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. 


If poetry is settling,
what is a stirring spoon
in the muddied water?

There is no metaphor
that sits at the bottom of the glass
that may leap up
with a momentum of a frog
and catch you
before you swallow your indigestion once again,
and mold into
yet another insoluble

Till the new war
opens its mouth
and the mercenary irrigates the bomb,
the glass will became fertile again
with the notion of end
as with blood.

Plato’s anxiety

Image result for platos academy
Plato’s academy by Raphael

I have been waking up
and trying to fine tune the breath
in the belly
before the instrument goes out to play
on office desks
and impostor-ed classrooms.
They tell you
they tell you wrong,
the spirit does not
reside in the shell of the language,
it has to be summoned
in the body
and its word.
I try and breathe
to summon myself.

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.

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.



       100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

Photograph by Ilar Gunilla Persson

For nothing is true
and all is make-believe,
I unmake
what hurts me
and the repercussion is that,
what makes me happy is unmade too.

In this collapse,
only the surface is true
and the world
is a perfect mirror.



       100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

Image result for pigeon surreal

A spread from Ricardo Cases’ Paloma al Aire (2011)

Sadness often lurks
like a blind pigeon
in a conclave of mirrors,
disrupting a New York morning crowd
always otherwise in traffic.

A bite into my tomato soup’s
burlesque bread
and a flash of winter
upon a clear August morning;
my soul is deep in longing.

Oh but I would never wish this fluttering sadness upon anyone.

May it be balmy
and cold like the white marble,
without a screech in the wall
or the waver of the tolling cage,
and may it be a dying fire
with tepid feet,
curling all the memories lifeless
with nothing but somber gloom.