tune my heart

there is something inside me that is pure
darkness. it watches you speak of goodness
and it scoffs at your truth.. the truth that rests
its weak limbs in the adjacent room of my
heart. the lightless hopes the veritas will
starve inside it's stairwell closet.. it is
a malicious, sneering face that hopes the
light will soon be drowned out. the face
sees through bloodshot eyes the light
being passed as a flame--from a tiny
candle to brilliant torch--slowly to a once
darkened heart. and though it fears the
illumination, it coughs rudely in vain
attempts to retain the darkness where-
ever it can. but the closet dweller resides
in the center, though it be a paltry place
to hide so great a thing, the center of a
darkened house.. and slowly its glow
will overtake the sneering, hateful
face--burning it away on that last day in a
once and final vengeful annihilation--
and will remind us of what
compassion could have been.

"come thou fount of every blessing
tune my heart to sing thy grace.
streams of mercy never ceasing
call for songs of loudest praise..."

apoptosis

no necesito la frialdad de tus ojos, el vacio invasiva.

estos brazos no estaban destinado a temblar y mi

corazón no estaban destinado a tiritar como las páginas

de un libre abierta debajo de un ventilador sin piedad.

es una triste verdad que lo que se unió debe romperse

y que las aves vuelan en el invierno también. yo no

pienso que el sonido de un suspiro puede contener la

historia de amor. veo quebrantamiento como un pesadilla,

y “conjunto” es un palabra de esperanza.

wa[i](n)/n/[t](t)ing

there is a peculiar sadness of your citrus dessert

but i know not what it could be as i shuffle (everyday

i'm shufflin') and pander to my prescription life.

i'm following your directions to the letter of the

ignoble law; and the passions of my heart churn

beneath my scarcely-kept image of compliance.

if death visits so many a year at the gnawing gnashing

teeth of a surly hippopotamus, how many sinners

does it take to notice my paradoxical penitence?

and if the meditations of my heart are less than

honorable--if i was a brutus in disguise--would you

see in me the festering wound of an intrinsic ill?

it isn't what makes you happy--no it really doesn't

make me happy. but the time of the metal swingset

pulls me back into childlike acceptance of this life.

oh to grace, how great a debtor

it's all in the ticks and implications of his eyes

that whisper there might be something wrong.

we've never been so close, and yet she's filling my

heart with considerable sadness --this can't be right.

a simple act of flattery became the all-consuming

silver key and now your simple acts of gratitude

lock glowing shackles around your knees--i can't

bear this. this is a burden i cannot bear.

the words we spoke only hinted at the malady of

your heart and soul--if he could play you 'heart and

soul,' maybe he would treat yours better--i soak them

up and they fall from my eyes as a torrential rain.

this isn't what you were made for--these careless

caresses followed by the still and lonely quiet that

breeds insecurity behind the temporary surety of

your attended yet anxious heart of hearts.

and what hurts the most/ is being so close and hearing

those biting words.. that I cannot understand--no, not from

this lofty perch of perfection.. how could i understand

the groanings of your heart that mirror my own?

we sit, by and by, each of us, with holes in our hearts.

and day by day, we crumble a little more for the reassurance

that will dispel our universal infirmities with a well-placed kiss.

is this enough? are his silk words enough for you?

i want that your heart would be fortified and that

you could only see...

sick/lick/call concave contentment

the hot glass of my eyes is carving

the hills and valleys of my cheekbones

short of breath between my words,

flustered, i am the irritation in the shells.

listening to the sea, is such a small

absolution; the mariner and his tale

are hiding inside him, even as the

birds circle above. i am a dying radio

signal that casts about for an understanding.

your cough in the dark was unsettling.

the night terror is folded into my cells--

inevitably never tasted so much a cold metal

but a dense, lukewarm bile that wracks my

lungs with your contagion of distrust.

the recurrence is a pox upon my house,

the fence has been ransacked by the wildfire.

a sudden heaviness is all i have to show for my

nonsensical hope of what we could have been.

have i created my own reality? i should have been

a luminous angler, shuffling the lonely seafloor

collecting the remorse of the nations.

abysmal social poverty

i wanted to be right as rain even

when the wildfires pulled the earth

from seam to seam: even when your

houses went up in flames and the candles

didn't burn but melted piteously into

their pools of oil and wax.

i told you once of a time when the lonelies

crept into my aching bones and my head

was filled with the sadness that falls

like a damp black curtain... even the

country peach passion of a steaming cup

of tea wasn't the remedy for the somber

hued silence.

and here is a question for this age and the one we

can only find behind our shoulders-- is the patter

on the ridged tin roof enough to keep you company

when your lights go out and your books end

with a final punctual whisper?

is it the salve for your blistered arms when

you fall asleep in the blinding whiteness of

the cruel summer sunlight? and no one bothers

to wake your slumbering self or at least put

the sunscreen in your resting hands?

is there a simple solution to the absence i feel

in this abscess--this abyss. abysmal... amiss.

i'm sorely incomplete in this thunderless

rainstorm--the silence, oppresses and represses

my cries.. but my tears mingle with the rain

and i can hide behind the weather once again.

emptier and what cannot be

of steel, i said, of steel.

if that were true, how do you

explain the salty oases burning

trails down my cheeks?

your love was much and

plenty, but my empty hands

and restless/oh bereft of rest

i haven't showered in days.

i think i'm holding out that

my face be tattooed on the inside

of their feet: not so obvious, but

there i would be after the long days.

last days--if only these days lasted

what will i do? i'm all alone and

your mercy isn't here: i've

squandered you like a used plate

and how will i know justification?

that our two soul's breach may

be an end to a prologue: the cusp

of our very lives. uncertain yet

uncertain! i know the unknown

it lies within my lungs--it's a

walking pneumonia and a parasitic

cancer. what ever will i do.

funerals for dragonflies

artfully, the silverwings, on the dying day,

complement the red barrow soaked in dapples

of lace-patterned shadows.

the comodification beneath the enchanting words

is enough to fuel the ire of her superficial

auburn strands.

but tremors only plague the corners of her mouth

as the steady gaze reveals all knowledge;

the truth is constantly obscured.

my disputed presence

when it comes to the interrogation

of my hands, there is little still

behind my vacant, searching eyes.

a transient word, curling through

the air of space, silking off my lips

is barely enough to augment this.

my shadow, slave ever to the ground,

responding to the all-consuming light

of your antiseptic, calloused jaw

is a definition in the least, but fares

better still obscured within the

velvet curtain of a broken lamp.

she claimed "it would be incomplete"

imperfection? what is that?

the words spoken from the daughter

unaccustomed to poking, prodding

"you would be so pretty if--" "your

face seems thinner when--" do you

create for me my insecurities? so i

can be one of your group? a cookie

a day keeps the space between my

thighs away, but counted calories will

chase happiness down a swirling,

enslaving drain..

i would my crosses bear to

love the unlovely, to tell lies about

myself so we can live on the same plane--

perhaps my chainmaille isn't

too thick that i cannot find fault.. is it

much? where is my achilles heel..

i fear it lies in utter arrogance.

and then your sweet, sweet words

feeding my soul...

let's be expressive

m m m monterrey
in sylvie bay
we fritter time in
apple fritter time away.

hahaha you said to me
but all i heard was "you
are not enough"

it's like a book elegantly bound but
hey honey, you've won everything
they said you would. i'm crouched
inside your windowpane and the
cuts get deeper all the time. fff
your yellow skin and your slowing
heartbeat, they slow my heartbeat
and whither my waxed over smile.
i clamor for your heightened squeals
and the corners of your mouth--
they get me down.
in a language that you can't read

stretching limbs and wandering wandering
i'm expanding perhaps. the alpine heights
were supposed to communicate the chill
and permeate the silence--but ralston
echoes in my ears even if that terrible day
happened only in utah (what would we do
about the mormons?),;',;',;'this terrible day
happens only in my head: you can have your
heart back, oh temporary fix, you were
my lazy summer day.

waterworks and sandstorms and random
words that jump into my head unbidden.

no. no se puede vivir con tanto veneno.

and it feels good to tell you things.
and remember the flow of the words
that sink sweetly out of my fingertips
the sink and swell of meaningless clicks
of a plastic watch--what am i waiting for?

the art of un-freaking out (this will get messy)

above all, between the organ
notes and the perfect-centered
pitches that lie between us
those perfectly measured lines
separating the coming and
going of the freeway--the far
and the near, but much less
near. kamikaze waterfalls
pouring, jumping, begging to
be let go from those fragile
angry tear ducts that claim
residence on my face. my b
ody is a cage, followed by
the dramatic the most drama
tic organ chords you could think
up for yourself or for anyone.
it's a cage, and i fight myself
with the words i hide and
suddenly let go--as if living
in an age could improve the
cage. does my mind actually
hold the key? i fight, but i
mostly give up. i can't find the
key but all i wish is that you'd
set my spirit free.

if you wanted a good example of bad poetry... well there it is. excuse me while i go kick myself in the face for being a freaking moron.

the lost eggleston

moldy yellow curtain,

falling in loose

regiments. wide archs

and its little crinkles

in your heavy antiquated

fabric. You are stretched

sand dunes, vertical,

catching the lamplight

to the left and basking

in rightly shadows. your

faint, unobtrusive red and

blue speckles break

your sandy monotony

and the slim dark

cave of the outside world

struggles to peer past

your billowing clothes.

the rise and fall of a sigh

clicking between my words

may tell you i've had little

inside my head. however, the

little inside my head wondered

when the burning inside my

chest would finally consume

my fragile frame in an arduous,

merciless, collapse of ashes

and flame.

i can't hear my struggles,

especially when my ears face

the western wind--i don't

know what it is i have endured,

though the pictures and their

empty frames try to explain

the ache behind my eyes:

the ache for which i have no

words, barely define.

i feel acutely the space beside

me, though i cannot remember

their names, who i was supposed

to miss. in the moment my chest

rises i wistfully find your face

under my palm--oh yes, this

was what love felt like--but in

the falling flesh i fold up like an

outdoor chair, rusting and wasting

away in the overgrown backyard.

i see myself walking different

sidewalks and breathing warmer

air, but i pull myself back into

the world i created--asked for--

i must push on. i cannot begin

to wonder, to hypothesize how

things would be different--if only

i had chosen more carefully.

in the rise and fall of a sigh

i've made my bed.

alone means sans distraction

fighting distraction and not
but under my fingernail
is a speck of blood and the
dust in my eye and other
i'm moving my house to
under a tree by your
side.

the face in the window(there's
not) is twisting, contorting
and the face in my window
is yours. but i'm breaking and
aching and falling apart
just as quickly as they're built
up. tears tears tears under
underabove beneath but
maybe not next to. a tired
bout of schizoprenic dreams
brought about the simple
stains that stain my heart.

the point is, too many miles
and spaces between my fingers
and between our hearts. I
lost contentment the day I
drove away.

but maybe that was just today.

Jack Vettriano's "The Singing Butler"

The angry words are yesterday and the rain
Is hardly falling, dear. The wind is something
Of a distant memory--the rush of the waves
And your beckoning arms are all that fill my
head today. The two, bless them, they came
with us, shield us from the wind and rain, though
it couldn't touch us anyhow. We're lost in our
world... unable to remember those days and times
when the roughness ripped our skin and our
anger cracked the glass like a poised hammer.
And so we're dancing to the rhythm of the outside
World, yet unable to answer its call. We're dancing
With the shoreline, laughing at the coming storm.
I have you and your strong arms today, and
Can but feel the ripple wind at my back as we
Move and sigh with the coming rain.

dropped from a sky bird

i'm sitting comfortably in
this padded box--i'll be
silent for a few days. this
no-noise does my brain
good by me. the slow
slow slow (just slow down)
motion stop of the techno
(logic?) i have no logic
but i'm sitting in silence
to regain my composure
and to peep over my fence
into your well kept yard--
no i'm not wilson, i never
was. but i'm wondering how
long the silence will have to
last? it doesn't at all, but
i'm engaged in an ongoing
mind game with myself
(isn't that weird?) but i
like to remind myself that
you've known that all along.
but that's not even why.
there were days, fever-
induced ways that my
head would melt in the sun
but these are not those days
and this silence isn't for those
reasons. i try and try
as the clouds go by
to refocus my mind and to
try and try and try--

it might just be the estrogen talking

there's no reason
to be angry
or hurt
or lonely
there's no reason
at all to wonder
why the sky
is an unhealthy gray
there's no reason
to be small
you gave it your
best.

there is never any reason
to the how and why of
the brain that sits under
my hair. just as there is
hardly any reason to the
forecasts and flowers
growing at random on
the side of the road.

i think i melted into
a puddle. but for no
discernable reason--
there is no reason at all.

a lie within a truth, but mostly the other way around

it's many consonants and vowels
tossed around like a salad.. did
you enjoy the ham cubes? well the
vinaigrette was all yours, but i can't
help but wonder whose words these
will be?

the pounding of my veins is all i heard
in my ears today, a glance through my
windowpane--what is the outside world?--
and i remember it only rains in spain,
and even then, it falls mainly on the planes.
but you don't live on the planes, and i doubt
if you can hear my thunderstorm anyhow.
hypothetically of course. (i'm lifting an eyebrow
as i can't decide what i mean)

well the truth is my echo-location is stretched
a bit, and i can hardly hear your whispers
through the trees and snow and wind. (and
apparently the thunderstorm is an inhibiting
factor as well.) but the point is i'm drowning
in a drought, don't you dare ask me how that
is possible.. suffering rarely has a definitive
name, and even then.. some words mean more
than can be known.

i'll wander and he might gander, but nothing
could keep that other man from gandering
at the old man's ward. but then again, i doubt
any of this happened at all--i knew i'd be
companion only to the wind had i declined..
lies do not become us. but perhaps i'm too
harsh. because you claim things that i can
only faintly see... they all taught me that i
shouldn't see them.. so why should i gain
perfect vision now?

i wrap up my hurts into a tattered handkerchief
and remind myself that they couldn't be hurts
at all;; if i've been numb this whole time, how
have i felt the cold?

inception

i'm looking at my hands and wondering
how i'm here again. bloodstains and shame
falling off my fingertips in a helpless rain.
she told me it wasn't fair--i'm adament
that this is all because of me and my faults--
days-coming, forgetting the steps to this waltz
and i feel myself yet again sinking, pit of stomach,
fighting biting cold and hearing simple sounds
that try (in vain?) to reinstill what we had found.
singing, he took the mess of my churning mind,
"you'll be wearing white and i'll be wearing out
the words 'I love you'" i glower at my doubts.
the blankness in the white is a death to me..
i cannot look away; it's the whiteness of the future
eyes can't tear away, heart can't sit so unsure
but i'm sure this is what i will become, not that
other woman, tripping over her bloodsoaked
feet, a still matted mass for vultures to poke
but here i am again, looking down at my hands
when i should be searching for the face of my creator
not telling myself i'll patch things up later.
so the small idea, i'll try to push it down until
it's no more than a last resort--this is not where
i want to go. we were always a lovely pair..
and i won't be a starling in the moonlight, kamikaze
my tears into silence.. the stillness will not come
because of this, no. i won't let the stillness come.
there are places inside the stillnesses that enclose...
but those words were perhaps the best i had heard
she took my fears and reminded me, they're absurd.
so quite soon i will begin to dust myself off, to find
a rhythm that keeps a good beat.. and remember
to remember, to consult my maker before the embers.