405

I mourn the spirit whose body is still here.

It lays on the bed with a rising and falling chest.

He’s not here, nor heaven, nor hell. But somewhere

Between the wind and the skyscrapers with working men in their fifties.

In the line of the horizon where the sky meets the sea.

He’s floating with the hawks above the suburban homes and children’s soccer fields.

He’s flying under the cars that move like molasses on the 405 laughing at the drivers damning

lane 3. I don’t know what he’s waiting for, but his spirit seems like it’s already home. 

Pukana

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.

Eodem die

bacteria invades and
infects Los Angeles,
leaving it with a thick
congestion of the chest.

silenced by coughing fits,
the city opens its mouth
but phlegm distorts the
history it tries to tell.

only ears forced to concrete
can make out the steady
heartbeat of the city.

knees scrape against the sidewalk,
blood dripping in synchronization
to the sound of screeching metal

some pray,
others beg,
but all live out

their nightmares -
real or
perceived.

The Zone of Orphaned Humanity

Sliced open by his overgrown toenails,
the corroded canvas slip-ons
cling to his calloused soles.

Stumbling down 1st Street,
he whispers to every lamppost he passes.

Don’t forget who your children are.

Stopping to catch his breath,
he squints one eye closed
as his body sways
to the sound of silence.

Lifting his head,
he places a crooked finger
in the stale air and
traces the pattern of the steel
lattice towers that stand proud in front of
the distanced Los Angeles skyline,
as if he were an artist painting
the city’s visual pollution into existence.

Draping his body over the bridge,
he looks down into the city’s river
that he no longer
can baptize himself in.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Weaving

The woman writing in the window is no longer there

She doesn’t walk through the farmer’s market on Saturday

To buy her tulip seeds

Nor does her long skirt get blown up from the

Subway steam

 

No, she doesn’t sing in the garden

With dirt making residence under her nails

She doesn’t sit with her left leg tucked under her right

Birthing poems to elevate her burdened words

 

She doesn’t wrap her fingers around your neck

And press her forehead to yours

To look into the shadows of your eyes to tell you

“It’s gonna be alright.”

IMG_8675.jpg

Yerushalayim

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

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
solace
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
seauton
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


 

ΕΠΟΥ ΘΕΩ
— ΠΥΘΙΑ
 
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