All Because I Thought You Looked Like Wisdom

You’re the latest love to turn me to a poem,
after time and trauma stoppered Understanding

too weak to lift rhythm
from the the waving hands of the word
“waist” (or was it waste), which
type of time tripped me up and caught me

like a baby, shrunken too small
by rebirth to comprehend prison
for the sake of precaution, as I watch words,
mobile, fall from the ceiling before I sleep?

they never land on me
i never taste them

for when I dream I chase
because I am a grown man
who is an elderly woman
who feels like a teenager

and you are a pickup
(or a dump) trucking along

and my heart is a filling moon-sliver of a
fingernail, drawing blood from bumper,
destined to never rip, even
as the force and direction of your speed
and the gravelly inertia of your “no”,
leaves me to flap in the wind,
skinned raw swaddled in tears

all because I thought you looked like wisdom.


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5 until the end of days (la loteria, mi amiguita)

If I were to scratch at my desire for you,
what would be found beneath that?
I found a single lady, for loneliness,
and 15 cents.

But to scratch at the joy I feel when with you, to let
my fingers dance across the simple square that is
the space of you, I find the sun, and your smile,
and every cents.

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4 until the end of days

Your wooden wind-chime laughter
showers the back of my neck, and
I am soothed.

You are the anticipation of warm summer rain
polluted with crashes of thick white lightning,
you are near-death experiences in the ocean, that
first breath of success when fingertip touch shore,
you are the embrace of all I love that reminds me
to fight to be alive, to fight against numbness,
to try one more time, again and again.

You make me stronger than my fear of that one day,
my essence, in it’s final journey from this body
to another realm and the start of another rich,
immersive experience, sweetened with the eventual
arrival of you.

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3 until the end of days

this empty mug of sorrow
won’t let itself be poured
out, beneath the penetration of
sun rays thirsty for the evaporation
condensation precipitation
of tears and tea,
and the continuation of a life
at this state of Wait

unlike this mug,
my heart repeatedly breaks for you,
and sorrow swirls ooze out to
paint my aortic chambers with scenes
of nostrils filled to the brim
with white swirls of music notes
that elevate your body and coccoon
your brain from your mother father circled
around you, eyes shut to your slow

my heart pounds out images
in abrupt dull tones,
broken kaleidoscope visions
of tiny outstretched hands weighed
down with absence,
tickling keys to burst the silence
from the air…

knuckles slash air to strike face,
kisses shared in a bed with no commitment

you smile, laugh, dance,
your eyebrows risen up to the sky,
two baby suns ready to break dawn…

tears fall from my eyes

at noon,
i take a spoon and tap it
against the side of the mug.
it rings like your laughter.

Posted in black art, family, love, music, nostalgia, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , | Leave a comment

2 until the end of days (And if it starts)

The waters that rush with my blood vessels
through my veins would turn to wine,
and like a messiah, i’d invite the world to
drink from me in celebration because what’s being tapped
when the eyes that fill you with joy are so close,
in your bed, in your heart, beneath your lips

remember when we talked of my fairy tale bathroom,
how gnomes roamed around my toilet covered in sprinkles
of fairy dust, that’s what I want to be to you, a fairy tale
delivered to your house in under two days with free shipping
because you finally signed up for what you deserve,
which is happiness and a life free of ease

and an acceptance of this letter of infatuation I write
before I know your middle name, which is the same love
letter I write as I know your greatest regret, which is the
same letter of compassion I write, as I hope you make
your way to self-forgiveness

i know how intimate you are with the fantasy
of your death, how you build intimacy with pain,
as if it’s an egg you must nurture into a species
different than the mother that does nothing but
draw blood. I know, firsthand, it doesn’t grow up different.

My light, I promise you don’t only shine with darkness
draped around you, I promise the joy you are is still true
during the day, and I want you in my daytime, noontime,
and nighttime, all the time, so like a message in a bottle,
I’ll let this go, my love continually existing for all to see
an undying undulation in the ocean of my subconsciousness

and beneath the glare of fire borne from the strike of these
two sticks of strength and ambition blown to an inferno by
the softness of your compassion, I am seen and see myself.
What I feel is beautiful, so I release it, and you have it,
and it’s yours, for you, for all time.

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1 until the end of days

can i rip a kiss from
time, time, “time”?
it’s 3:49 am and my consciousness
is wrapped in the under-saturated
technicolor of dreams, my legs wrapped
in your sheets, labia wrapped by your lips,
i breath in time, time, time

every time i inhale you, a blood relative
snaps off the ances(tree), but at
3:49 am, you swallow the pain of this body’s
shatter and my lower back swallows
pleasure this time, time, time

this is a poem about loss,
filled to the brim with faith
and one days, and time time time

to wake up
jarred by the alarm
of the empty space
i wish you filled.

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what do you take
for the calcification of desire,
what pushes out the aortic stone,
sometimes caught in the left chamber,
sometimes the throat?

i take a tincture dropper filled with the memory of
my latest favorite album,
the taste of strawberry ice cream,
the warmth of a cup tea in the palm,
and how, sometimes when you laugh, your eyebrows go up,
even though i’m the one left surprised
by how quickly it all takes my breath away.


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