Wednesday, December 14, 2016

A Post-factual Romance

I met you in a magic way
The morning after 
A long night 
When my laughter rang strong

I think you tasted my 
in the alleyway kiss of a lifetime 
And guessed 

that I come from a time that remembers 
Blood must be pumped into the brain
Before its first command is spoken

You are also well versed in the 
weaknesses of brains
Tricks of perception

Yes, there are facts of reality
But we all know the word is fiction

Spaceships don’t scare those who remember
oxygen is just a group of letters

You pushed me
Against the cold-graffiti-shutters
I felt my back press onto a warm bed of feathers

That was the moment I knew 
Your art is building the world I want
A world where the heart is remembered

Lost Coverage

There is a tactile love
that grabs you in your sleep
A love of
kisses that once killed Keats

We live in a world of tailgating 
easy lovers
brashly hopeful for a fortunate accident

But the memory of touch 
is from a back-alley affair

the kind that makes overfull stomachs ache
and windswept hairs stand 
as we frigidly shake
Naked, uninsured

A blue-road accident
unwitnessed, unfortunate
leaves me nothing but a scar
in settlement

be warned that
a left-handed lover 
does not negotiate

for years to come you will receive
bills to remind you that
your damages 

must still be paid

Tuesday, November 8, 2016

Sail On, Silver Girl

A puppet of hate is only
As much as the connectomes
pulling the strings

We are the food we eat
the air we breathe
the water we drink

If we are to unite the world with us,

We must share our organic bread,
plant trees also in our neighbors’ yards
publish blueprints for clean water

Let us not mistake fear for hate
Let us seek to understand
And let us remember hope

For each of our troubles is all consuming
And each of our stories will be quilted
into the blanket for an inevitable winter

Let more of us be made of wool than of paper

Love is remembering
That every one of our neighbors
is made from love
and only schooled in ideology

Listening is hard work
But it is knowing the tune
That makes for song

And music exists equally
in city; village; church and crackhouse.

Monday, March 7, 2016

Intimacy & Inflation

It is a lane for slow walkers:
a graduated pipette carefully 
dispenses just enough

A process of preservation.

We won't flash-freeze 
our Familiarity. 

Avoid brittle bones;
We will, gently,
chill it.


Each time I look at you
Is like a museum visit.
The uniformity of the mole 
by the ridge 
of your nose
Is a monument 
to my nostalgia.

Like Grand Central, 
in lieu of tired metal:
You are even sweeter,
For my pink-eye. 

A journey of recovery. 

The supple
hearts can afford 
this cost
of overcompensation.

It is bad math
(good economics).
The colder it gets, the warmer
Last summer becomes.