Tag: 2025

Honey, you are the sliver of sun
that sneaks through my shaded window
like the flower so dark within
yet fringed with petals of subtle saffron. I stand
and turn to you
I sip and I sway in your intimate icterine
because love gave me lemons
and you stirred them in my spritzer.
Midas, you have turned my charcoals gold.
My soul, once boiled with burden
is now cured by your amiable amber.

come sit with me
eat an olive,
i know you
like them, and don’t forget
those sacrificial papers,
you need something
to hold the burden

recollect,
as bud burns bright
and we welcome smoke
as an accomplice.
i’ll ask you as you ask me,

are we adrift?
carried by a burly breeze,
and, like that wispy smoke,
fading evermore.
are we fallen?
cursed by a paradigm
of failure, hoping to find
the keys to a car
with no wheels.
are we to rise?
ascending to freedom
so foreign we cannot
prove it exists.

i hope, for our sake,
you have an answer
for me
next time, maybe then
you’ll ask me to sit with you
offer me an olive,
you know i
love them dearly,
and remind me to bring
those sacrificial papers
a burden was born to be burned

I was thinking about the way, when
a woodpecker tuning
its instrument echoes
a violent melody that reminds me
of a new day

graces of gold glitter
onto the redwood table
calling back
to its previous life
when its large, lustrous green
stood tall within a shower of gold

I was thinking about the way, when
an iron skillet, forged
from a witness
of a far-gone past,
holds the gift
of a bird
burdened with bereavement

the result of a bird’s love held
burnt, strung up
on four plastic legs,
sprinkled with minerals
fine-tuned by Poseidon himself,
and the remnants of green
pepper plants
dried of their color.

I sit at the redwood’s grave
consuming
the stories of life
for the end of their tales
serves to prolong
the end of mine

two gentle giants hold
ten separate entities as one
guides us through the world like
rangers on a wilderness safari,
acting as sculptors
dictating our journey
with various materials;
clay, paint, stone, plaster
when flesh unites
warmth radiates out,
bonding the souls into one
as they travel through creation
tending and nurturing,
life blossoms like a peony
and grows outward
as if life is created at the palms

but,

gentle giants also have the power to strangle.

I lie on my back
Gazing up at the stars on a warm autumn night
The breeze tiptoes over the lake
To give me a kiss on the cheek
A gentle reminder
That in this vast universe
On this pale blue speck
I am not alone
Somewhere in this beautiful world of possibilities
Love waits for me once again
But this time I’ll let her wait a while.
Because for now,
For the first time in a long time
I am free.

Inspired by Girl Before A Mirror, Pablo Picasso (1932)

She stares.
The mirror in front of her
Judges, silently
Approves or denies what she sees.
Two faces, two souls?
Or one unraveling?

Each curve, each line,
Twisted.
Distorted.
The reflection is almost hers,
Yet holds more;
A shadow, a whisper,
The weight she carries hidden.

The mirror clings to her.
Her fingertips press the glass.
Trace the fragile line
Between herself
And the stranger who watches it.

One face is smooth, serene.
The other, shadowed.
Their gazes meet,
A question lingers:
Does the mirror tell the truth?

Or does it warp her?
Her body bends,
Melts,
Into the dark edges of light

Until she reaches out,
Curious, confident,
To find the part of herself
That lives
Beyond the glass.

And then the next greatest irony.
You died.

And I am in the semi-circle of disreality
Insurrection and fallibility
The uproot, uproar, upshoot
Of human life.
Making meaning of what we do
And do not know.
Finding meaning in the ink of
Fractals and fractions,
The Great Big Questions of:
Who? And What? And How?
Never knowing why.
Why? Poor man’s question.
Atheist’s prayer.
Making meaning with pens and paper.
No better than kicking sand castles,
Battered shells, rocks and sand.
All of life in the hushing mouth–
Do. Not. Ask.

The disreality of death–
Better off now than
When you were “am.”
More alive now and–
Far further from “dead.”

I wish I could reach over the table to kiss you
An intrusive thought (the dirty kind).
Your face, you look different;
Smoother lips, browner eyes,
Different, but not better.
You still play with the wrapper of your straw,
Creating little scrap piles
Of tiny balls between your rolling fingers,
Carefully stacked in front of the sugar container.
“How have you been?” you ask.
Stupid question.
“Well, really well.”
You laugh as if you know me.
“What’s so funny?”
“Your hair, it’s lighter.”
You noticed; I smile.
“There she is.”
Here I am
And there you are.
You always leave
But you always come back.

He knots me in ways
I never knew my body could bend.
He wraps his arm around me
From the back; palm pulling on my forehead,
And tugs me into his chest.
With his command,
I look up to acknowledge those above me,
Who look down on their only daughter.

I need you all to know I am not unhappy. I find
Solace in the closeness, the skin-to-skin,
The alluring melody we two create.
There is a rigid dichotomy
Between us, yet
I can’t help but answer
His calls. Open the door after his daunting knock.

So, look down on your fool and laugh
Because I too am laughing back.
In your time, have you ever felt
This closeness? Have you ever had peace
In knowing that you will always
Be there for someone? You can’t forget,
His gender occupies a space in the title of mine.

The wood-paneled ceilings
Are scattered with nails—the only thing
Separating the two generations.
I will not lie, there is something in me that
Yearns for this to be over.
But not just this time,
Each, and every, time.

A blue name needled into the skin.
The overlong man washed—bathed even
In bedroom gleam.
Jacques, French,
Hand-poked tattoos, Polish nose
Flaxen from a pink flame, sativa hydroponic.
Hasselhoff reincarnate.
Jacques wipes his acrylic nose with watercolor
Under his fingernails.
He has no idea.
“Do you like citrus or florals?”
Both, but I love
Your musk. White sock club is
White hot forever for him.
Buzzcut, basketball shorts,
Mesh boring into fresh linen.
I can’t be in here,
Your room, the dark cobalt locker room
Where we go deeper with every drip from
The faulty showerhead faucet.
No, I can’t wear mesh, I wear
Lace.
Lemongrass limps on his lower
lip drawling:
“How old are you?”
How old are
You?
Jacques, I need to get better
At spelling your name, oh,
Jacques,
Is there a ‘k’ before the ‘q’
(queue)?
Jacques, why do you
Only use disposable
Razors?
You’ve made me quite the archer,
Jacques, nocking my arrows before
Letting me shoot.
The growth, the apple seed sprouting
Up from my navel,
Irradiating your cupped hands.
Jacques, you blue marble bust.
Just decoration.