Hook, Line, and Sinker (You and I)

There’s a place for you and I
somewhere in the depth
our miraculous floating feet

just as soon as we drop
the anchor of good faith

Maybe if we fashion a raft
of words and fallacies
tied down
with knotted desperation
we’ll make it

or at least drift a few days more.

Reciprocated guesses
and salt-dried kisses
as we cling and breathe in

and choke on wild sprays
of inevitability.

We’re keen swimmers
but not quite broad
to sustain the magnified rivulets

And it’s common knowledge
that if we try to float
with our bodies
in inverted synergy

we will both

So let us drift
to oceanic echelons

and our flash-scaled neighbors
will dream in our place.



Someone should tell you that past-tense hellfires
can’t be smothered by strange hands
or one-night stands
or those pretty pretty silver blades. Those bromides will rot you
in the same vein that swallows the anesthesia.
You’re on the road to purgatory, but it’s paved
with revelrous swigs of spiked gin, tantamount
to self-immolation of a most unholy sort.

You’ll spend your mornings the same way
you pass your sordid nights: hungover,
almost hanging
from the ceiling by constricting threads that
move your limbs in staccato slices of emaciated air.

There’s a certain courtship to it all. Left, left,
swipe right,
how many till you get lucky? You’re losing dignity
and your thumb only goes one way.
It’s a match! (somewhere a scheming database snickers)
Ah, romance! Reciprocal lust
gilded by “I read your bio how wonderful you have
a dog/a degree/a dogma for games such as these”.
Coffee, blood-red mouths,
hands charged with intention brushing with nonchalance
two people in a one-bedroom flat. This is whirlwind,
this is passion, two fingers that moved
in one direction
with a sensual inflection
and dubious discretion-

someone should cut your strings.

Not for life’s sake- what a pitiful cause. We’re all fading
some faster than others who worship their vital signs.
But if you keep traveling that way, feet stuttering
on the gnarled bones and bleached roots, you may meet
him along the way. And who’s to say he won’t take your hand
try to lead you away, promise you another land
with clement air untainted by that thickening smoke
belched from the pyre of passing souls? Don’t even try
to swear your faith to your path. You never could resist the chance

to mistake a sepulchre for a bed.


I’m scared someone will turn to a page that’s
crumpled in all the wrong places, displaced cadence and
dire syllables in amalgams that are all wrong

If I could draw these lines single-file, neat
imbrications and smiling rhymes, I might be
satisfied- but some turn of thought
always wrinkles the page

Pretension, maybe, but we all have a right
to desire, and the exhilaration of expressed dreams
Alliterative aberrations from the archetypal
don’t suffice:
there’s nothing to be said for broken cliches.

Maternal Speculations

I don’t know your face
You are a trace, a thread
in time’s tapestry still
unfurling before my wide eyes,
a figment of something amaranthine
and divine.
I don’t know you, but one day
you will be the radiant cynosure
of my world. Your laugh will burst
like a thousand novas and shine
in my eyes long after the last
chortle’s echo. I have faith
that your smile will leave me
undone, a soft curve creasing
your face for the first time
an incandescent
altogether unnamable
joy in your cheeks.
You the creation
of God’s hand, where He holds you
until it is our time.


Traces of you are yet treasured-
your eyelashes on my cheek,
tenellous breath of moth wings
your fingers sliding on my skin in lissome strokes,
painterly strides of color
and the warm penumbra in which we slept,
your heart against my breast

All this romanticizing, and yet I cannot pretend
to feel anything
but nihilistic adoration
for transient glances of love.

At the Bus Stop

Someone will see me, my sheet-dirtied hair
knotted up and the same button-down
I arrived in (unwrinkled-
I folded it up just in case),
and curl their lip. A common whore
they’ll mutter, with the sin
in their speech
dripping off their tongue. I run my hand
down my neck to make sure
I remembered all of me
left in his bedside table.
Three chains with four charms.
Trinity +1.

Someone will want me to tell
them all I learned from the moon’s
midnight lessons. Not much,
I’ll say.
A vague pedestrian response is propriety.
But to say the truth, nothing
at all.

I’m getting a little nervous.
The bus isn’t on the streetscape
and there’s a chance I got the hands
on my watch all wrong, fractioning
the centrifugal minutes in uneven
slots of time.
I reek of middle-class cologne
and the scent is making me dizzy.
I’m starting to worry this isn’t my stop.

After the Rain

I see the world through refracting windows with raindrops glistening on the edge, a surrealism in which I can reside. The resplendent colors prick at my iris, that melanic kiss of sensory wisdom, and I see in new shades. How beautiful, to live in a perspective that shifts and has its terminus in the periphery of a kaleidoscope.
I want you to see it, too. I’ll show you that if you tilt your head or heighten your gaze so that the sun can bless the landscape, the world may not be so treacherous, may resound with pulsebeat miracles. If you must close your eyes, I will lead you on till the shadows hush, light capes of grey silhouette, and remind you that even the darkness bows to our form.


Sullen gargoyles perch on the other side of sleep
stone eyes that crack the shell of every dream
buttress-wings that cast inky shadows
that dance like frantic tongues.

By midnight I’ll be rotten through
adorned with maggot jewels and yellow sinew sashes
and purple nails curdling as blood bubbles up
to stain our hands new shades of red and sin

Our infinity is in the catacombs
making honest love along the wasted flesh caverns
that groan under our feet
So similar we are, such spitting resemblance-
you wear my stolen eyes
ripped clean from my sockets
The tendon ribbons snap like rusting
The caverns in my face yawn in grotesque
God only knows how
I can see you
But when I do,
a bit of me ensconced in the devil’s face.

The Light Down the Hall

When the day has turned her face
and the stars unveil their steady gleam,
he is there.
Listening patiently to every cacophony
of madness
and every chronic heartache.
He knows by the dimness
of the constellations
what heaviness my heart holds.

We are an unlikely cluster
and altogether an iridescent wonder.
Our anguished darknesses
no longer shiver alone-
there burns a new light
in their cosmic shadows.

Thank God
for shifting orbits
and restless stars.
I fear that otherwise
we would never have crossed
living in parallel rooms
and apathetic harmony.

Our jubilant showers of laughter
are the moons reflecting
a greater golden shine,
the cynosure of our meager galaxy.
I forever bless the grace
that drew its luminescence
to our divine proximity.