Monday, June 3, 2013


In the .sun. above

And the sky below

Tuesday, April 10, 2012

Thursday, March 22, 2012

love poem to m. and also to L.

Here are the lines that are drawn by the prisms of the waters on the grasses in the sands of the skies.

I have

a sun palm.

The sun in my palm

radiates out its

sun lines.

It is a human palm fit between tension and ease.

A part, a top a thousand sequined seams.

which we wave around our arms

and are a star

of hands, are rays of stars.

sun spines. sun crowns. sun eyes.

colonies of beautiful and hideous


we pluck apart the others’ feathered heads

turned by the turns of the birds.

In the culture of birds there are blue birds and swooping birds and crooning birds and chirping birds.

turning birds in starry meadows on the navels of the earth.

we tumble inconceivable mounds of swollen clouds.

Scatter into salted oceans pillowed into

parts between our knees

bent upon the bottom of the earth of empty beds.

we will join ourselves together

into migratory patterns

to unjoin

alone along our wings glide

To lift up!

the folds of rainbow parachute


our little bodies cross legged in the ruby

glow our faces

in the colors of a billowy

descent up lit, the rainbow tent

to see us

parachute us


Wednesday, March 14, 2012

Tuesday, March 13, 2012

and rodrigo feeds me chichen gizards and i rdrink all of his rose
.sometimes we try to understand and sometimes we do not.


I watched it for a little while
I love to watch things on TV

Stein - The World Is Round - 011


Stein - The World Is Round - 010


Wednesday, March 7, 2012


Put it something beautiful

Or hide it beneath rug.

Did you put it? It wouldn’t go

and wrecked my nails while I tried to scratch it in

Fatly, plump and of precision

The ugly young woman put the cup down

Upon the


She was there.

I was a tableau.

We stretched ourselves into a taught and multicolored fiber

we became glittered and we glowed

of body marks of tender stretches

tenders gestured emptily

in all the emptily gestured

toward what ever was in the frame, caught in the instant

was an eidolon in separation
of haunting

hunting or of an apparition

in between look of her laughter escaping sound of her laughing

Rolled up we tried so hard to leave it behind us it would be left behind us

left behind us caught inside the picture

i was a picture woven into a tableau we wove

Below the rug, unsmiling in the oily, unsmiling in the woven

where nothing there was to be removed.

The faces twist grotesque double chins of hysterical laughter

If you paused your own hideous chuckling for an instant

Probably you would be surprised. Maybe you would cry and claim

“it is not me”

to return whatever it was you spent all of your money on.

Let us return to ourselves and to our homes. Let us plough the dirt of our being with our minds and our fingers and let us all hold all of our hands in a circle let us form an undoing and let us let go, wisely we will be there all becoming.

Back to the garden unclamoring, undemanding, let us all try to climb back out of our clothes for foliage

As if nothing ever happened.

Before the first pear fell.

though hast flayed us with thy blossoms.

We could do anything.

We could crush the wet ripe fruit to make us a juice.

I would make a juice for you

Sometime in the morning.

It would be

A juice

Of a fruit

You would want to drink

You would want to travel down

its honey river

Your silver glint

Your feathered crown

You graceful swan

Your greying feather

You swan lover

Or instead would you stop yourself from out biting wildly

You would never let yourself make such a scene

As a bird on a girl

you would never turn around

You would not be struck

At the intersection


Or walk across a minute late


In the little death

In the click of an instant

You would be no feathered ghost

You would be no luz

You would not be luz

you would take no luz

You would take no picture,

It could only take

if it could only take a picture

And register voice among the registers

To put in some files to be lost

in one of all the archives whiled away, meaningless or burned,

untranslatable and boring, violent

inherently forgetful of themselves as such.

It would be one of those days

When we burn books to keep warm

And my voice could not be yours.

When the winter goes in like a lamb and out

Like a lion.

Or is never a lion

And is never a lamb.

And is only the weather.

Wednesday, February 29, 2012


“and Petals flying like wounds”

maybe a heart to start.

our heart beats flutter in our mouths.

our hearts beat flutters.

try to put your fingers round my heart.

try to make up heartbeats of my heart.

try to take up heart beats of my heart.

my heart made of heartbeats beaten up up off of my heart.

Your heart's beating heart beats up up at my heart.

It takes it to heart.

It is taken to heart off a butter flight wing.

a pterodactyl
loose kite

a string

strung to sky i am sky i am light i am dust i am here

in the wind, a thread running bare through the breeze

lit, it is singing in me.


I arrange some petals stemming in the vase

of the stemmed.

Where it shoots roots at my root rooted out with a snout

like a mouth with a tongue,

It tries to take my picture and it plucks at my fruit.

It tries to shoot me with a picture and it sizes up my fruit.

It plucks at my strings

and it runs at my root
and it rips at my root with its teeth.

Run at my root, go ahead

Rip at my root with your teeth.

i want my root to be seen in your teeth.

my root in your teeth won't you please show it to me.

put your teeth in my teeth.

eat my teeth with your teeth.

suck my teeth with your teeth.

crush my teeth in your teeth.

with your teeth teeth your teeth with my teeth.

suck with your teeth at the rooting in me.

and lick at my teeth

lick at it showing it licking at me.

The men watched man giving birdseed

to bird.

Break it out.

Gush it out hot little streams .

It is the wonderfully beautiful moth in the room.

in the


in the bush

Isn't it the moth in my mouth that flutters itself

beating itself at the roots of my teeth?

Isn't this the moth wanting me?

the moth that puts me to put its moth wings

to suck this wanting moth

to take its moth's wanting upon myself

to suck its

flight dust


there is a red fruit deep inside well a glamorous girl well

it would be pleasant if this planet had no name well

eat a peach at the edge of the cosmos then

faintly swaying eyelessly green

why there was no mystery

i bought a watermelon the size of a great planet

a mysterious ship

with a

mysterious wind

with a

spirit on it.

the planet aches looking at the clear night sky the planet turning

i have nothing to say

infinitely maybe

i'm empty headed

wind across

this land of water's children.

of strange and tattered drops of fruits.


Monday, February 13, 2012


todas las hojas son del viento. . .


Tuesday, February 7, 2012

Sunday, February 5, 2012

Is this a sandwich?

If only I had been born
A fish
Instead of a monster

shivering fawn

of spaces from shells to sands
always assumed within the counted ones
until proximity loosens our hair and the piles of stardust from our palms

loosening the locks of our starry gathered umbrals
and we can not be numbered

some in our arms upon rising leave behind the nights costume

heading out into the day to the rooms of the world outside where we uncover nakedly
things of our former selves
to set them up stark against the foliage
like paper cutouts of secret silhouettes
or swinging statues
we forgot
to click off
still swinging around in the back yards of our dreams

it is a wilderness that is not so much Rousseau like

although it is built of the momentum of wanting and its debris

sorting through the flotsam floating wreckage
we are racoons in the trash
of a statue garden

want looks and want searches and want wraps us up until we are the wanted, or not
and it becomes us

accumulating in the garbage to hunt or to pick each other between the waves we come in like waves and we go out like waves and the tides and the moons send us running off or to bury ourselves amidst the discarded furs of others we try to

bury ourselves in the sand becoming sand

or topple off the used upness of castles crumbling in topples off each other in heaps like

little stones like flakes of skin or leaves or the beginning of snow where it is very still

and we are the snow and we

try to catch us in our open mouths but tout le monde runs out

and we are cold sparks

in infinite dusts

in fragments of foam

in blown up marble

and we are swept off

we will not be ours

but flicker in twirls of differentiation simultaneously forever

and one finds oneself in it and one is familiar with it and one can be in it with everyone else everywhere crystallized or melting otherwise this is not a world

and we are all strange animals that try to go into the others and protect ourselves at the same time

with our big open black eyes towards the night

and our paws.


Thursday, February 2, 2012




Friday, January 27, 2012


Back of the play garden,

cloudlessly butterflying,

we made love like angels in snow.

Tilting til oceans took to hereafter
le sable rose
washed up shored


from our lost arms

lost out on waves,

crescendoing in leaps into the pool across the banister

atravezando las ruinas de moteles de amor.

We’ve all heard it come rushing,

when it comes rushing in

it rushes in and all we hear is

all we hear rushing

as it comes

in claustrophobic back flips

in fish bowl swims

light it scoots in fins away

it scoots in swims

or let's it go,

going in.

The time makes everything old

so the kissing, young darkness

a monstropolous old thing.

There are parts when the monster is almost painful

reading about

the good view of him

and his struggle

to keep
along the border constellations

maybe not supposed to tells

fifteen year old secret hybrid dots rubbed out along the

thirty seven years ago today, he says, fingering harder

play doughs

of filtering

knots in our pretty hair.

knots in our soft tummies, kneaded under bellies of

frozen fog shit and guts tinkering

swills of beach lines in river faucets back into our mouths

plugged and making sucking.

of frozen pipes of fogged shit and guts swell
our skins and stretch across
our bellies

some of us have

some of our bellies

some belly howls cower.

some of us are cowered.

Meanwhile, Yemanja leaps in flotsam jetsam and ripples off the smokey veils

in tendrils.

Let us skip

seven waves

in mind in the morning wind bangs up the creaky doors

and going on about in the apartment.

to begin again.

The first day of the year the sky is violet.


Tuesday, January 24, 2012