The Fall of Autumn

lovers be as lovers may
the crunch of fall without correlation
there is no cause for such abstemious occasions
today, cliches will have to suffice:
at the right place; at the right time



if i brought her anymore into focus
sharpened edges too dimensional
the Gaussian blur outside of time--
outside of reason
we harvest the winter for fall



Oh! look up!
I know this has been my refrain
interrupt the earth all you'd like
the cosmos will remain





up here, come up here!
there is solace in winter abandoned
replaced with protean wars forgotten
in a time when peace is synonymous
with everything is dying




i love to hold-on to the red
has pragmatism ever outdone the devil?

summer colors

To erect the future

I wanted to place all my hope in the infrastructure
imagine the relief when the storm has passed
and the bagged goods remain dry

it's like the moment before
a child filled with frustration
in search for the illusive waldo realizes
the knock at the door
is a friendly welcome home

Out for a Walk

The Poets

what chance do the poets have
there is no place left for sentiments
not with the rise of robotics
our myelin sheaths replaced with tightly wound electrodes

we won’t need hands for holding or legs with veins and arteries
the lymphatic system was always terribly inefficient
and of course, this goes without saying
our hearts will be preserved and displayed
in abandoned museums of natural history

when the time comes the poets not afraid
will keep their sacred organs
gather on the edge of civilization
and eat what the earth provides

untitled

the greatest giants have now bowed to benevolence
this does not take a lifetime, i should know
as rain slicked streets reflect
fourteenth story stars

Soon, we will have no need for our bodies
this is not ideation
but hope that our shared corpus callosum holds steady
right never estranging the left

A Different Type of Trio

ONE

I understand the heat
but if we were to open the windows now
specter lined paper would rustle
I have more respect for the spring than that

even the birds fear that summer is coming
as they make idolatrous calls at dawn
I would allow a lot to happen
in the name of a saint sacrificed and nailed

each keeper will save what they will

in the closed study shelved with broken spines
you dared take a kiss from the son
no one had yet explained the cosmic pressures
the enveloping of the skies

Yes, you realize, you must
all the waiting in between
lead the boys to rob the jockeys trying to get there first
we are all trying to get there first

but again, it is the time in between
naked, perspired, and praying
on those forewarned nights with windows hastily opened
that empower the cynics and expose the poets for fools


TWO

it really is as simple as a boy who was never loved
poets driven to madness
red eyed and clambering
nights spent contemplating unification

“holy trinity I’d like you to meet the stars”

a body a vessel
a mind a battery
but love, yes the poets are the ones
who fear not proclaim it
as the bit and lead
of struggling homesteaders tearing the earth apart


THREE

I’m sorry that you cannot see it this way:
as music across the sky
as a respectful delousing

but I have to admit you were the one with lice for friends

come spring we dance in the light

i regret to inform
we have become enmeshed
familial weight decreasing
perfection unrealizable
i cannot wait for the fall

tip-toed around my own shadow
till burst forth and ran off
there can be no development
once time passes for light

outside now, grace has appeared
to grant clemency for all
if only for the time
that weeped willows dance

Three poems

ONE

I fear its time to wipe the blood from the cuticles. I know, I am not ready either, but the pull of epi and dermis and the ability to shed those tiny things...If I could, I’d stay with the stars. There is a mutual understanding about extinguished light finding its way to you. I am gone before the harm is done. Or, I could rotate the universe in your favor, bring out all those mysteries collapsed inside your blackhole. In the end, this is how it will be: a magician's hanky spewing color across the sky till disbelief flounders and wounds inflicted become tales for children.


TWO

Across this white plane, our bodies laid out for autopsy. Disconnected and removed liver and lung and pancreas await discovery. There may have been a mistake with the cessation of time--my leg confused for yours; Oh!, do not take this as an insult! It has nothing to do with girth or hair, but about redistribution of molecules. I will always give you carbon in exchange for radical hydrogen. Don’t look sad, really, please don’t. When the doctor comes for our eyes, I wish that you be first.


THREE

I want to take you to the ledge
blow dandelions, watch them kite
and dance in their decent

a summer's walk

I took this blind walk once, through the woods of a large park, chasing after a woman who I no longer loved. I mean, yeah, the sex was still really good, and she had these tits you’d fight the world just to touch. But for some reason, I’m looking for her and she’s looking for me, and I tell myself to remember that still quiver in her eye, but I keep getting distracted, and there’s this temple on the hill. I hear the wooden gong, the gentle monk’s tapping; they are about to pray. I realize, I want to pray. So, I abandon this hunt for the girl with the gorgeous tits who I’m far from tired of fucking, and I start to climb. Hell, I’m already praying, imagining all those tiny Buddhas lining the walls in gold and crimson; and I’m bowing while I walk, and I have this understanding about loneliness and how the body operates as a vessel, and I’m not sad to admit I have to go at this alone. But, then she finds me, or really, I find her asleep in a patch of grass. She rises, wraps her arms around my waist, kisses my cheek. I figured you’d need to pray, she says. This actually makes me smile and while pulling her in closer to my body, I say, fuck the bodhavistas. We’ll follow this trail until we can’t.