Poem a day drafts 23-30

Song of Mary

Welcome to Mary’s room where

love’s never been so

black & white

She’s got everything in her books

If you find a blank page then you’ll

have found a lovely light

They go on & on about nothing

Leaf after leaf, like

secrets shed

by rainfed trees

ዋርኮ ዋርኮ

Bearing the earth 

ዋርኮ ዋርኮ

Loosens our turf

Cut your teeth on

cinnamon sticks

Turmeric stains,

better run, quick!

Mary’s mind is a gate,

swinging iron, oxidizing

Disheveled roots climb to her

window; persephone’s ivies

Dare you peak over the canopy?

ዋርኮ ዋርኮ

Rhythm; your thread

ዋርኮ ዋርኮ

Shoulders ahead…

Perfect Storm

Please don’t

empty clouds into me.

Rivers run; positive & minus veins

fleeing the sky god.

Eroding the sod & soil to escape Eden.

Containment is not love.

Thunder is not victory.

Stop

tormenting the rain for falling.

Organizing water droplets, as if

rearranging earth for harvest equates sin with

mud.

Beast

Zebra; black with white stripes or

white with black. The question stares

me down on every government leaflet.

Even maple begs me to choose. It forces

a fuzzy metamorphosis 

of melanin,

for political reason. I know black is

absolute lack & white is queerness hiding

in daylight. But, nobody needs 

« White Pride » to prove the red

queen right. The mind trick, the heart 

lifted by decks of cards; stacks of

potential origami.

Lipping ink, the paper pegasus dips

her hooves into dark skies; staining

her intention with Cain sugar. 

Thunderstruck,

she sheds ashen foliage. Lightning smiles,

as her cotton children dance, landing atop

the heads of travelers. Dandelion spirits

sprout in the scalp, and the traveler is infected

with his ancestor.

They will carry the seeds of stripes,

join the tribe & recognize

roaring hooves; their herd. The traveler will lay

their knapsack of knowing down,

& set up home in the trampled dirt. 

« I know you » nestles into my ears. 

I love these lines with the care

of a singe-wingéd beast, too shy to leap

from pages. 

Too proud to be defined by

words.

Fair Trade

Folds  or  tree ring

  fingers

Skirting along rigid vertebrae 

Chasing palm leaf  Wind up doll

  leaking   ba-ba 

    in Bali

Brown cherry  Roasted

  by digestion

Shall we let the sea

  swallow our seed

 Spillage  Shrinkage

  in sunlit Jakarta

Finding tourists in

  your shit

    they sure do love it here

Hey  whatever it takes

   for that brown skinned

     100% Arabica 

JJ

“I’m sleeping in a snowbank.”

Medicine for a Pretentious Asshole

You know that prickly feeling?

Your hands and feet weren’t

talking to the rest of your body;

You generate lightning from fingers by

touching someone else;

That shock is

in my chest.

It’s heaviness

from the day.

From the way you, « try

your best. »

And the way I know

I didn’t.

I wish this electric soup

in my stomach

on no one.

We gain no nourishment

from this electric soup

alone.

And, what a silly life to lead;

artist, poet, songwriter; planting

fire, hoping it’ll stop

the human-condition from

catching a cold.

Weaving stories in the night

sky, won’t buy your bread.

Painting what?

Tulips? Chimneys?

You can pick up

as many leaves off

the ground

as you want;

they don’t die when they

come to land. 

Palms are a safe place

for you, Fèy. 

So, sip the electric soup.

Let the spark wash

your insides; friction is

temporary, but Oh, how it ignites

and reminds of the why.

Why you fall

but don’t die when

you land. Why

your midnight brown

eyes call without a sound.

Why you fit so

purely in a hand.

Why do you get that prickly feeling

in your chest? That ink pen pricking

soft lump of clay?

It’s the spirit flowing back

into your heart. So, sip the soup;

it’s resuscitation; a restart.

You’ll be ok.

_e ther_ -eal – {reframed

i said i can swim well

(

cut to – me; panting and drowning

tasting brine, bitterness, tears

adrenaline deposits in shells

)

i told you i’m adventurous

(

cut to – me on the couch

cringing in my comfort-zone

seas of sheets; unfinished books at my feet

)

i declared my intelligence

(

cut to – me; misspelling “salary”

salarie? Sal- Proto-Indo-European root meaning “salt”

but that’s only hypothetical

)

i said i would _e ther_

(

cut to – me; leaving bread-crumbs

promises for the seagulls

vows are for the birds, after all

)

Poem a day drafts 15-22

Behind Thin Walls

Oh, I didn’t see you there. Welcome to our

home. The window panes are sloped so I don’t

spend my day staring at a rubbled alley. An occasional

seagull, with ink dipped wings and truth dipped bill, comes 

delivering Oceana’s secrets.

Guitar strings hang from our rafter ceiling;

they coil clockwise to stay warm, and drop

woolen autumn on our heads. 

Our paper mâché home is complete with tin

carvings of trains⟶if you wait patiently, and

think hard enough, they chug along tracks

steaming our faces. Useful, right? Oh, don’t

touch that spot, can’t you see it’s sore?

If you caress it gently, it calms right down. There,

now where was I? Ah, yes. Isn’t the moon lovely,

in their dress? The clouds make a warm shawl.

Those jewels are heirlooms I asked to borrow

some night.

We have a piece of their sun in every corner

to keep our eyes open. Do you fancy a drink?

We keep two Aquarians in our ice box,

so they stay in the past. My twin doesn’t

care for them, but enjoys their gifts.

Our floor was a silver fish, cold to the touch

when we moved in.

So, we gathered foliage from every colored plume

and painted them with sin, emeralds, turmeric 

dust. Stop! You’re leaning on the wall too much!

Your shoulder shouldn’t sink against it. Oh! 

Now you’ve gone and done it. Now we have to

clean up this mess. After we get all the

junk we stuffed, back behind our assemblage.

Plaster some band-aids, and hide the churning.

It isn’t quite vintage yet, but we were saving old fights.

The voices and the yearning could

start a fire. You never know how lonely you get,

until you start using anger to keep you company.

Alright, that’s enough. Wining and dining could stain the foliage.

So, let’s just tape this hole shut before

something ugly falls out. It’s been a while

since the storage was this full,

and my home was this

empty.

A Child’s Laugh [Haiku]

Sleeping memory

Splitting sky down the middle

Lightning Tunneling

unhome

I woke up in a strange place  My mother had

tucked me into bed  The moon was dripping

red  & adorned in cherry pit  Casm  Deep

An ocean of juiced pomegranate hearts  Dropping

seeds off at preschool  Punctuality has no place

in poetry  So  forget ticking astronomy

Rewind ovarian smile  Mothers beg for

the shattered glass spirits  Leave them

Weavable tapestries  Glow-worm behind 

sunlight  Casting stains along the tired chapel floor 

Give in to the light-bearer  Peace on string

Luciferian solstice  Understanding of the dark 

promises no illumination  So  perhaps  falling

stars must be chased  Night sky  Calls for geminid

showers  Flitting about  Humming birds with

unearthly glow  Sharing shingle arms

This odyssey isn’t over  You cast your heavy anchor eyes  and catch no fish 

There is no nourishment if the bruised blackness remains 

Unexposed film on countertop  Doors wilt when

you leave them closed  Too long  Knock twice

I don’t think she heard you  I don’t think she hears

us saying her name  Jezebell  Jezebell Jezebell

Call it off

« Hi, this is Fey. I’m calling to let you know

something’s come up; I have to cancel

my interview for today. » The rendezvous;

a momentary lapse in time. A crime that

must be punished. A chronological 

perversion. I wear the face of medusa

on my wrist. These boxes we put around

our bodies can be

penetrated

if we venerate our arrow heads. These

boxes we put around our schedules

as we gallop through cocaine white

fields of paper, can be

penetrated

by tattooing our 

veins with inconsequence…

october 17} revised 

a blind man would notice the 

way i looked 

at you.

halfway down the stairs you 

spun me about face
to yours..

in that moment we were 

withering leaves 

pirouetting…

your hand  

on my lower back screamed  Venus

your puncturing voice whispered  Pluto….

this was our square, the light years
betwixt night sky

& your window

october 2018 revisited 

We were the liminality;

a hushed finality on your lips &

a tipping scale

over your guest

restroom toilet, into which

cosmic vomit spilled

my guts filled our

spaces

better than

this edible silence

I swallowed like pride.

Enjoy the bouquet of

my absence.

It’s preserved by the

saltwater between continents.

Or rather, the saltwater

rivering my face.

Hey, I couldn’t let it

stain your floor, so

I found a ladder,

& climbed out

of stagnation.

But, I left you

my old name

at the door.

& [the sun smoked himself to sleep] & – unrevised

( i hearken the spark of sunshine you salivate

 i am an unwatered seed 

of affection

,; ,;;awaiting radiance;;, ;,

 the dew drop that will activate

our insides / \ our reflections

do you notice these gradients?

 gods cry & devils dance

 what a beautiful connection

water knows the power: the introspection.

take a chance

 you gorgeous misconception )

Mr. Busy Bee revisited

I LEFT THE LOWER CASE

OF U

IN THE PAST. AND I BREAK

THROUGH THESE PIXELS

[CALL IT THE 5th WALL

THAT COULDN’T LAST].

DID THE SOIL CLOG UR

PORES & UR HEART?

AM I UR MUSE,

UR INSPIRATION?

DID MY LOVE

NOT REACH UR

GREASY MONEY MUNCHING

CHEEKS? DARK HAIR

& BONES WILL NOT

DISTRACT

POLLINATORS.

HOW DARE U

STEP TO ME. IN MY

HOME; MY HEARTLAND.

WE WADED SWAMP

WE GATHERED SAND,

TETHERED. AFTER

SCRAPING & GRINDING OUR

INTENTIONS TOGETHER,

U THINK UBERING 

BACK TO HELLFIRE

WILL ERASE U?

AM I TO CHASE

EVERY MOOD

RELEASED?

WHAT’S NEXT? 

EXCREMENT & FECIES?

GTFO, YOU INVASIVE SPECIES.

POEM A DAY DRAFTS 8-14

January 8th, 

Pressed shirts, 70’s jacket manufactured

in Hong-Kong, smell of fractured liaisons

faxing, emailing, smiling

through beguiling gymnastic rabbits.

I make an impression of fingertips on the glass

window-door.

Andy Warhol would have ripped a vocal chord

should he have come face-to-face

with this Pintresting chaste Tim Burton

space, unevenly paced

birth-day party dressed up as

job-interview. The high How-Are-You’s

and hand-pandering shakes me to my core.

Is this the adult-world warned of

and written in diaries of mad-women

only given the choice between illegal sex-work,

and legal sex-work? Pant-suits, after all, 

are hyper-gendered stereotypic,

picturesque working mothers come to 

steal jobs. And clothing must be professional,

it’s no accident that fetishes include

uniformity. We can’t keep profession

out of the home, like Mr. Big can’t keep his enormity

away from his secretary’s mouth. But, we love

power-dynamic, don’t we?

Even when our celebrations are decaying

and the good-byes are exchanged,

the host doesn’t know if they deserve praise or shame.

Did they put on the right clothes, did they

forget their names? Haven’t they

forgotten their own! The title of their childhood!

That old home that travels with us,

staring back at us, standing naked in front of the bathroom mirror.

Selfless

   Shea butter    on hand    spread bitter

          palm,to wrist,to wrist,to palm

   rivering,    weaving,    between fingers

balm against lips, war paint under eyes .

  Summon moon and traffic police light

       An Ultra Blue, ink i ng the nigh t, 

Sta lk s  of  l egs,  praying « mantis » throughout

   a dewy stone floor

  Hollow stars fall from pixel-flickering

tiny flames reflecting in

 burning nameless comet-trails down cheeks .

    Crisp paper feathering; dried lilies

                     up at me

     gazing                       from the grave .

Hallucina

Earth is always singing: we are always dancing.

Some believe God is inside of us all.

During the Big Bang, the bell shattered

good intention spilled out every elsewhere;

our dictionary cannot help us map the stars,

but damn, do we try

to use it.

My brain must be a 

pool of wires. I hope the connections are
secure. Should I interpret this 

creature looming over my shoulder?

Is it God? Is the devil at my fingertips?

Does my piano suffer from cognitive dissonance?

I ask too many questions. My canvas is

getting full. It’s always dripping.

I can’t help but miss the first beat. I’m too shy

to dance. So, I try to sing, too. But, Earth is much louder

than me. 

I hesitate too much. My chords are

disconnected. The progression isn’t easy to follow.

It’s hard to keep tabs on a mind that

looks in the mirror, and declares,

« I see you. »

capital H

Sun falling; light leaves unrecognized

ink blots in my eyes. I walk into a store,

wearing tuition money as a thrifted worn down

army-brown, the door-attendant asks 

« Can I help assure you walk out having spent 

the blood of your father? » She

smiles with her eyes because, her cheeks would 

shatter. I can tell she doesn’t recognize

my ink blot eyes.

I carry her question in my pocket, and my

cell-phone weighs a heavenly ton,

so I remove both. I cannot find myself

in the screen, and the junior department

giggles.

For a second, in a flash, behind winter coats

and sweatpants, I see trees.

To be feminine is to be wild, fully

functional. A machine with feral wirings,

journal entries, cerebral networking, talking to 

each other. Doesn’t he understand?

I see him in the forest; Jean Toomer, 

singing a folk song, holding his walking stick,

his sugar cane. River, ocean, tides of Ophelia

would dissolve him. 

What is a man, without his stick? Do I need

guidance? Am I stuck?

I have the option of throwing myself in.

« In » a shady, empty haunting. 

He notices me, and offers his

money. Commodity. I need it. I

need it. I need it. I need

it. That blood. That sugar. That

security. I can no longer commune

with winter-bringing white.

So, I toss my scarf into the bin on my way 

out. The door-attendant rings

like a may bell, saying, « I’m sorry you couldn’t find

what you were looking for. » 

未だ Hither-to,

言はもう無い

川 空 声は 『時間』 から

生まれた 聞こえない

風 野 追跡

そっと、名は 蒸発

炎ように揺らめき 瀧 門

人声は一声?

静かの  雫

Equation & Conversion

giving = receiving

Anemony lungs, embracing veins

Filtering venom, passing down chains

violence ^living

Vapor waves, tanks, storebought 

Shooting pastel bullets, rainbows anchoring joy

∞ duration (feeling)

Time, effervescence, babies crying,   .

I still love you

Photographic shards of 

         glass  Fall from trees

                    cloaked in mid

winter graces  Dancing drops of

         Light is our primary currency

                    Is that still in your heart?

Does the love still fit  Do

         You remember  The language 

                    Lost  Remain  Recall  Re

Habilitate  This fledgeling desire

         Smiling  Reflecting in each of

                    These seeds  raining 

Heaven into your sugarbird nest 

         Shimmer  Argon oil  Collecting

                    Sun rays  Fool.  Weary

Traveler  Step into the light & dance

         Roots are the steady feet  of

                    Gods  &  rusty lovers

Begging for diamonds as if for mana 

          from the air  Wood  Awaken

                    Melting.  Rhythm