Haunted Houses

I lean with the gravity
Of a dark vortex
Of possessions
Of possessions,
It has opened up
a zone

how are they made
With dancing the same dance
Washing the same hands,
Hoping the cycle
Would turn into a spiral


The light fell on us
and you noticed how     
I had dropped the eye/I
to see 
without a maze of mirrors

I used to write
"you and I"
[self-reference is for famous poets?]
with regard to 
a Pozzo and a Lucky,
but as the language decreed,
the twigs had snapped
into the baritone of the firewood. 

I seem to think
there is a little bit of "we" 
about us
in the bite of the fire--
we are together in chaos,
if not order. 

The metaphor of the bird

Image result for Lorena Pugh Surreal Oil Painting of Sheet on Clothesline in the Country
Lorena Pugh Surreal Oil Painting of Sheet on Clothesline in the Country

How many times have I
criticized the metaphor of the bird,
when my mother would say
how free
is she
and I’ll put my hand
upon my cold forehead,
It doesn’t ring right,
I tell her,
it is a projection into
wishful thinking.

It is unruly for you, I tell her,
to fly without airports,
immigration officers,
the office cicadas,
the old regular bloated system
to color within the lines,
the patterned sweat it brings upon your back,
the despair of
the black and white, dust-colored earth
that holds your feet.

I think of the rain–
often I wish to sink
in earth, in a paradox of
feeding back the fertility
with a gift of sleep,
and perhaps the satisfaction of
a life-long debt repaid
is the final flying.

On the Eve

Image result for snake mouth art

Must I announce
in bleak pages,
what the resting man in his pocket-grave,
once told me–
of a fool
who falls in love
and calls it liberty

He told me of closed hearts
condensing into closed spaces
where minds trebled
and the melody,
siren-ed like a police car
passing away in the damp of
a night turned pale with cold.

I looked back at him
like a fish betrayed with dust
and thought of philosophies
of eununch-ed-heartbreaks,
sparrowed with words.

But a book grasps upon my throat now
for I have known what I had rejected–
the tyranny of my blood-forged hierarchies,
borne of those girls wrapped in timber,
smoked from the fog of waiting
–past the clock–
for the kettle of war to go off
and a return home
towards welcoming back the enslavement,
for the fullness in the braids
to rubber-hold

Then, I ricochet,
twist and turn under the sheets
in a boomerang
I return to what I have outgrown
and what’s more,
to see it while I do that.

I think of a snake,
it’s opening jaws,
I think of an unravelling,
it’s anarchic arched back,
I think of giving away to myself,
whenever there is a war
for the love can be full
when it is moon.

Occasional Corridor

Image result for medieval surrealism monk

Varo Remedios – Les Feuilles Mortes 

There is an ineptitude
in excess of feelings
that devour all the words,
until they are encountered by a large door
painted with a medieval-mourning,
clothed in a monk-brown;
it is really not strange
for me to be deeply in love
and to be found at this gate,
it is a segue
by disbelief in yet a higher altitude
by no higher altitude altogether,
as if Meaning,
eternally slipped away from the mouth of the language.


Dali’s Camembert watches

I had waited in an atmosphere
to resolve the memory,
so trivial in my moving about–
my placing of the cup at the edge of the sink
where it belongs everyday
and so where does in all this
stands a specter tall
of memory

It comes to me like a Macbeth phantom
in a dream,
blood coated lips
melting like a Salvador clock
till an elevator buzzes open–
time’s up
wake up,
I’ll have to tell them
it is my cold acting up again.

Every night on a surgeon’s table
I am laid open
and my past is bled out of me,
some would say,
perhaps, to make space for some future,
but I know
And I disagree
Past is a fancy little word
to make us feel
things can truly ever die
and then, stay buried.

For your eyes only

// Happy New Year! I managed to do 51 poems on 52 weeks, although I promised a hundred, ha! But I have always believed in quality over quantity, so, there you go.//

Related image
The Eye by Rene Magritte

It is strange
to jostle the unaware memory,
sleeping like an open mouthed man
on the floral sofa,
in the white noise of his mantelpiece,
as if inflicted by a small poltergeist child
with a taste for discontinuity.

Your picture is a disturbance;
The pebbled floor that you walked on
or how you were always the taller one,
under the moon
faint with an unnoticed smell of commonality;
the jester of a small world
dressed largely,
for my imagination–
my last one remaining from the Orion belt.

And now you fall like a shooting star
as if a plant coming back to a seed,
the pages gathered
this world is closing off its eyes
and I let you go,
for the remnant are only eye lashes,
perhaps to dream a little more.