{92 days of quarantine}

Quarantine days

Make my eyes glaze

Over

When will this be over?

Quarantine nights

With you in my bed

Lover,

While helicopters hover.

Our mouths covered

By each other,

Forgetting the dread,

Of what the news said.

Quarantine months,

Don’t change the spread,

Of births and bloodshed,

We either drown or tread,

Trying to get ahead,

Until we drop dead,

What should we do instead?

{love poem #1}  

Here 

I offer you an attempt

(a wish, an experiment?)

to show (not tell) 

how I feel

now that the “idea” of you

is more than an orbiting thought,

lost in the inky pool of fears and desires

we’re swimming in while I sleep.

The idea of you is more

than a subconscious bomb,

atomic, hypnagogic

erupting on the subliminal horizon

of my REM state,

just close enough to radiate,

all over me,

a mushroom cloud of expectancy. 

The idea of you is now 

not just a gamble,

or an unspoken inward promise 

to disavow,

or a chance encounter on a train,

hinging on a lucky shot,

an intoxicated afterthought, 

or disembodied, fraught

fluttering wings 

trapped in my belly,

or the sinking quicksand 

of self-doubt 

I couldn’t escape

the harder I tried;

teeth grit,

lips bit, 

white knuckles clenched,

in stubborn disbelief 

of your existence, 

and the oracular certainty 

that there was no “you” for me. 

Here 

you’re as real as a windstorm

blasting open my window

on Sunday morning;

or the blue milky moonlit glow

of late nights spent awake,

time unwasted;

As real as lemon and coconut

tasted,

again and again,

from your handmade ambition.

You’re as real as the tradition, 

of kisses and confessions in my kitchen. 

You’re the warmth 

of the golden hour at Stinson beach,

the energy of psychedelics, 

and no need for sleep. 

You’re as real as a drum beat,

a didgeri bleat,

a sweaty sheet, 

and all my favorite songs 

playing on repeat. 

Your body is the embodiment 

of possibility;

your thought bubbles floating far beyond 

endless rows of Italian cypress trees.

You’re an explosion 

of spontaneity,

sparked from firecracker antics 

on the corner of my street. 

You’re the quiet, constant heartbeat,

emanating from your chest to my cheek. 

You’re inexplicably unique,

in what you say and how you speak;

no one can compare, 

or compete.

{the cosmic egg}  

The day begins with a crack

eyes open, shell broken, 

and your name is in my thoughts.

It splatters and spreads

down my throat, into my chest,

where the sinews I've dutifully trained

to contract,

can't stop your viscous presence.

You drip down to my belly

a sticky globulin,

hatching hummingbird flutters

one moment

and dread the next.

Another mucilaginous infatuation,

A boiling laceration,

I wipe you away.

Every morning

we rise and regurgitate 

the golden yolk of progress,

the allure of more,

the reptilian impulse 

to metamorphose.

You satisfied my appetite 

for disappointment

long enough,

time's up.

But you keep

catching up

latching on,

I open up and swallow

our perfectly cooked

rapprochement.

Your attention,

a disguise,

a cleverly hidden

Easter Sunday surprise,

a flash of yellow

in the corner of my bird's eye.

{mistakes}

The road to excess is full of holes.

As the proverbial square peg,

I like putting myself in boxes.

Take one step forward

fall into a ditch

and climb back out.

Claw your way back out.

Ferocious enthusiasm

makes each day count.

Bouncing on a bus against the 

Eastern downpour.

Hurricane season floods my memories.

Each drop is a moment, already evaporating. 

An oily smudge, I rest my pain on the pane.

{millennial} 

Raised on self-esteem and standardized tests, your Millennial soul is hopelessly restless. Blame your adolescent ADD, your little orange pills of focused energy; blame your babysitter, the TV—the one who first taught you to worship the screen. Express your feels in emojis and memes; follow your heart, follow your dreams; the only way is with a college degree—technology enhances your marketability.

Shed your old world possessions—your VHS tapes, audio cassettes, boom boxes, CDs—trade them in for an online identity, trapped inside a mobile extremity.

On the endless search for that ever-elusive “me," you’ll dabble in activism, masochism, pacifism, veganism—and settle on hedonism. You’re the lost-and-found generation, destined to inherit the earth—you’ll cure cancer, loneliness, and climate change. Media is your religion—the Internet your every -ology and -ism—your salvation and your prison.

Your hipster side rides fix gear in flannel, with tatted tendencies, body art covering the one-of-a-kind “you;" your un-deodorized hippy side has impeccable taste in obscure craft brews, hemp shoes, and magic mushrooms.

Occupy, gentrify, and forgive yourself your student debt—credit cards are your economic safety net. Priests and politicians know nothing of your anti-establishment, grown-up-corporate lifestyle—you crack them a selfish selfie smile.

You meet your like-minded others online while deflecting human contact with noise cancelling head phones and ionized shades. It’s not how you were raised, but you’re adaptable in this fast-paced, start-up society—you’re more connected every day; your social anxiety is the American way.

Your hobbies include binge watching, couch surfing, and vaping monstrous billows of saccharine smoke on street corners. Apps, snaps, cats, and kale are a few of your favorite things; you have a Prius and a septum piercing.

You redefined the “other” box—dissident, militant, biracial, bisexual, queer, trans, cis, bro, hoe, polyamorous, anti-depressed—unanimously ambiguous. You’re the front-end capable future, the social security drained moocher. For now, the wounded free world is yours to scar, save, or suture.

{polyphony}

The desert boomed around us

a cannonade of color:

amber, azure, azalea, 

neon, volume, bacchanalia. 

We took Nature by the throat

and shook her with deafening force.

Before our arrival, 

only the wind whispered her name.

After our departure,

only the wind will wail for her.

Her parched tongue tastes

traces of us––

bits of hair, nail, skin, sin,

remain for her to claim.

Dust thick with ancient minerals

billowed in clouds from our feet,

and crept over our faces,

snaked into our nostrils––

antiqued, we were ready to meet. 

You left me no time

to wonder,

“Am I enough? Am I prepared?”

No time to be scared. 

You left me no time

to ponder,

“What’s happening?”

No emotional rationing. 

Ascendant, unaware,

We were instantly ensnared. 

By some cosmic compression

of time, space, energy, grace,

Music was our intersection,

in the starry alchemy

of this bone-dry place.

We bathed in apricot moonlight, 

awash in deceptions we've since erased.

Euphonic selection, 

From your fingers to my feet,

a progressive first impression,

We didn’t miss a beat. 

Lost in your sound, my motion,

I recalled a distant dream:

where outside was inside,

and the walls were lavender cream,

I tamed a coyote

with an offering of water, 

to save myself 

from subconscious slaughter. 

But I digress––

your velvet voice,

made me,

deliquesce.

Purring, 

susurrus,

in my mouth, ears,

Cocooning,

into scarves, hammocks, you lured me near. 

By half past creature hour,

We were ripe and ready to be devoured. 

{ex nihilo}  

Do you know 

where the sky begins? 

It’s somewhere within  

my thoughts 

and your skin. 

A place we’ve been taught, 

to only imagine, 

ceaselessly sought, 

amaranthine. 

Do you know 

where the stars are born? 

In the sloe, blackthorn warmth 

of whispers across shores,

of inky dreams half-formed,

from my mouth to yours, 

unspoken words sworn.

Your allure, an open door, 

sublimations shorn. 

Do you know

the force of the undertow? 

Have you dared to drown, 

or braved the swim alone? 

I’ve rooted firmly underground, 

Unwilling to surface or float. 

But cast your net and safely surround, 

I’ll emerge to welcome your boat. 

{immersion}  

My mouth, lips dipped 

into the warmth of your cheek  

like a velvet pool.

{a proper goodbye}

Sometimes I leave the kitchen light on,

and spend all day forgetting. 

At night I come home and my stomach churns.

I ascend the stairs, conjuring a scene,

Starring your absence. 

Pausing at the last step,

I feel you waiting, 

with your 

spare key 

and your

dark stare.

I want you to be there,

chasing me.

But it’s just my memory.

Overactive imagination,

A naked bulb buzzing,

liberation. 

{the chaotic bliss of fire + air}

My dreams of you are vermilion.

Defiant, we stroll the sea surface,

Above a fluorescent forest 

of Catalina Goby fish.

Frivolous,

Amphibious,

Octillion,

Reptilian.

My dreams of you are cerulean.

We bathe in the nighttime blue,

Stained glass shatters as we argue.

My windows open wide for you, parvenu.

Caramel complexioned, corkscrew Jew.

I’m onto you. 

Saturated, our contrast colors imbrue.

My dreams of you are few.

They debut like a wish come true.

Like lifeblood floods young limbs,

Chartreuse. 

My beginner’s eyes open wide, ingénue. 

Out of my subconscious you appear,

Obsidian. 

Not you—my version of you—untrue,

Viridian.

More green than blue,

more me than you,

Effervescing into oblivion. 

{the sandman}

That summer it didn’t rain once.

Like a bleeding, blooming cactus,

My scent prickled and rose,

And I drew you in by the nose;

Through the loins you spit me out,

A water bearer for my drought.



You sunk white teeth into my soul, 

Every somnolent secret you stole, 

Ripped gently from my sleeping tongue, 

You sucked me down black dragon lungs.



Your words spun webs of rhyme-n-rhythm,

As your crooked joker grin glinted,

And cracked to release the billows.

You have the heart of an armadillo.

I have the backbone of a jellyfish.

This wildfire is set to extinguish.

{indivisible}

You’re nice.

I’ll buy you a drink,

tell you who I am.

My name is Javier. 

I’m a fighter.

I grew up in Harlem.

My brothers are both dead, 

one in Iraq, one in Afghanistan.

I tried to enlist with the Marines,

but they turned me away.

I said I wanted to join for revenge.

My dad was a heroin addict,

my mom was a whore.

I don’t want to talk about my brothers,

I’ll break down.

Then you’ll think I’m a pussy.

I can’t be in a relationship,

I wouldn’t put a girl through that.

I love two things in life:

Children and animals.

They’re completely innocent.

Sometimes I get so angry,

I want to explode,

and disappear. 

But it’s not all bad,

I’m here talking to you now.

I came here to see if they'd let me fight,

my brothers did the same. 

We’re always moving, 

so I’ll be somewhere else soon enough.

I should have said 

I wanted to serve my country.

Then they would have taken me. 

Darling, if you walked a mile in my shoes,

You’d know what freedom tastes like. 

{blood moon}

Here we are my friend,

Steering affection astray, 

Down that carnal dead end, 

We're speeding toward again. 

Treating DNA like child's play. 

What would our mothers say?

Hands gripped at the verge, we hover, 

Consanguineous, cut from the same, 

A paradox of ancient modern lovers, 

Impenetrable is our genetic membrane. 

Akin, our minds think words unuttered, 

Too close and so far from each other. 

There's a surface I don't dare to break: 

To dive deep in the wrecked ravine, 

A full frontal collision with heartache. 

The choice I don't make, to bloody risk-take, 

To lean in, body-soul, let go, careen, 

Lose control, and expel my primal scream. 

{plateauing}

A chill February morning

Finds me tangled in the wiry arms of electronic bedmates,

In striped sheets sprinkled with crumbs and ash,

And a left tibial plateau fracture.
 

But I pause to celebrate.

In 11 days I will have been born, 25 years ago.

A quarter century of anatomical luck,

Not bad for a chickenshit novice,

A privileged pre-op princess.
 

*
 

My handsome brown orthopedic surgeon 

Talks shop over my tears as he studies the x-rays:

"A decompression of the bone. Very unusual."

"Really?" Flattered wet lashes flutter (he thinks I'm unusual?).

His distinguished brow elevates to explain

Nothing. He reassures: "It's very unusual." 

“Look, I’ll enter here.”

He sketches a diagram of the surgery.

A black “V” scribble

Marks me, 

Nearly devirginized,

Dented, but not broken.

Cut, plate, screw, sew me up.

General anesthetic, Doctor?

I trust you... 

You'll fix everything that hurts. 
 

After surgery, he flaunts endoscopic photo evidence

Of his "textbook" precision,

And announces my tissue and his incision

Will be printed in a medical school manual.

There, I’m published—

Anonymous, osseous,

With plenty of post-op potential.

*

Blanketed by March fog,

My fingers and toes crack.

Stiff hands search for heat,

And find it in a boy’s t-shirt.

"Baby, you're freezing,"

He mumbles to the wall.

I want to ask: "Why won't you love me?"

But his bedside manner is too icy for inquisitions.

So instead, I whisper with a kiss to his carotid:

"I'm always freezing."

{a promise for contact}

There we were, unjustly instigated,

talkin’ bout ghosts n stuff

and how

sometimes things get complicated.

From first contact, we were

face to face.

And now we settle

for a digital embrace.

This world is not exactly sane,

but the reward is chesse,

when you treat it like a game.

Soon I'll be faxing berlin

to give you my words,

these words that speak

of our future fame.

*

We are the punks

Ticking on our grind

like clockwork towards the cosmic gate.

Here we stand

ready we wait

for some kind of blue

to slip into the hands of fate.

*

I remember how it feels

to be jaded,

how sometimes things get,

whatever.

But I'm searching for serenity

in the sunny West coast weather.

Can I write it all down

and send you my letters?

*

I'm snagged on my fear,

To be what you see

in me,

so listen…

this is the hook:

a promise to make contact,

let’s remember what we took. 

*

I learned it all so long ago,

don't let your mind chain down your soul.

Freedom is reaching for

The vanishing point:

where I was, alone with you...

hi friend

bye friend

assorted memories 

back and forth we send.

Now finally we're gone. 

Bounce.

We made it to the end.

{afflicted elixir}

Autumn marks your counterfeit advance.

Affected, we perfect the rituals of romance, 

your chilled caresses burn my frozen trance.

Fondly our follied chemistry brews,

in the pounding void of a laser lit milieu,

fumbling in darkness, a unity eschewed.

If you listen to me I'll listen to you.

Deeply we drink pinhead gunpowder tea,

tongues steeped in intoxicated expectancy,

swallowing the chemical scent of graffiti.

Two for you and one for me,

through smiles seep translucent teeth, 

brimming full, three shots of GHB.

If I listen to you will you listen to me?

Gills flap like fish, thirsty for the infinite ocean, 

while sound waves breathe our drowning devotion. 

Life is a drunken dream, careening on lovesick potion.

What law keeps my axis spinning on this notion?

We hear without listening, we feel without emotion. 

{lenape park}  

An interruption erupts 

in this static place.

I am an imposition,

tolerated, greeted even, 

by her indifference. 

But I’m here now.

The grass flinches below my toes.

A swan slices cool, wet glass, 

unaware of my presence.

Gnats convene in clusters,

circling each other in simple,

mad confusion.

Mating not for survival’s sake, 

but despite their blissful ignorance 

of divine design. 

People think God made the world

and everything in it

for our pleasure and awe;

but here, I doubt that.

Here, life flows on,

obstinate, rooted,

with or without a witness.

Birds fly over my head

without caring if I know

where they go.

Free from hesitation or tension,

A doe humors my gaze, 

and then looks away, 

disinterested.

I feel ashamed sometimes,

spying on Nature.

Until I remember: 

We are the only creatures

plagued by petty inhibitions.

Language is a gift,

and an affliction,

like memory, and 

presumptions of immortality.

But here, time does not amplify 

beyond the setting sun,

or the seasonal rolodex.

Trees do not remember

being seeds,

nor do they aspire 

to grow taller each day.

But they move when the wind blows;

they get sick and die,

unless we cut them open first,

counting their rings to measure years.

The amber sun elongates,

angling through leaves, 

burning, pushing me away.

But I overstay, unwelcome:

a beguiled blot upon the 

halcyon lawns of Paradise.