priceless chains

gold and jewels are heavy things

until they’re cast into the sea.

worries linger after death 

if those worries are not said.

my dear friend told me, a life before,

“the lights are bright up there tonight.”

i took their word, for at the time,

we were too busy committing crimes.

with my sentence up and eyes renewed,

i won’t ask again, instead i’ll do.

the fourth full moon of june

there was a time

not long ago 

when all we knew 

was the month of june.

an era born

from great forlorn

and scorching heat

we could not beat.

respite it favors

those with time

and those who peer

up to the sky.

clouds or naught

the bright one shines

her face on earth

almost divine.

this star’s light

brings things to life

once reflected

not so quite.

contorted rays

and wills once passed

now return

from the ash.

a month where four

was her gift

we thank her still

for this life once lived.

instincts

teeth in bone

bite and chew

till marrow spills

you are renewed.

taste on tongue

a savory thing

of life once was

but now consumed.

part of me

is now you

and what you feel 

is not true.

tired still

from a life once lived

on heaven’s hills

and a newborn’s crib.

if wrong is right

and the blood is cold

your instincts know

it’s time to fold.

quiet but not silent

we don’t know what we don’t know what —

why can’t you feel it?

nothing in the world feels as real as this right now, so

why do you watch us so loudly?

where are you taking us tonight?

when will you listen to our pleas?

you won’t, because you

can’t bring yourself to

hear them, touch them, experience them.

so purely vile and divinely painful. with joy, we stare back and mouth it —

what does it feel like?

not great with names

mike is shivering on the park bench.

luis is doing his best to bike up that big hill.

jenny is speeding in the left lane to make her meeting.

katie is covering her bruises with foundation.

sammy woke up on the wrong side of the bed.

stella can’t get out of bed even though she wants to.

george is taking a morning walk and curses every person he passes.

peter is talking to the girl that fucked his best friend.

ellis is grabbing their daily oatmilk, vanilla latte.

carlos is forgetting everything with his magic dust.

every face has a story.

afterimage

i took a walk from barcelona to bethesda 

yesterday. the streets adorned 

with handcrafted tiles, and the vagrants dressed 

to the nines, and the fences lined

with ornate necklaces —

if the pain in my feet wasn’t so visceral, i’d have believed it a fantasy.

bells chimed and waves crashed in concert.

there i stood 

barefoot to take a rest,

clenched the loose, wet earth beneath me.

but to no avail, it slipped out 

from under me. as my head hit, 

i remembered their voices  —

they whispered with such urgency; 

i couldn’t understand, so

they repeated, repeated, repeated, repeated

repeated their grievances.

it welled up within me, immense.

i cried 

once i realized the pain 

had subsided.

after the ecstasy

squint, pupils 

dilated, sound 

piercing, dull 

throb, sharp

scent, colorless

flavor, airy

feeling, heavy

body, beating

slower, thinking

more, caring 

less, once 

everything, now 

the lump

every so often there is a lump —

immaterial, yet palpable.

it comes and goes,

sometimes with more fervor than is pleasant;

it dissipates.

a newfound appreciation is gained, 

unrelenting.

let me lose me 

i bathe in uncertainty, day 

after day, year 

after year, life

after life.

to exist but not know one’s existence —

a torturously beautiful thing.

yet, even while drowning in bliss, this twisted thing inside

asks, begs, pleads.

i know not what it says or desires; 

i only feel a longing. a longing so deep and painful, it would make a mother and her newborn look like strangers.

we persist together.

to be found, i need be lost.

to learn, i must not know.

to reach enlightenment, i fall.

awaiting me, the abyss screeches a divine melody.

if the last flower blooms on a tuesday morning

you would hear her wails,

terrible shrieks from her death throes. 

below cracked ground, uneven footing.

the end is nigh, but there is still so much to do.

time marches — for who?

the feelings you had, we felt too.

the thoughts you had, we thought too.

the questions you had, we answered too.

now you are left pondering,

wondering, and struggling. 

how will you find meaning

inverted spiral

i can’t escape.

i never stop. 

i keep running and sprinting;

i jump and leap;

i roll and dodge.

circles are infinite, insanity-inducing, evil sometimes. 

sent right back to the beginning.

i’ve given up on an exit; at this point, 

i’ll settle for something novel.

something different from this same old eternal labyrinth that i was begotten into by her gracious love.  

i will remain here and remain

always grateful to suffer,

always humble in the face of the unknown, and

always hopeful with every fucking rebirth.

gaze and daze

today i watched a man —

actually two men.

they stood on molten earth that 

contorted to their movements.

one man gripped the 

neck of the other,

tight and unshakable.

with an enormous bout 

of strength, 

the man lifted the other — horizontally.

then, in a fervor, 

as if his very life depended on it,

he slammed the other 

into the liquid quartz.

the other thrashed about, 

struggling to keep 

his orifices clear,

but 

to no avail.

a bug could never overturn the will of a giant, 

such as it was 

today.

i could not read his face —

actually, neither of their faces.

but one of the men saw me, 

his gaze 

pierced me.

oh, how i pity the sand.

heaven’s dam

drowned out by a heavy thunderstorm’s downpour on a midsummer afternoon while reading on the balcony.

the chirps scattered and the humdrum buzzing went silent. 

torrents of life’s liquid thrashed the ground. 

i watched her.

she couldn’t keep up the pace;

she didn’t have a moment to let out a breath —

necessary to swallow —

and, so, she drowned.

eons later, i felt in my bones that

she had respite.

she swallowed everything that pooled on her face. 

an insatiable thirst that had to be quenched — 

never enough.

silent, shortly.

the orchestra harmonized once more.

now she waits, and listens 

to the flood of sounds until another midsummer afternoon thunderstorm comes rolling in.

volatiles

chains, rings, alcohols —

strong, beautiful, toxic.

warnings, signals, sirens —

never heard, yet sensed.

is it wrong to be empathetic?

emotionally compromised?

more human?

it is wrong,

as they say. so instead,

i will embrace the volatiles.

the artist

lamp shade on the sun —

dampened, choked, starved, cold, lifeless —

blank canvas, blood primed.

myriagon

hard to fathom, impossible to grasp.

symmetry so perfect, gods scorn him.

his eyes, a myriad of colors, ever-changing.

light pierces, darkness opens, yet

wholly indistinguishable.

ten thousand answers — no questions.

hands of the goddesses

born of a bloody moon, with warm,

ropey flesh that gripped her neck.

death, always envious, had a goal.

her hand severed them;

one entity, now two, shed tears —

of pain? of joy? of sadness? — unknown.

three alone, now four together.

sharing was difficult; it still is.

life, always envious, had a goal.

she endures, bedazzled with thick callouses. 

is five a sign of the divine?

the seed

i cry; yesterday,

infinitely limited.

now, mystique is dead.