Saturday, May 25, 2019

Beach Haikus #1-9

Wrapped up in sea breeze
Pelicans triangulate
The sky dreams in blue

Waves crest, break on land
The sea and sand mingle here
Elementals talk

The ocean contains
Each and every one of us
Past, present, future

Throwing yourself in
At the mercy of the waves
The thrill of return!

We live in the wake
Submit to the undertow
Hear slaves whispering?

Beach-time isolates
Whirlpools thrash -- salt in vortex
Lungs remember breath

Love transcends decades
It lingers bright as sunburn
Blushing, enduring

Laid out on the beach
Music drifts through sunlit air
Sun kisses body

Fly in buttermilk
You clash with your surroundings
Who started this fight?

Monday, May 20, 2019

Microdream: Grief

Each and every thing
I can pluck from my mouth
From day-to-day


Anything that drifts
Lazily in the air
And flutters onto the ground

To alight in the crucible
Transformed by its longing
Marked by the sounds of love

That has nowhere to go

Sunday, January 20, 2019

Dry January/Ex-Dream

The first, second, and third days tremble through the week
Stumbling and nascent, their legs shaking off the weight of entering the world
Senses sharpen like knives on the whetstone
Appetite and thirst shift between stagnation and craving
How odd to think of you now…

On the fourth and fifth day my stomach
Sends me quaking into the kitchen with appetite and thirst
I toss together kale, spinach, arugula, and olives dressed with tahini and garlic
When I first met you
You were dressed in bourbon and ginger
The night flushed in your cheeks and eclipsed your demeanor
Earth’s shadow pours blood over the moon

The sixth and seventh days convince me
Of my power over the urge
I button up my shirt, slip into oversized slacks
Crank up the car and it sputters with the weight of age and rust and moisture
Before ambling through the driveway, scraping past the shoulders of bushes
Their waxy leaves winking in the winter morning light

When I first met you
I noticed your eyes were the color of hazel
They danced between green and cold
The same way the sunlight does, bouncing from leaf to leaf
On tree to tree

How odd to think of you now

As all my poisons are dispelled from my body

Monday, November 26, 2018

Microdream: Dad

You were not there when I needed you the most.
What else is there to say?

Wednesday, November 21, 2018

Golem, Upon Realizing the Holy Word on HIs Forehead Was Love

Golem, Upon Realizing the Holy Word on your  ForeHead was Love

Did you quicken and feel beating in your chest?
When the holy word on your forehead pulsed
did you know it as the voice of god?
Is the voice of  god an algorithm
wrapping strings of code around your head
A crown of predictive values wrapped around your head?

Do you know where you will go before I tell you?
Did your will tell you where to go before I told you?

Around your head a crop of moss flushes green and bright
Atop your clay and flesh
From clay to flesh and back again
Sacred and profane
God's breath pulsing through your body
Does the holy word on your forehead whisper commands or comfort?
Does it keep you in the cold attic or bring you the living room's warmth?

Automoton with breath of light
Are you a body or a construct?
Do those ball joints bear the burden of living
Or the weight of command?
Is this missing piece a rib ripped from your body as you took
your first steps in the garden or is it a design flaw in the blueprint?

Is your blueprint a schematic or is it a map of genetic code?
Think about your answer carefully?
One means you were created.
The other means you were born.

Here's a hint: If you were never created, you can never be destroyed...

Monday, October 29, 2018

Habitualism, Or When the Process of Cultural Memory Is Lubricated by Alcohol


Gateway gate·way noun -- a means of achieving a state or condition

They say that in the beginning
The world was formed
When the god's light expanded and burst
Dripping like honey to meet our eager mouths
Filling all of us bright and supple
Living and angry vessels
Primordial and sublime
Forming our shapes from light and shadow
We lanced through the darkness as we fell to earth
We landed and began to consume
Our fathers drank and never stopped...

Habit hab·it noun -- a settled or regular tendency or practice, especially one that is hard to give up.

My father drank and never stopped
When he tried to speak only foam came out
Once I saw Aphrodite try to be born from the froth of his mouth
To divine the truth from the spittle he made
From the bubbles she coaxed I saw glimpses of his memory
Many of the bubbles were blacked out and empty
But a few shone iridescent with the clarity of the past

In the first bubble
my father's father whose face I have never seen
walking away with his back turned
his head bobbed up and down with each step
left, right
left, right
going, going
going, gone

In the second bubble
my mother laying heavily upon a hospital bed
heaving under the weight of birth
her sweat twinkling around her head like a diadem
she looked almost like a constellation
as she bridged the gap between two worlds
she holds her own hands while my father reaches
for the bottle in his heart

Tradition tra·di·tion the transmission of customs or beliefs from generation to generation, or the fact of being passed on in this way.

The only thing I inherited from my father
Was the bottle in his heart
With it I can perform my most miraculous acts
See my anxieties?
I turn them to wine
Depression: wine
Loneliness: wine
Inadequacy: wine

To perform the miracle
You must practice the ritual
It begins every time my moth-eaten knees
Prostrate themselves on the tile of the bathroom floor
They've rounded out an archive of every offering I've made
And every prayer I've presented to my cracked toilet seat

What god will spring forth from the foam of my mouth?
Will it be another love-god aiming to seduce the truth from my ravings?
Or will it be a toolmaker-god, who can forge an instrument strong enough
To break a son free from his father?

Tuesday, October 9, 2018

Major Arcana: The Illustrator

When the Illustrator enters
It signals the need to observe one's own will
As their pen strokes paper
So does intention stroke reality

When the Illustrator enters
Thought is given outline
And outline is given shape
And shape is given substance
And substance is given form

When the Illustrator enters
Light bends about us all
The vibrant colors of our empathy
Wraps prismatic around those we hold dear

When the Illustrator enters
They grasp imagination in their hands
Dream is a medium they've mastered
Hope sits on the tip of their tongue
Intention becomes a gentle stroke upon our history