Recent Photos.

"tributary"

tributary

a pair of feet linger

under inches of

cold river water.

they frame a face:

a pair of eyes.

and in them light

lingers from below,

projecting whispers of

a broken bottleneck:

sunken deposition.

a pair of hands extend

and so palms are doused

for the sake of glass,

transparent inquisition.

later on, a mouth tells her:

“it really was beautiful!

can you imagine how old

the pair of lips were

that drank from it?”

"Fukushima Daiichi"

(To Japan. To the waterlogged circumstances and sunken aspirations. To the swift recovery of those touched by this disaster.)

"Fukushima Daiichi"

red tears weave their way to the center

of white cloth; attracted by seismic pull.

a circle is born: round rouge, emboldened

with thought of water, of torrent,

of rubble rinsed in layers of salt, of

an island of silenced hands stretched out

across dark ocean overflow.

"Arboreal Trespass"

“the waltz of a juvenile carcass”

My mother gave me a signed copy of Susan Meiselas' account of Nicaragua. It is a topic I'm completely unfamiliar with, but was interested to at least take a look at as it is a country which neighbors El Salvador where I will be for a service trip toward the end of next month. I flipped through the color pages, but was struck hard by the image on page sixteen. This distressed child, with his arms hanging uncomfortably in forced decency did his job: he caught my attention. It surprises me that his hands are not in fists and that his face is not littered with tears to complement the soot and sorrow lingering within his charred soul from god knows what atrocity. I tried to bring him to life.

“the waltz of a juvenile carcass”

a listless face, (my god) --

the eyes will get you the most.

or trace your fingers in lines across

tortured lips, and salted lacerations

and tell me (i beg of you): “life goes...”

on for a shaded-skin confession

of a child. He who has committed

no crime but yet has to lean forward

in shoulder-arching guilt

for the sake of clearing His mind.

His fingertips swell with the dirt

that sustains and reminds Him.

“mother, father; look at me,”

He says; in irrelevant dialect.

“I’m still here.”

a declaration as He places

His hands at His sides,

and recedes a useless tongue.

He frowns for the camera just

so you can see Him, then wanders

for hours in search of crumbs.

He tries His best to distinguish them

from the refuse that tickles

at His stinging feet and causes His ears

to ring in memorium:

sinister laughs drifting around

shouldered rifles, a sense of fear

locked away with a lack of coffins.

and the feeling He gets when He notices

fire... the sense of bitter warmth

perverted by loud shrieks,

mother’s grasp cut short.

so you can imagine father,

a tough looking soul,

rising occasionally from soot

and ash to tell the boy to count His blessings.

to be sure to dress nicely and smile.

to fill His head with dreams of escape,

and long walks under golden arches.

but papa knows, better than any,

that soon He will greet his blessed son.

face down in a back-alley corner,

dressed in His finest cloth.

nothing on His mind but clots of red:

His only sense of

hope.

"On the Platform, She Still Dances"

we waited for a while on a subway platform.
you took my hand, to try and tell me
something,

and with a whisper asked me to dance with you.
there, of all places:

crowds all around us, horrendous flocks
of faces-- we won't ever get to recognize.
it made me feel strange.

"what do they care?"
you smile.
what do they?

too late.

a grizzly car arrives, then we are shouldered
together in a pair of plastic seats.
we speak quietly as i stare
at our entangled hands.

our stop arrived
and the train was gone
into prolonged sigh.

i should have kissed you then,
when the light was still low
and you were still around.

and now i stand on the other
side of the platform where there are
no hands.

and i am staring and smiling
across the tracks.

i wait for you to come.
i want to ask you to dance
in the stale light,
so we can help contrast.
so you can smile,
and we can be warm
again

subway rats come to mind,
and i leave with a sense of
nostalgia.

"People Are..."

a Howl in the night, my brother--
as we ascend the moonlit road
with truth on our minds.
Why can't we?

We are onlookers in a room
full of stillborn fingers
glowing in the shadow of the night.

useless complaints
seem like cold handshakes,
unecessary toasts,
weeping over female tears.

(strange things put to use)
and we look at each other
as if