cover the sky with your hand
the summit of your palm is the moon.
Your fingers are streams of stardust
sweeping across ancient dunes
or the slender branches of willows
gliding through desert sand
soft and sediment.
Your words sting like bees that linger
thawing like ice on your tongue.
The heart of every woman you have
loved lives inside me
the cracking bones of beating wings
resounding against fixed walls
whispers of moments come and gone.
Recall my eyes as time,
you have lived here a thousand years
corrupt the binds that hold you
but should you feel so inclined
do not waste what you do not have.
In altered zones of delight
I tumble through the days.
My lover comes and goes leaving me
lonely and politics is not soothing either.
I speak to America, You beautiful nation.
Beauty is not my friend
but the concept that governs is.
Read the lines on which your independence
rests you citizens of heaven.
The Congress, July 4th, 1776.
“The history of the King of Great Britain is a history of repeated injuries and usurpation, all having in direct object the establishment of an absolute Tyranny over these States“.
“”Those who forget the past are condemned to repeat it”
…writer and philosopher George Santayana
A Little Night Music
it’s a great day on the putting green
he’s feeling no responsibility.
Scribbled notes mark the
time and day we wipe the tears away
the dead are silent.
Mourners grieve behind closed doors.
It is not my demise nor yours.
We shake our heads and snuff our cigarettes
dig through our closets for the flag.
When I found you
I was not searching
beautiful and wild
our lids heavy with desire
we sipped Santiago raindrops
from our cupped tongues.
Tears of salt-rose fell from my eyes
at the hour of your departure and
my heart became a dying bird
it’s wings unfastened and open.
Night on the Island
by Pablo Neruda
I have slept with you
and on waking, your mouth,
come from your dream,
gave me the taste of earth,
of sea water, of seaweed,
of the depths of your life,
and I received your kiss
moistened by the dawn
as if it came to me
from the sea that surrounds us.
Nights while you sleep
my lips are so close I can
draw your breath in like an
infant at its mother’s breast.
I run my fingers down the curve
of your spine lean in to breathe
your smokey scent.
I have entered that golden part of you
immersed the sea that claimed me in
oceans of fiery sunsets.
When our hearts grow mute we will know
we have drifted too near the sun
art by Karol Bak
Can you send me a sign?
As Pristine as the south seas
An angel without wings
I sent you a message
did it drift out to sea
I’ m watching I’m waiting
On the other side
All that I’m asking is
send me a sign