To That

inch of time spent over the sea,

dragging your dead body back
from the sharks I fed you to.

There should be enough salt
to drown in. Now that is something
you don’t hear of!
But, I have heard of Buddha,
and Ghandi,
and what great advice for the
blonde girls in white dresses,
not scratched by hands of
light drinking, or hard gunfire;
the girls untouched by
living a dead life, waking under floorboards
built by their mothers.

Your heavy photograph burns to
my tongue. I spit. I curse you out
of your newly dried grave.
I am ecstatic for your corpse,
it grows on me like tough leather.

Now for her.
I carry a monsoon to her driveway.
She is lit up. A bright pumpkin
ripened for plummet.
She dresses in honeysuckle,
and flickers like whiskey.
I haven’t thought of her name,
she is black as a canvas; a new galaxy
before energy matters.
If her heart happens to
do that, I will carve it out.

I will take it back to July in my teeth
where the desert is waiting for me,
it’s Queen.

Hot For War

I’m not so angry after all
this time, he smells like honey, hot roasting in the damp evening. 
His carpet moves like the sea. I might be breathing, but he’s not. 
His blood is worn out in deep veins, his secret time is up. 
I am not angry this time, he positions himself for love and I watch,
jammed with battle fever, I am hot for war. 
A soldier holds no fear, and there is no time to speak.
He engraves himself with yesterday and I wear him next to my heart.
I am not angry after all
this time. His blood dries up and my ache fades. 
We are both permanent in a temporary place. 

The Whisper

A whisper,
sapphire, spiral breath
in the air. We choke
on language. Our silent hands
hold each other
up. The staircase
is a treacherous place,
though.

I at the top.
You at the bottom
of a death match,
strangled by guilt,
waiting for a whisper to
mend your wounds.

You turned me to salt.
I do not breathe.
I cannot whisper.
My eyes have become two
blue deserts.
My voice, a cactus.
I am rolling over barren land,
searching for hard water

and you stand, at the bottom
of the world, in a white ocean begging
me to whisper.

This Must Have Been Where I Learned It

It is not hard wood, not the
gleaming – glossy
hard wood.
It is unpolished.
Raw wood.

It was built quick and quietly. An emergency.
Like when a young girl was
sent away quickly
then
returned – everything in
tact, yet emptier.
Ssshhh…We don’t talk about that. 

It did not have the luxury of central air
or Vinyl Siding…
an “unfinished home”.

Unpolished, unfinished and
dysfunctional!!
The hot water was arrogant and the
cold water, cruel!
December nights waltzed in through the
cracks in the unstable
structure like they were made to take over the
place.

Pneumonia often leeched it’s way in,
threatening the morsel of comfort contained in
bronchial tubes.
Homes are cold and aloof though,
comfort is of no concern to them.
The set-up just stood, hard and rigid.
The floor boards shrieking out, as
if a bare-foot was
too much to sustain.

After some time, the ceiling began to cave. It had
been standing straight for
as long as its resources would allow.
It grew weak and frail, the floor
began to rot away, broken windows
sat bandaged back together, paralyzed.
Cinder blocks carried in cobwebs
that housed spiders more comfortably
than this house did its inhabitants.

One day, all of the inhabitants
packed and went away. No remorse, no sadness,
just the bare-feet walking further and further away.