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

"On Christmas Day, In the Morning"

wake up

to thin paper cocoons immediately undone,
their contents consumed.
the floor is soon littered with a terrible refuse.
faces drain of anticipation,
as multicolored lights illuminate
fabricated smiles.

and then:

"that's it?"
(the offerings expire)
"it's not even what I asked for.
i needed more

than this"

the air is still and strange when
greedy eyes glance at sturdy walls
and stare at flawless feet.

The Garden of Earthly...

Recently have been thinking of this piece by Bosch and drew from it some inspiration...

"The Garden of Earthly..."


Split in three.
Heaven,
Hell,
And the interlude.


(triptych trifecta)


Holy Ghost apparatus:
produced me.


And God knows,
I decay.


Naked bodies, piled high
(insinuating
intercourse)


What I’m trying to say is
We haven’t got time
for most of these

rotting flesh

delights.

"And Yet We Wait"

I still crouch in ribbons of weeds,
bare to the bone.
apprehensiveness illuminating
men all around me.

I can't stand the quiet any longer,
so I ask them
what they think of the world.

"We don't know," they whisper.
"It's been a while."
we all turn pale.

Everyone forces a laugh,
until the wind asks us
what we're waiting for.

"Solubility"

Fit right in.
Watch the way you ask questions;
When I'm not even around.

I told you...
"I'll be down by the river searching for driftwood."
It makes me feel at home.

So don't tell me you're lonely.
There's no such thing as an empty room,
Only a vacant mind.

You could be here with me...
Getting lost upon fictional shores.
It doesn't matter if I'm not around.

The Hudson smells nice this time of year,
You'd fit right in.

"Riverside Interlude"

Autumn's mockery
Creates an absence of boats.
And the willow speaks for itself.

Half of a worn couple shows affection:
Speechless eyes and a limp arm embrace.
Why am I alone?

Cold brick slabs retain
River water overflow.
"A monument to those lost at sea"
True patriotism.

Scarce light scatters slowly
Over a family torn to pieces,
God knows why
The seagulls don't mind
The cold.

I wonder where the fish will go?
Swim away with me?
Brick and mortar won't last forever.

"4:00"

The fear,

When you frequent my dreams with silence.

Your lips, twined with wires

As we sit in pools of black, discussing.

The candles burn low;

(A signal to expire)

Your fingers, reciting unborn lines

Aid in transcending the advances of actuality.

And the figure in the corner with the watchful eyes

has no words to say.

"A Toast--"

Please forget the empty bottles--

Leave them to withering hands,

So we can appreciate our fingers.

"To Protest"

Take your banners; men,
Take them among the cold winter streets
And weave in autonmous lines,
Your warm breath illuminating
bloodied statistics.

Take your banners; you dreamers.
Expose the youthless eyes
To what you consider to be just.
Let them know you think it true.

Fight for your cause, humble warriors.
Bring the troops home, if you must.
Let the talk of change flow.

But when your warm breath turns cold;
Retreat.
Let gold-paved dissilusion resume,
And take to the woods, you cowards.
Have you no idea how to inspire?

Take your banners in flight; men,
And bring your cause to the wild.
Stake your words at the feet of the trees.

"Ha,"
The wise ones will reply--
Hinting at a fact they have long known;
At the words nearly engraved in their withering limbs:
"nothing ever changes"

A Provisional Insight

It's the difference between quiet winter air

and department store soundtracks.

It depends on how you feel, my friend--

Like a windfall occurrence

after many unmarked calls.

Or when I take

Impatient walks through those clothing isles.

Hours on my toiling feet.

If I spot you even once,

it'd be worth my while.

(You're never around)

And Sometimes

It has a lot to to with the bicycle racks;

They aren't too beautiful

without your standstill spokes.

I left you flowers in them.

(You never knew)

I don't want to know when you work.

I enjoy to come alone at random times

to gain an insight

on love.

"The Wayfarer"

This is NOT my work. Yet it has inspired me. A friend of mine on another blog shed light on this man's words. I seek to become the wayfaring man.

The Wayfarer

The wayfarer,

Percieving the pathway to truth,

Was struck with astonishment.

It was thickly grown with weeds.

"Ha," he said,

"I see that no one has passed here,

In a long time."

Later he saw that each weed

Was a singular knife.

"Well," he mumbled at last,

"Doubtless there are other roads."

-Stephen Crane

Expect Delays

When The Time Comes

“Stand clear of the closing doors.”

Please.

Let’s be listless for a while,

I know a place.

There’s a room in this city...

Full of smoke.

If you’re lucky,

It’s at the stop with the children

slowly reciting valedictorian speeches.

Look for eyes that frighten you

like the aspect of love.

(That’s the one.)

Head a few blocks north,

and ring a door or two--

I’ll be down in a minute.

Write Back, In Black Ink

The bottom line is, the past was never black and white.
(I've been telling you for quite a while now)

It's about time we met in a field somewhere
to discuss our differences,
so the grass can tell you what I mean.
And for Christ's sake
the birds can play their part.
I won't even say a word.
(but I swear I'll get the idea across)

Perhaps I'll remind you that I once loved you,
but then again;
I don't want to break any promises.
My eyes will suggest a desire to touch a star
(It couldn't get any harder)

Maybe we'll meet there instead.
In the past,
Wrapped in all sorts of black and white.