Ruminations of dreams
dawdle on grasses I only know as an undulation of weeds,
do they
dawdle on dandelions glimmering here and there
behind the barbed wire, the citrus-tinged
reticulum running
heartbeat over hillock to gully beside a
highway that pierces straight—

I thought it was a recollection of California:
an all-dayer northbound from the San Gabriels,
the Tehachapis receding
into desert blasts,
the musk of it
taunted me, I had to
look for verdancies, or so help me,
the gods of Folsom and El Dorado Hills,
the visible nothingness I had to
fill with an expletive, or two, or whatever,
I was possessed, but

it was an island, the genus Americana:
late afternoon
was on the fountain grass,
the tattered tresses of rainbow eucalyptus,
finitude came with a
light rain and a
necessity to parse
the bitter tastes of rainbow eucalyptus,
you forget
citizenship to it, how much more to
topsoil to porous lava rock to pilgrimage,
blindness and basalt,
I fell
to brooding
on the myriad superficialities for a spell,
e Waimea mea degluptea
ad hoc or hydroplane or a
mother cow
behind the barbed wire,
russet cheeks laden with water,
she was an utterance of a countryside,
as provincial as they come,
the quondam sights
in metamorphosis.


I drive down the onramp to merge into L.A. traffic


A greying haired middle aged man does not want to let me in.

Forced onto the curb of the the freeway I turn and look at him.

He is staring at me

And a blanche, passionless, gaunt middle finger waves in my direction


I look back for another couple of minutes and smile as I drive on the edge of the freeway still.


An excitement runs through me

A fierce rushing of blood.

I am the Polynesian heroes of my youth.

I am the Anglo-Saxon legends of my ancestors.

I am an African-Brazilian of utter defiance and survival.

I feel their spirits deep, comfortable

I am from the pure earth of the south pacific

I am from the hardened rock of northern Europe.

I have water in me from the raging Amazon.

I am crafted from powerful dust

And none shall defy me.


I roll down my window

And lock eyes with the man slowly becoming a boy.


I am ready for war

I have been melded in battle

I bring blood and fire


I show him my Pukana


My ancestors envelop him


He sharply turns and looks at his steering wheel

Slowly brakes

And never looks back up


I am all that I have been.

Pain of a New Place

It hurts to try and fly

and keep getting shot out of the sky


It hurts to try and swim

and keep getting tangled in a net


It hurts to try and float

while others paddle

past in a boat


this new place hurts

while I grow.



Tussocks of grass

Tussocks of grass,
two socks on the cement beside
the washing machine, and the wrong colors
have I ever been in love?

Where grape leaves are the largest leaves
in the garden, but
twining the bare air,
crawling on hands and knees,
where grape leaves are the softest shade
of dereliction, a veiny
don’t say love.

I pluck out things
that are hard to talk about
one item in particular,
it’s getting to me.

Plucked out,
try to say sublime,
and sound like a three-year-old,
plucked out,
the world gives you lip service and, behind
your back, a
, I’m sorry,
don’t say love.

Tall-Poppy Syndrome

How tall are the poppies where you are?


Where I’m from when a poppy grows too tall

You cut it so the others don’t attempt to rise that high


Where I live now, the tallest poppies suck the life from the roots of the shortest

But somehow everyone still loves the tall poppies


I think I’ll be a wildflower

And never think about my height


It got so warm

poems didn’t come out of me anymore


in sweat

clammy, damp



dripping from me

exhausted, beat up



I didn’t know this heat

I was from a rainforest.


the hours reconvene at hours
when light and earl grey mingling
are thoughts’ preambulation,
when senectitude graces
a solitary corner of the moon
that is itself absent
or in the azure as reminiscent
of a misplaced sock

it be knowledgeable to say
night is not the same as its counterpart,
windowsill doorstep,
Zora Neale Hurston
Earnest Hemmingway,
as the bindings
nuzzle each other
in the armoire’s calm quiescence

burning into the curtains
the white of lunar dapplings
be figments of cosmic teleology
dispossessed of origin,
at least until something
decants the self
from time and space
and maybe matter too,
then lets eyes or not eyes see
how blight is rhapsodized
in a bird singing the eons ci-devant,
how hearing cannot place
an aubade or serenade yet discern
the indwelt effervescence,
the microwave tinging
to avow the water heated,
for oolong perhaps
with a slab or two
of strawberry-jammed

City Sin

A madness arises slowly,

Like the skyscrapers off the 110

My bones don’t really know me

As I settle into the city’s sin

My mind numbs gently

As the smog creeps in


Insomniac I
suffer from gods
and clinical
darkness ye lithe
disembodied rivers
dismorphian rivers
distopian rivers

in some hypnotized
universe on the ceiling
I cannot say it
[sleep] I will say slumber
and roll myself to the foot of
the bed and whisper
wishes to wishes
malady is chthonic
my lady is a cute albeit
errant dyscordia one
drapes with sultry digits
maybe lays a kiss on in
clumsy osculation
eres la nina de mis ojos
O Madame O Milord O Milieu
of myself
here is real
oh god they all they all are one
sticks and pills
may break my ills
but nature walks
are aphrodisian as
a rose a rise a raze
a thenar ambling on
dewy park railings and
[you know] rummaging
cityscapes for a sin techo
remedium ie more a
a more a safer something than

vertiginous steps
out there
on the icy surface of slumber
mas que a mi propria piel
wanting wanting
as it were
impeccably hung
among blue ghosts adrift in
maculations of light
hora a hora a hora

we are the high functioning
notwithstanding caffeine
sometimes nicotine
sometimes adrenaline
sometimes asinine

en las tejas poniendose de pie

christ that responds in
terror more at midnight than 3 pm
have mercy on us oh I am
afraid of gods
even a god
bearing benefactions in hand
mount of love plain of war
O Lord of dichotomies
send me the work address of aegis Zion
I cannot stand the palmist at the door
the hoi polloi telling us
to read the lines not the pale underbellies
not to look a gift-equid in the mouth
levantar erguido su semblante
and believe in [blank]
slobbering thou christ out in the streets of Hierosolyma
O lather us in via lactea and lathe
veritable kinks knots and gnomons to
whatever form is vitality
from the freeway’s shimmering banks thou christ
this is my corpus shred
for the forgetting
of time

for gluten-free thou christ for complimentary
lonely time past and perfect
I taking note of the weather’s
possible inclemencies
Saul of Tartarus
I came out and have come out
wanting of nothing
amaurosed and bawling
macarized macarized art thou
I do what I hate or what I am

it is what it is
venereal vermin nerve a [hair a]
trickle of antiquity through me
the ho monos the only the epicentre
no es otra cosa mas que su alma
the pigeons on the concrete edifice
juxtapose us dearth to dearth
as lightest to lightest element recumb

how can I believe the
hero is real the more your lot your lot is one
of epicene slumber it coalesces
[us to us] all divinities bodies
formulations to say transformed my
soul takes the new in

gyrum imus nocte et consummamur igni

hypnautical I
for inflammation
hypocrite I
to inverse the stars
cf te a mi mano
te vengas a donde las guerras se van

hyppocratic I
to be the hircine head of
the bacchanal
and not
the manic

you are the apple of my eyes

thenar palm of the hand

sin techo homeless

more than my own skin

hour by hour by hour

standing on the roof tiles

to raise up the countenance

gnomon the projecting limb of a sundial 

know thyself
amaurosed blinded
macarized blessed, fortunatehappy

ho monos the one
it is nothing less than the soul

at night we go our circuits
and we are consumed in fire

get yourself to my hand
come to where there are no wars

hircine pertaining to or resembling a goat


I saw the future. I did. And in it, I was alive.
— Neil Hilborn
Salvador Dali,  Corpus Hypercubus

Salvador Dali, Corpus Hypercubus

Anonymous,  Entry into the Holy City

Anonymous, Entry into the Holy City

Anonymous,  Christus Pantocrator

Anonymous, Christus Pantocrator


I cut through the line in the sky today
Descending, a transplanted angel
into the valley with no shadows
into the sunshine
and into the smoke
mingling across the lifelines
and flooding out from the cities
that meld into their mountains
and streets – how I have forgotten
the look of an empty street,
this empty house,
this corner of the Lost city
I have cut for myself.