Tag Archives: poem

FOLIAGE BEARS US ILL WILL

11 Saturday Apr 2015

Posted by in Poetry, sonnet

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With your mad colors, your multiple inks;

henna could only dream of the dark hues

 

that you inhabit. I’ve had my pinks,

my oaks and walnuts, my skimpy sky blues

 

and wash-out reds. But burly green? “Green, green,

how I love you.” Green is the underworld

 

of all colors. It’s Hades, the obscene

door to Hell, it’s the Devil’s swamp, all swirled

 

with the bayou, rekindled with venom.

Green is death, it reminds us that foliage

 

bears us ill will. Do not blame green for your

woe. Green doesn’t care. It’s mad as Bedlam.

 

Heady as wormwood. Cryptic as language.

Wise as rolling hills. Foolish as liqueur.

GLITCH IN THE FOG

11 Saturday Apr 2015

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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[[“besos fantasmas,” kisses from your favorite ghost, darling]]

Kiss like an omen. Kiss like its doomsday.

Cold bled lips. “Besos de un fantasma,”

 

as my lover, a Cádiz ghost, would say.

Swell. Her ozone. When I lick her karma

 

she melts. Love has no rules, which is why

I’m so bad at it. There should be rites, witch

 

craft, blood oaths; anything to defy

expectations. I ruined her death, glitch

 

in the fog, by calling her only half

way home. I’m a lousy fish. I keep her

 

asleep in my small eye. Palpitations;

she wakes, crawls out with a kiss and a laugh.

 

I love it all bad: bad teeth, bad posture,

bad rites and bad Spanish teenage demons.

STARTLED MOUTH

10 Friday Apr 2015

Posted by in Poetry, sonnet

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At the gym the boy in the stall next to

me has, “bipolar,” “lovers,” “medicine”

 

tattooed here and there. I’ve got vindaloo,

rice and curry on my tongue. There’s cotton

 

balls in my pocket, band-aids, a thing – spork?

Something that’s neither fork nor spoon, and yet

 

I can’t throw away. I’ve got stains, all cork

and basque, under my eyes. With comb I wet

 

my hair, smear the steamy mirror. My tube

socks are pulled to my knees. My gym shorts tight.

 

Bazooka Joe gum in one cheek. My words

might mean shame or pride. Startled, the flashcube

 

on your camera goes off. I hate that light,

that shows me exposed, my startled mouth blurred.

WHAT WILL BE LEFT

10 Friday Apr 2015

Posted by in Poetry, sonnet

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Let all the lovers be consumed into

intimacies. Let the interlopers

 

play with robbed muscles and slack sinew.

Let the sea give me all its pink corals,

 

betta fighting fish. I, too, am beta.

The slack sub-boy who has what hunger wants.

 

I, too, have played with a cardboard ouija;

listened to love’s whine, its nails-on-board haunts.

 

I’ve let the outlaws in, they’re so certain

that the fuck that they give is the right one.

 

There’s more plastic in the ocean than sharks;

that is what will be left to our children.

 

And words. And poems. About Hope’s garden.

And Yahweh’s pact. And Rumi’s love dog’s bark.