kireji*: sometimes used as a cutting tool

index finger glides
over large desk, cool to touch
city lake in view

sweet sources soured
numbers jump, fill pocket lines
smiles spot the air

body, slow submerged
embraced well in waters, clear
floats on matter, light

rushing beige column
a spigot regurgitates
splish splash, patted hands

moistened mother’s lids
daughter, barked from water source
lips roughened in fear

pearl drops down hair strands
red scalp rawed, frantic rubbing
neglect scratched on skin

two-hour thumb stuffed ears
baby suckles cracked nipples
beneath a lolled head

whitened, clammy skin
daughter’s hand touch racing chills
largening chocolate stain

steady silence hangs
time-barred child’s sudden screams
fall o’er boiling pot

lead water sits on
politician’s twitching tongue
bulged blue with despair

body, slow submerged,
embraced well in grounds dug deep,
sink in matter, dark

heads bob, dot the sky
numbers jump, fill sidewalk lines
air studded with teeth

city lake in view
beyond large desk, cool to touch,
condemnation hides

*kireji is a part of a haiku that cuts two fragments. Flint is a fragment of minerals that was used as a cutting tool. This is a haiku of haikus. 3 stanzas/7 stanza/3 stanzas.

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symbiosis

blue butterflies land on my chest

there had been a hiatus, a break/
newly made log rot where insects
searched for and found lodging. some-
times what begets a crack in the skin/
(or the heart)/ begets refuge for another being.

stop time,
blood flow and CO2

blue butterflies land on my chest

you can do what needs to be accomplished
and still sustain scarring: this is the spiritual war,
one that breathes amongst other warriors,
blue butterflies land on my chest
where the blood-letting is a soft wind that
sways branches,
blue butterflies land on my chest
where the blood-letting is sand grabbed by
a timid wave’s crest, passively submerged,
blue butterflies land on my chest
where the blood-letting is dust motes caught
unaware in a column of light, exposed
blue butterflies land on my chest
where the blood-letting is sun-wheeled burns/
on sensitive shoulders
everything is necessary.

blue butterflies land on my chest,
symbiosis and sufferance

-Stevie Ambroise

what do we name the space between two goodbyes?

did anyone even hear you open the door?

i love the click-quiet fact that you never left,
a halted breath, non-existently still
in the choice to neither stay nor go

(but to be alive is in the dance,
a sacred risk of movement
)

you want to remain to me this miraculous
transcendence of death
(i can tell you do
because i stopped waiting
for the sorrow to come/

and air split
skirts around you,
stuck in the back of my throat,
an overdressed
under expressed farewell)

i am alive. you are
swallowed by light, pale, sculpted
beautifully still
we stare,

caught
in the liminal,
between a move forward and
a step back.

“Catch-22”

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.

-Stevie

i dont (episode 4: a breakout series)

i don’t
remember the last time
i remembered myself,
caught the lobe of my ear
dangling off a ray of the star,
Sirius, loud and self-embracing

me, i’m tired of the pick apart
put together caused by self-explosion and the
subsequent scavenge of the earth
for the most minute monuments of me
(like last night, i was so desperate
for the left side of my pinky toe,
and I could still stand
),
is it greed if i have this
need while i know
i still need?

shouldn’t this desperate
desire be enough
for me?

– Stevie

i don’t (episode 3: a breakout series)

i don’t
have the will
to wake some days,
to rent another breath
that compounds this loan when I already
don’t make enough joy (i know my right eye twinkles
with three less rays
than that passerby)

now, I’ve had my 50th
call from God, all asks for payment
trailed by the threat of confiscation of property
(i’ve almost been confiscated sixteen times),

had to bear my entire weight on ragged knees,
brown skin scrapped back, wrist
thrust forward bathed in the stench
of three-year old trashed memories
from my scavenge for belly born
laughter

and i get the extension

but we both know
all my smiles are just
begs for more time
i may never afford

-Stevie

I don’t (a breakout series)

i don’t
have any advice, i’m still

glued to the sight of my beauty
arrested in the wind, a shaky brown
desperate

for escape from a hungry nature (
I’m sure it doesn’t want to be seen like this
)

i’ve never sensed simplicity
to be so complex, or had a thing
as dense

be so elusive as to be caught by a passing
breeze, but never
an eye

that wanders, never
legs

that search, and I’m lost
at this sudden need
to look

before it turns to look back.

– Stevie