The stench of death

Clasps my lungs

And my hands

In turn the left breast pocket

As if there were a psalm

Buried within the syncopation.

The gulls gather overhead

Their vehement cries

Perforating and with shrillness

Stitching the world

Into an arbitrary silence.

Her yellow dress curls

Like moist paper.

Her strange eyes

Pinned to a darkening nimbus,

I await explanation

Though it serves no one

To speak.

He left me she says

In a voice without

Thread or continuity.

He left me again and again

And then finally

I lost count.

How permanent

A thing is when lost.

She folds her body

Into a river,

Still and transparent

She sheds her remaining tears

Her allegories, her fractured pride

And falls into a sleep

Too vacuous to admit

Her melancholy.



Five fingers corseted

Around a heart that furrows

With transparent agitations

Like a water mark

But art as love cannot be

Withheld it must be shared

In order to flourish.

Sometimes the pain blankets

My attempts at being human.

Sometimes I am no one

But it is everyone else I fear.

Whatever else I might be

Yours is not the face

I was designed to wear.

Is it wrong to crave isolation?

To prefer the conversations

That happen first within

And then beneath the pressure

Of still shaking hands?

Some poems cannot

Be spoken out loud,

They are carried

In the junctures and edges

Of souls inverted and collapsed.

Vulnerability is the only

Strength imposed,

We’ve got to feel the ground

With our whole body

Before we can forge roots

And forget about the stars

If you don’t love with every ounce.

Stream of Conscious

Sometimes love goads,

It forces reticent wings

Into a blinding wind.

When in your company

I prefer disturbance

To the quantifications

Of a habitual silence.

My days are sheets

Of crumpled paper

And these poems

Which are awakenings

In theory are only

Fodder in practice.

Whose thighs and whose hands

Cradle my organs mutely?

Whose lips tear prophetic riffs

From my capricious knees?

Who needs to repeat the mistakes

Of their predecessors to recognize

Their own penchant to madness?

We want all our angels diseased

That we may count our blessings.

For each life there is a luxury

That will euthanize it

If substituted for passion.

It feels to me that I have several poems in here but I didn’t give myself enough time to write today so I guess this is more stream of conscious than poetry.