Saturday, April 23, 2016


Why does my body ache
more than ever now
Not just because I am rounding
the bend yet again
but because I am as celibate
as a moonless, starless sky
I am the cassette tape
snarled and eaten up
in the dusty boom box:
Prince & Michael Jackson
are now dead,
what's left?

What seems a normal place
is odd to me now
I plan and plan and plan
and then plan to plan
but can't get out of the basement
of bashed up things--
and those b & c words--
what he called me--
bitch & cunt -- and sometimes

That's my pet name,
I'm convinced
& then there are
invitations taken away
at the last minute
because he is mad at me
blames me for stealing
for I am the blame of blames
because he doesn't want
to ever see me again, again
on this day I am supposed to
celebrate my breathing

But don't forget the gun
because that is trivial
what happened is repeated
in his spit, spraying you
with bullets
no one sees...
This is a good time
for abandonment, dear, 
silent, cold universe with stairs
that go nowhere,
where are you taking me?
Like the twisted cassette tape,
so ceaselessly unwound,
what is the order?

Saturday, April 16, 2016

Sonnet for Majority World Children

This is for the struggling, lonely masses
  Hold the world by its gauzy wings and smile
  Delight in the turning, churning chassis
  They labor, so we go through the turnstile
What does it mean a child do deadly work?
  To die for the sake of mass producing
  Walmart’s sales racks of cheap, five-dollar shirts?
  To save, save, save—is all our mere choosing!
Thailand:  brothels of prepubescent girls
  New York to San Fran want their weight in gold
  Sex tours for horny U.S. and Euro trolls
  Nations want firm flesh to be bought or sold
Eat the meat of silent children and sigh
  Not yours, you think, don’t even care, or try

Monday, April 11, 2016

Practice with Me

"Contemplating" (self portrait by Cristina Querrer)

There is a fetid wind that bawls
when love and light are certain, as if
they cannot stand unaccompanied—
single painter and the universe battling
between stillness and voices. 
Too much light gives too much joy
and too much joy is just too much. 
Therefore, learn only to count
the actions of someone
for words and song are derisory,
because there is no haven
to latch on to, no heaven to see
but oceans with serious quandaries
and mountains full of warlords
pilfering in the night.  Oppose
darkened edges with warmth
from summer's equinox,
for elongated days gives
the brute and the drifter
new chances for sagaciousness.
Open the curtains.
Let me quietly memorize you
in the light in case I had to
recite what it was

that I learned.

Wednesday, April 6, 2016

Discourses of the Day

"Self Portrait" photo by Cristina Querrer

I offer taro root,
vermilion, ineptitude,
and disbelief. 
Not used to

such attentive trees,
courteous hands, these 
trivial chores to
maintain a heart. 

Clothes hang out to dry
after being beaten and wrung out
by the riverbed.
The menial chatter

from the tribe
about the day's work—year's
planning and planting.
What it is to start

in the jungle's interior 
to find one's foothold
and clearing?
What it is to start

this morning
in between
the dormant sun
and stirring souls? 

Coffee brewing.
My child on my bed
curled up on a mammoth

cloud.  I climb upward,
looking, encouraged,

yet praying.