We share the sins that bind us. The tip of my tongue is the sun melting in your eyes. You see it clearly, you let it burn your throat while coughing lava on the plain white walls.
The Gardner – that made me, you and the bellowing universe amidst a poetry of Creation, a scream of magnificence.
Rosebud ring. In a circle of perfection, I make haste. I push past the gardens that come clapping my chin with fresh petals. I revive the sounds of the past and they morph into your name. I shake my head, they’re louder by the minute. The rains have never been kinder. And the stars haveContinue reading “The Kiss (#10)”
I want to be an openness bending at the tip of the sunlight falling on my back. But I’m also afraid of burning in my own fire. I carry my hostilities like a poet who adores perspiring on a hot sunny afternoon in the arms of an old monument that houses some grand secrets onlyContinue reading “Of Silly Ruminations”
I remain a sinner seeking heaven – an irony dodging misery only to write poems on it.
Her mouth is a language you know all too well, but beneath it is a forest that gardens its own warmth, a hope that eats itself because it has never been fed.
I think of all the pages dying every night in the grave of your spit.
People often talk about the ground slipping from under their feet, but have you ever felt it slipping right back?
I look down at my empty palms holding on to nothing but a blackness that has no shade, a hope that has no name.
A poster and a thought.