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
coalesce, or wish to? Come
house, a small fire burns
warm the ink of your untouched
every nook every inch of my
whiff of the arboreal air,
and moan of the sun’s lapse
tailspin; why does the moon
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.
An antiseptic thumb is proof of
Thin of your eye’s lacquer is
Strung to the river’s thrum,
Of riven decibels that decimate.
The grazed arms of battle
You dare not whisper
Your cyst and cymbal are
The eyes of discernment
The doomsday of the brush of
My calf is Tuesday, why not
September? The carriage of bloom
That sits on your neighbor’s lawn
Is retired from courage, will you
Grant it redemption from cloth?
when dream of craft catches
river, strum of the fire’s
sun, and the soft purr of the
snow, the beak of the pen is
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
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
and vine; the softness of
the alphabet soup of soft
warm; curdle the rein of
while milking the flower
no point in silting blood
gods of winning are crying
“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 rain 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
"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;
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
does not, does so
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.