so here you are, night.
i asked for you in anger;
i cursed your name, called you God damned.
i thought that i could shoot your blackness in the veins,
to seize the pain in the soul.
in my selfishness i forgot,
i forgot that the sorrow’s spoon is too big
to boil you down.
oh soothing night,
how your wicked hands do prick me
with the needles of our thoughts,
so dirty and despondent.
i beg, i kneel and writhe away,
but he cannot hear
an atheist to our sleepy weakling
of a love.
whispers and tiredness
travels through us
you are here my dreary night
our grave our hole our life.
eulogy
now that the death has come
and allowed me to live
without breathe in a realm
of incertitude
waiting in the radioactive
hallways for adults in
suits of meat and bone
with fire in their bullet
the demons are not real
and never were here
on this earth but the mountain
and the thunder and the darkness
and the cries and the gamble
and the dice and the skull
the switchblades of destiny
and the forsakenness continues
until the sky is clear
behold a dove does not return
modern time is old
and i of decrepit filth
left by wood jet engines
and a grace that is unfathomable
to the tiny soul piece of spit
in the ground
the madness of your grace
in the hour of the last breath
before the cliff is jumped
and the red of the blood
has lost its vitality
and her lips die for words of regret
know that i have loved you
with all of my all
the universe stands witness to my sin
that when i choose to abandon you
know everything in my heart
has broken and spilled out
it is not easy to devout my all
to you
i cannot see
when you are not there but i charge on
in the lust that things will come
to a halt and i will rest
you are of war and i am a gun
without trigger
Quietude
singing songs of other
tongues at different times
throughout the night helps
the sadness fly away
the fall and deepened groans
cradle my dimming light
nobody comes with ancient signs
for me to watch and the notes dissipate
I thought I saw your aura flow
down by the river in the night
the foggy morning confused my
eyes and I stood there stung
by the beauty left behind
the gentle sway of how you bent
the hearts of rhythm in the
moon so tender
clay smelled pure this morning
as it grabbed on to my shoes
the dog in me waggled a little
in my heart
the tarot cards
they say things will be good
the suns and the deaths
keep showing up
and my breath it cuts short
they say to hang on but
to let go of my addiction
to the one i ask for
the pressure of faith is insurmountable
in the middle of the night
when the fear is greater
i draw a fool
going nowhere in a circle
box
Four lines:
none crossed.
Marama doce lua
wearing your silver suit
as the king of my night
Marama waltzes here
through the ancient sky
commandeering his multitudes of star subjects
i too wait
for my one little beam of tender light
to show me his face
while i sit here
winking at his glory
from my servant’s chair
my sweet Marama
minha doce lua
lesson
i thought i saw a light in the blizzard
i thought i had walked up to it
i thought it let me in
i thought it was warm
i thought it took my pain
i thought it made me happy
i thought it wanted me
the way i thought i wanted it
i now know i was blind in the storm
i now know i was crippled too
i now know i had been standing outside
where the cold held me down
i now know the liquids in my veins
and how i had cried
and even though i cant want it any longer
it will still never want me
no beat chops here
ghosts of jazz notes float
slowly in the breeze tonight
Billie’s song haunts me
crimson streets howling with soul
brick by brick the voices grow
one armed Jesus
“Whatcha got there, baby? Is so tiny.” She rasped and coughed through dried saliva crusted lips puckering in and out from an oval mahogany hole.
“It’s a little Jesus, but his left arm broke off, see? He kinda looks like a gun.” I responded looking at the damaged Son, offering her a peek.
“Oh, how that happen, baby?” She said licking her wide mouth and wiping the sour spit from the black corners.
“I’m not sure, maam. But I’ve had this Jesus for many years and He kinda never gets lost.” I answered gripping the tiny maimed Savior from His remaining arm while aiming it listlessly at a pigeon flopping in the rancid gutter water beneath our feet.
I turned to look at my companion as she swooshed some bottles around a grimy old Vons plastic bag. The rude lilac and blue back drop lighting from the 99₵ Store illuminated her matted gray hair and her red sweat suit varnished hard with the filth of the streets.
It was around 11:47 p.m. on a Wednesday that I found myself sitting on a graffitied bus bench in Hollywood. The street was dense with foreign cars, bleak in their ashy paint and dime sized nicks and dings. In the midst of the piss scented early spring drifts of night air she told me her name was Martha. I offered my hand and Martha declined politely by turning her face to the west. I looked at my hand, maybe it was dirty, but I couldn’t see much.
words less spoken 