Sonnet 2: A small, precious, important eulogy.

Many times, you’ve burst from recollective
Gates in zooming jubilee streaking white
Across some grassy field, a carpet sprite
Jingling like a thrill in mom’s direction.
I lose myself in ways to permeate
Your portrait enveloped in shine and black
A footprint just before your thread went flat
To seal in wax your blessing, unwise saint.
Still, the weight of your head on my chest was
A porcelain egg, embedded and warm
In my sweater, my own bones dwarfing your form.
My beaming dream was you could speak in tongues,
That you would blink out words with your wet eyes
Or huff lamenting with your ancient love
You, magically contained by knitted lungs
Snored small rhythms to our paused and mulling lives.

This poem is dedicated to my Princesa, my dog, who recently passed away.

Incantation for creating poems.

My most recent poetic approaches
Occupy a haunted heaven
where God is always somewhere inexact
And lives repeat or stay amen.
Silence and music invent one another
purgatory shimmering
Calmly from a phantom face. Stillness walks
the garden-paths, condemning none,
nor blessing them, but nodding as they pass.
It’s not the writing palace gates
but a museum of small, Sedated,
meaningless minds. Desolate and
sunbathing where they stagnate into peace.

A shrouded beast, A tangled dark beneath

I. Wordless encounter with a monster

Thee, ancient nameless beast
Confront me roaring, perfectly diseased
By color speck and stroke,
Panicked ablaze. To send my whole,
rendered-liquid self into gasp; Here am I:
facing with my little face
A span longer than life. Your vandalized
identity, messy like the dark truth, Oh

It rumbles my body’s boiling brine. I’ll only resign to
You, your vacuum-suck on my bones, when
For me air solidifies in my throat
And flecks stick in bright mockery
Like chunks and chunks of bone
Weighing down with hard-tack
And black, my stuttered lung.

My vision my words drown, swallowing
Molasses until death doesn’t come.
And you’re hunched cradling
My tangled organ strands charred to black
In your hands like
A small dead thing, a story lost to
A chasm, a broken wing on the back,
A curse of repetition
A waterwheel churning black.

You: the starving portraitist sitting outside the Shubert


You just

spilt art on your clothes

lifted your palms, twitching,

reading ruddy black, white

swathing your baffled body


inhaled colors’ smells

While paralyzed 


How The Hyperreal smells like leather, reminiscent,

An inside-out glove, Muscle drained of red–

Realized how you contract, molting fermented opaques

Caricature frame evaporates, vaporized by rubbernecks, eyeballs

Cocooned in ink, papier-Mache`d, amateur art, peering hard,

To atrophy your rigid frame.


You, vacant, rickety, intoxicated by the cold and wet

Leaning on cement

Elastically embracing your own bones, your being, oddly well

Watching passengers smear by on NY time   on charbroiled paths



swingless in the indigo rain

A broken pendulum, An unrolled marble-


There it is, that
pulsing magma that
dizzying charcoal that
deep, dark-black liquid
brewing grossly,
gaining consciousness
like a long-silent soul
when you polish the oil-lamp
but this one–
this one it doesn’t spring from
the spout
it doesn’t
burst from the seams
or drizzle to the floor like
it just
sticks inside
my ribs
telling me–
you’d better
open your fucking mouth.

Hymn of the Rescinded Daughter

I stepped into the room of stone.
I stepped onto the mark
I stepped upon the soiled throne
Whence rained around me sparks

Whence walls ignited, white as fear
My limbs, enthroned, went slack
Skulking vernacular pricked the ears
‘fore silence barked forth black

And whilst I clench myself to stone
And whilst I grit to life
A regent kin emblazoned bone
Now bellows charring art

Thee, in-furling shards of truth,
Are blemished from within
I ache to flare these injured texts
To sear in script
your every sin.