From your pocket so obliquely
you pulled me out
and readily, I found a comfortable
position in your palm.
If your voice is heaven,
I've been acquainted with it for years.
Does this mean I've died ten thousand times?
I just assumed I was dreaming.
That it was my midnight
which created your mouth
and the songs pouring out
seemed to me like light
the color of cyclamen.
Maybe the ache I feel is nothing
more than a yearning toward
absolution which I find
again and again in the corner
of your pants pocket, closest to the groin.
Am I being romantic?
Some nights, when the moon is so slim
it won't stroke up a chat and the stars
by some sleight of fate get stage fright
the sky so dark like make-believe,
Is this a sort of wantonness inside
myself or did broad daylight ever exist?
The dead, whom are nameless remain
nameless still. I keep coming across
my fathers grave covered in leaves
and human grit, buried beneath the umbrella
of a mesquite, indescribable the scent
of exhumed dreams, the flavor like spit
tobacco. Be quiet. I repeat a litany
in the confines of my own midnight head.
Stop dreaming. Hush. Keep your mouth. Shut!
The last word rips from my throat.
I keep seeing mountains
in layers, gray and grayer
trespasses leading to another world
I don't want to ruin
my new skirt trying to climb
or break one precious bone
against some tweaked stone
is waiting there for me.
Eye Of The Beholder
is just an eye
dotted with puffiness
the average eye
framed by a face
of varying age
with splintery whiskers
and a mouth
which has spoken shame
like the rest of us
in its guilty cave
the eye, a different
that sways like any
when the breeze shifts.