alive. And all we know
alive, alive. Things could be

different, we tell ourselves,

knowing is far heavier
than sleep or waking...

far more dense
than early morning rain.

draft (White Lily)

And so, white lily,
the darkness comes
to drink your shining light-

a woman's body glows
through silk, then softly

burns out.

Your folded skin
unwrapped again,

a borrowed gift, delight

Stained-Glass

Your large body filled
with beautiful things-
some un-framed and simple,
others resting on the floor

to be admired from above...

I walk your temple
with wakened eyes, slow

like a desperate lover.

See there! How color
becomes the sea,
the floor of sky,
the arching wing of bird,

your creatures
are not confined
to cloth or wood.

Art is your mouth,
your delicate hands,
the way your body
moves like light, like color

through a stained-glass window.

A Question

It's not like us to distinguish
the difference between yearning
and the universe, the seamless

space that separates the heart.

Our story is a question.

Who wields the guiding light?

Why does the moon remind us
of the glowing end of life?

etc. etc. etc. (to be continued)

The Calm

"Yes" they told us, "this
is how it happens."

First, bones are revealed-
a sunken ship

white and rotted.

Next, strings grow lax.
Often completely torn away

from a rusted anchor,

followed by air
loosened from shafts.

Broken, billowing sails.

Waves grow gnarled,
returning to self.

At last, the calm.
The sea lies down-

a resting gull.

The Sound of Music (draft/incomplete)

That crazy mexican is playing
tijuana circus music again.

His son is small with a face
the color of vanilla beans.

I think of emaciated foxes
hiding in their darkened dens.

My grandfather listens
to Chopin, his teeth

aglow in the dusk-
piano keys in moonlight.

When he hums, the walls
close in like curtains.

Someone upstairs is holding
a cello, a soft embrace...

I can hear them making love-

the bow of thunder drawn
against across thighs of night.

Wolves with mouths, gracefully
shaped - astonished "o"s

sing of trees, meadows, rivers.

Wild angels in large fur coats
compose- the sound of music.

Practice Verses

There, when darkness rises,

when we hold
light between our ribs,

our bodies deceived,
our shadows reclined

against grey mountains
like sleeping gods,

the silvered flame
of day dampened,

stillness, a holy anthem,
garment of the dead,

Pearls of Thunder

i
Thunder,
in the shape of man
entered the tunnel
through a small door.

ii
Unseen corners
of mouth
inherit discovery-
collapse and vanish.

iii
Sprout branches,
leaves of star.
Each one trembling-
wings of light.

iv
Vibration of hills
inside walls of valley.
Night beads sweat
on tender blades of grass.

v
Pearls
the color of the moon
erupt. The dream
of flowers, fire.

The Grand Delusion (draft)

It is a different light
in the same sky
that moves me,

the alphabet of life
on every leaf, every tree.

The forest keeps
its secrets sacred.

I still hear ancient names

from recessed ives
of the very woods

that haunt me
as a child.

This veil, this mist,
these webs of spider

cast across the hollowed crescents

like whispered spells-

undisturbed, deserted,

wasted. The same night
in a different sky...

the exactness of the heart
pulsed through unfamiliar eyes-

the grand delusion.

The Keeping

I submit my resignation
to earth which rushes
up to meet me...

my restless wings,
his relentless tongue.

We are old friends,
he and I.

I am prepared to offer
some form of restitution.

My flesh tends
the exquisite rose.

The heart caves in
on walls of chamber...

destroying wounds.

Eyes remember quietly
the blue-white sky...

the echo of light
on the mirrored water.

The taste of earth
similiar to life...

and stones
beneath the gnarled
hands of trees

lie keeping.

Draft

We never traveled beyond
the long row of fir trees- together.

Your feet were heavy.

Your shoulders bore
the sweet weight

of your mother's sins...

a burlap sack
filled with stones.

Your prison became
my garden where

I imagined journeys.

Birds above the treecaps.
Bees in search of bloom.

Like a Bell

a bell
I tried to sound beautiful.
Like a bell and the forest said-

there is nothing more glorious
than silence. The way it rests

against the leafen floor
in a bed of mist.

design
There are holes in the sky.
A small quantity of light

arranged in the shape
of a cup. We fill it

with our desires. Drink
and be forgotten.

a moon
The golden belly
of a pregnant girl.

See how it stretches
as if an embryo of stars

breathes beneath it.
The pulse of birth.

a circle
Somewhere in the middle
we are justified. The end

is root. Sprouts flower.
The beginning.

The sun holds lilies
in its mouth.

death
The world is made of flesh.
The air erases faces.

No one truly forgets
a child, a mother.

We continue to garden
through cold winter.

The Education of Stone

I move without moving. For instance,
the body stands at a window, spilling
ink of thought that travels into the shadows
of trees, other pieces of darkness
and beyond the curvature of evening.

My father appears, every night
a different man. A strong walking stick,
a vine of black berries, a dangerous wave-

the kind which disfigures the ocean's floor.

Maybe like a river, moves away,
ebbs back. Sunlight caught
in the delicate fabric of water

as the wind plays tricks
on mirrored surfaces. And surfaces.

Move without moving. Never
absorbing or trusting. Superficial
intent that mean less
than they mean altogether.

I think without thinking. It is
a gift. Or a habit. Like hair.
Grows unseen, silent. Yet,
shines brown and gold.

These are facts. My father
said- "facts are not like stones.
They shift. Like love and how
you feel it. Deny or reveal it."

Someday, I must learn to move.
Not like stones. Not like light
on the river... more like

my father. Like love.

Concerto

Silver, wood.
The night,
a hollow instrument.

Standing

beneath a trellis
of twisted stars

I hear

the choir
singing.

On the Backs of Birds

And not even the wisest man
will sleep soundly, without

burning. Without escaping

the breadth of fire. When we
cease to glow, we become

a tree. A stone. The last lines
of a short story read aloud

in the thimble of the night
to a sleeping child. A fragile hand

relaxing to its bed. Like feathers

loosening on the waxen

backs of birds. Like flame
in the lovely shape of wing.

If the Sky Clears...

Sky filled
with vultures.

I am filled
with dust.

The whole sky
black...

bears its own
dark purpose.

I am flesh
fallen from bone.

A vast wasteland.

The uneasy weight
of discontent, the sun.

Exposes thought.
Needles in sand.

I think of water.
The sea. Shadows.

A time before
all death became

dried up, disappointed.
A fallen body.

The wind is hot.
It reminds me

of misgivings.
Searing moments

of coherence. Of
some estranged sense

of the existence
of water. Of plans.
Of cold resolutions.

You must travel
many days, many nights

to reach a shoreline.
Perhaps, you may-

if the sky clears.

Clear Poisonous Gas

You used to have
so many things to say

about nothing. Now
what has occurred-

where are your words,
your prayer, your tears?

Then, I understood
the shine of singing,

even when eternal smoke
collected in shadows,

flames of wound
connected in chains,

yellow sulphur, agony
seeped through skin.

I listen to empty spaces.
I have gone blind.

No one knows you.
Distant, lightless shore.

No one survives you.
Dark forgotten hills...

clear poisonous gas,
perfume of winter.

Between the pages,
between the solitude

of wrath's silence- speaks
violent, broken dreams.

Philanthropic

You visit the poor, the dead
and me when you are weak.
You save your strength for the garden-

where I once lived.

We hide the grapes.
Easy enough...
they are small, (unlike)

your desire.

Never designed
to be disguised
or reduced

poured

or wasted,

you tend blossoms
of the vine

with a grace

reserved
for saints

or phil-andering
demons.

The Vineyard

His hands were always shaking.
Wings of bee on the flower cusp-

excited or ashamed. Or perhaps,

broken. His lips on glass, on wine.
Shattered. Scarlet as the grape.

Peace comes in many forms.
On many vines. In transitory pieces.

Splendid when its found.

It is the suffered trellis
anchored in the ground...

that dreams of dying.