the poem as body

the poem as body of
the homosapien, the act
                    of verse as the bond
                    that melds the distant
    adjective and the reticent
    noun, rhythm that floods
your eyes with mime.

where do the parchments fly off

where do the parchments fly
off and

coalesce, or wish to? Come
by this

house, a small fire burns
that will

warm the ink of your untouched

every nook every inch of my
armspan has

whiff of the arboreal air,
the grunt

and moan of the sun’s lapse
and its

tailspin; why does the moon
smell so?


the poetics of justice

the poetics of justice are languid,
true, but to a point – at which it must

fail to act as intermediary, as mirror
to fact preceding and after; it’s an

outliered form of harmony where all
that matters is not necessarily rhythm

but a certain terseness of bell, a
balled out veracity come out to play.


Proof of rum

An antiseptic thumb is proof of
Rum; the

Thin of your eye’s lacquer is

Strung to the river’s thrum,
The sliver

Of riven decibels that decimate.


five soft tangents

when dream of craft catches
breath of

river, strum of the fire’s
longing for

sun, and the soft purr of the

snow, the beak of the pen is
spoken for.

the denouement of hope is a cat skill
played out in solemn

tones of a lurid yellow, thrust in
the tomes of a

fairy tale ending, the crumbs of word
skills that speak

life, speak air, speak soil; the rift
softens the glare.

Reason in dissolution goes

East howls silence if it
Is to

Be heard; the lords often

Scared, and as well they

the folk swoon catches the
hard edge of

reason, its not so tender

and contours that outline
death’s vane

and vine; the softness of

the alphabet soup of soft
ness is

warm; curdle the rein of

while milking the flower
of pain;

no point in silting blood
when the

gods of winning are crying


If only the young were trees

“When a tree becomes a boat it learns to swim. When it becomes a door it continues to keep secrets. When it becomes a chair it does not forget the sky that was once above it. When it becomes a table it teaches the poet not to be a woodcutter.”
Mahmoud Darwish, “If only the young were trees” from “A river dies of thirst”.

The poet teaches the sky not to fall,
the ink not to dry at 
                    each drip of the woe-man's
                    sorrow; and it teaches
    not to withdraw 
                    its love for want of a tiny
                    thunder waiting on the other side.


I grapple with the word-form, the
verb-act, the similitude and the
norm; word opposes word in stream;
the begetting of meaning and its
arousal – beset by cloud, cut off from
the arm that inks each word, where
will the sigh announce its opposition?

“Reality is very, very contradictory, and so I try to write just perfecting what I see, what I read, what I feel, in a feel-thinking way. Not only giving ideas, or receiving ideas, or trying to explain something, but mainly feel-thinking, a feel-thinking language able to tie the heart and the mind, which have been divorced.” Eduardo Galeano


I am here to complete you

"Say to those who are distant: You have reduced me.
I am here to complete you!" - Mahmoud Darwish


Take this anger sold on a nail's
   Coffin; take it will you and
   Snuff it past your gullet
   And singe & screech till the 

Hoarse will cart each syllable
   In slices of emancipated
   Effulgia, evaporated bulbs
   Reading parchments of smolder.

the embrace of the worm is
in the same measure as the protest of love;
the horse

power of disdain matches
the exigency of care; the green of this patch
of grass is in the same measure as my dark
as your dark

grows immeasurable;

but it
does not, does so
only as


Say to those whose lives are chalk, I 
    am here to slip the sleep of oil,

The bark of night and the untold shriek
    To soothe the wail of dust, of the

Hurried chalk; I am here to complete you.