blow out the candle
fluff the pillow
fold the afghan
turn off the tv
and the light
it’s the end
and the room
is ready to be
lived in again.
cocoon
parisian scented
number
five
it is figured in
to cocoon the new
churl
the strings knot
they close
so tight
miser, coins
rattle
‘round in it
unspent, saving
unpurposed
dustbin’d
cull them out
you are not
villainous
enchant, beguile
the florins
and spend
light study
having no natural heat source,
his light is not incandescent;
not observably brilliant,
in contact, no iridescence.
some would argue that the only
light off of him is fluorescent:
generating endurance if
and only if activated.
but having shattered the glass globe
to swim around the filament,
contrary to what some may see,
I have discovered the light stored:
alarmingly phosphorescent-
illuminating transcendence.
winter
one flake falls
for me
to catch with my tongue.
cold collects
around
summer's freckly cheeks.
it has come
to sit
a while to visit.
for me
to catch with my tongue.
cold collects
around
summer's freckly cheeks.
it has come
to sit
a while to visit.
over due
reaching for something unrelated
in a dusty corner of an old bookcase,
it fell out.
I knew that it wasn't lost.
snow date
snow littered the vacant park
as we walked away from the diner
heading toward a frozen pond
as cabs rushed through slush
seeing that we weren’t for hire.
quiet fell into us,
me, holding tight to his arm.
snowflakes fluttered around
us like summertime when the
flower beds hunch over the pond
welcoming all of god’s wings to
visit, pollinate, and feed.
not there now, quiet fell into us.
clouds escaped as I whispered
in a thick accent to my companion,
not that I was from another place,
but as a little game we played.
once at a bar, legs wrapped ‘round,
we passed notes en francais,
he practiced; me still etudiant.
I haven’t seen him for too long now,
but as I pause to consider the
ease of his self and the curls
that would sprout from his bald head,
I remember the quiet.
and holding tight to his arm.
ick
Ick
Ichthyopthirius Multifiliis
protected in turreted cystic castles,
an unwelcome burrow between scales-
it cuts beneath skin
feeding on tender tissue.
nestled in its bristly cocoon,
offspring shoots to the floor-
splintering into hundreds of frenzied parasites
ready to devour the group.
the phenomenon is not organic,
not bred in the habitat.
singular celled,
smallest speck of filth,
it is ick.
blood from a turnip
it isn't impossible
to get blood
from that turnip as
scientists have
genetically modified
plants to produce
human blood proteins.
potential can exist
and be released
when task to mind-
researched and tested.
it isn't only sorcery-
or some other magic
that pulls honey
from the rock.
bewitch, yes,
but the alchemy
of science,
a tested hypothesis,
can produce
a proven result
that not gold, but
a life source
can be extracted.
ceviche
for Don QuiQue, the man who taught me how to make ceviche, may God bless him
always one to walk up the mountain,
scraps of food in his pockets
to treat every stray along the way.
until they were too broken to climb,
old buddies travelled with,
old buddies travelled with,
ending with whiskies and coconut water.
on Three Kings' Day, candies
would fill his pockets to gift
the kids who ran up to him
orange knee’d with the stamp
of the clay soil that choked flowers
but held a palm tree firm.
I tried to climb that mountain once
but it was too steep, and my
flat feet were not used to the pound.
he laughed and said, ok, you stop here
and I’ll catch you on the way down,
we’ll have a nice glass of wine.
my name always rolled off of his tongue
thick with accent and an old English-
wise words always sang forth.
once he put on the counter all of the
makings for his specialty dish:
octopus and shrimp ceviche.
come, he said, I will show you how,
some garlic, capers, onions,
chop up the tentacles
chunky.
mix together with olive oil and vinegar,
ah, this is the best, from home,
we’ll have wine and maybe some whiskey.
stranger
I felt him
not knowing
I didn’t know
what to think
the pull was
severe
aimless and
untoward
he bought
a round
for the bar
fine spirits
evening moved
to early hours
deliberately
slowly
by its end
you had me
tucked in
locked
your coat
was fine fibered
shoulders
broad in its cut
no promise
no articulation
sought
tendered
effeuiller la marguerite
summer’s innocent calls
the rise in day,
its powdery petals
sprinklin’ across
field and yard
indiscriminately
in everlasting flowering bouquets.
. tous les jours, mon amour, je t’aime,
je t’aime
aimez-vous, aimez-moi, aimez-vous, aimez-moi
picked and threaded in
delicately wound
chains woven in my own
gossamer locks
holding youth to the long
days of summer
and the wonders of
simplicity found.
tous les
jours, mon amour, je t’aime, je t’aime
aimez-vous, aimez-moi, aimez-vous, aimez-moi
loyal to love, one pluck
for yea, one not,
patience is born of the rays
of plenty
that orbit out from its
sun centerpiece
quick to hold a number to
tie a knot.
tous les
jours, mon amour, je t’aime, je t’aime
aimez-vous, aimez-moi, aimez-vous, aimez-moi
long day and bounty
permit long sessions
contemplating the delight
of whether
love is found for the
ardent admirer,
though what is posed is
hardly the question.
tous
les jours, mon amour, je t’aime, je t’aime
aimez-vous, aimez-moi, aimez-vous, aimez-moi
love you, love me, love
you, love me, love me
is the anthem of the
daisy command
on the mossy mound of
long ago time
when the thought never
not occurred to thee.
all
of the days, my love, I love you, I love you
love
you, love me, love you, love me
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