Tuesday, November 3, 2020

6 yr stop

how many times does a thing need to suck? 

frozen. 
numbed in nuance. 

until there's the big ah awareness to change. 
-really-change-this time- 

the sculpting clay of repetition once rich and wet.
nope. no more.

'cause the damn caliche blew too hard 
and the coyote moon ate up those dreams. 
the sagging saguaro rain blew upsidedown 
and the old, too-familiar whistling was ground 
in the gears of pace and ingenuity. 

until there were these open eyes, 
i thought i knew the time. 

i, 
rotted in routine, 
now thawing,  praying...still asking, 

how many more times?

Monday, September 28, 2020

palo verde

cactus & candles and a new place to live

yet another new place to live

how often one scoops

carries their own bag of bones

their stupid sack of flesh

their silly sinews

all arranged into a human


how often do i dig under my own feet to find where i begin 

then i begin

to trace the roots and tap the umbilical origin


of palo verde green and still observations

cool nature

the romance of this "desertness"

how perfect to be waiting here for him

always waiting on him

to come around

Monday, September 16, 2019

not scary

kissed someone with your nose
and after all these years
the shape of it

still

gets in between my glue
and elongates the space
makes present some emptiness
some physical erasure
of cells and tissue

me: the aesthete
the other: amalgamation of resistance, beauty, and
the patterned way I dysfunction

just the profile and present moment
color/ jaws/ soft hairs/ tiny mountain

arching in rigid genetics
taking up face
the way a nose does

shoring up tsunamis
through simple breath of being
floods me back to wandering and existing

in Hawaii/ San Francisco/ Oakland/ Wisconsin
to party drugs and some
little succulents in the big window of our 2
bedroom flat

the one near the beach
to life had, had, and had
to noodles and rain
to a single regret
to leaving him for paradise
to finding my real name

confounding and funny
how much lives in a body
when another body feels it
ain’t nothing more real



Monday, August 26, 2019

summer

mezcal from a paper cup
in a place 
i don’t know 
orange rose up 
grabbing

complicated nights 
but only in my head 
a spread out landscape 
and too many details 

pueblo eyes are very good at remembering 

the stars take notes
the ground simmers

the mountains are always made of mud

Wednesday, August 21, 2019

side door


the light is coming undone 
the wind blows hard and hot 
an archetype
a temptation 
a floatation 
and I’m preparing to watch the rest

suicide  
this other person’s story
the click of light
the burn of sun

the getting over of someone
the getting under them too

the finding space in the social 
perimeter 
the parameter 
wiggling the dagger 
finding the millimeter 
of humanness

some

try to pierce 

some 

arrive

and the wind is still hot while it belies the answer of a big, big question:
 
can i come in now?
should i use the side door? 

Monday, May 13, 2019

onion

forging strange statements at uncomfortable hours
the typical time for drunken poetics

the purity of this kind of poverty
this kind of integrity
this kind of nuisance

destroying a texture
diseasing a mind
worrying out worm holes
crushing chasms

there are woolen patches where flesh was
they work their way to a core
they make their way through arterial passages
into a more profound and pounded kind of pavement
the stiff seriousness of a stone that keeps peeling back like onions

Wednesday, April 17, 2019

dull knives

there aren't many "no's"
        and who the hell knows the best way to share a heart.

how to explore the ugly ridges that line the drawers
        the crumbs accumulated
        the residue of too many spilt drinks
        late nights
        snacks
        naps
        leftovers
        a burn or two.

who's the guide? who has the power?
       at what hour do I bend on knee to consult the demigod
       the oracle
       the magician
       who stirs up primitive and necessary chaos as a harbinger of healing.

no one knows
     they're flailing too.
     they've moved homes
     are moving within the Self.

they're scraping back old wallpaper
     misunderstanding
     using dull knives
     too.