To Stop. To Fly


To think, To sleep, To dream
Then to flutter away heartbeats for the sport
Of hope, To breathe, To stop.

There comes a weariness
with filling time
with bare hope
planning and projecting
some desirable outcome;

stuffing moments
that run over time
A shame how
beats pass by while pining

To feel, To cry, To chuckle
off the harshest perhaps dullest beats
only to pounce, to fly.


The Imperceptible


There are the imperceptible things

That I constantly long for

And then there are inscrutable things that stand

at the center of the way

Harsh, rugged the inconceivable reality,

The cutting interruptions,

crimes against my understanding.

I dive down like a dog in a storm

When I get a glimpse of the sunset,

I look for the subtle, hidden stars next to the sun

They are slow to come. They are shy and deceptive.

Still, I linger, longer than before, I linger

Without a plan or goal, the longer I linger

The more I gather time in my pocket.



I walk clutching a bible in my hand, god in the other.

The park dogs sniff the smell of god, while the old men like to look at my bible.

They plead I swirl and flip my hair for them.

I don’t ask why. I swirl and run before I hear their frail small gasps.

Old gangsters that now look like turtles,

block my way home. Their slow shifts impede my walking straight.

I try to act childlike. They cannot linger on my clothes or hair or bible.

Still, I want the burned leather to show conspicuously,

like the sleeves of skin on their dead fingers and lips.

The Head and The Heart


The head

and the heart

moved away from each other in cosmic scheme, expanding gently, as if neither cared for the other

or were in ignorance of another

proud thing moving against it.

The Hand That Sows Time


She agonized watching the hand that sows time.
At the first hour she lost that new job,
At the third hour her friends called to warn her about the crime,
At the fourth hour she turned the knob

And spent the following half hour diverting enemies.
The eighth hour swung so low, her head nearly sunk
Under her broad shoulders- the nagging disparities
That reminded her she wasn’t Atlas. Drunk

With paranoia and desolation, she welcomed the ninth hour.
Eyes with a propensity to devour secret things,
Began to encroach, like children intoxicated with power,
On her private moments, and though she tried to sing hymns,

Nobody came to offer relieve. Heaven was empty—
except of ozone. Lazy, the sun dragged through the sky sunbeams,
The twelfth hour emerged foolishly testy,
And she sweated not because of its heat, but for calumnies

That shredded her good name.
At the sixteenth hour, she mistook her home for paradise,
But she could still feel the shame.
She dissipated to the god Sacrifice

In attempt to protect her parents and schizophrenic brother,
Angry and desperate she cursed the twentieth stroke,
Once trusting, robust, untouched, two girls and another
Classified group fell down on her, nipping pleasurably at her head, until she awoke.

She saw the hand indicating the 23rd hour. They cursed
her shitty life, her poor clothes, and uneducated mouth,
And the lights from the cameras and white room made the final half hour last ages.
Who was she? She was made to be hounded, stretched, and killed.
At the 24th stroke, not one person asked about her.

White Tops


The lights punch


her pupils brown


which look up


the ceiling hangs


down on her shoulders


uncertain inquietude.


The answers forestall silent


empty beds

Lunging Moment


Here is a kind of air

hovers over the heart
the kind you can’t breathe, or
feel the cold wind through soft

it weighs on the heart deeper;
shiver at that emptiness resound


Perhaps it takes
the form of a bubble,
gently disturbing systematic and
rhythmic blood pulses,

not blunt,
charming —but
like real air, there are no boundaries

An impulse to gasp
rolls through the heart
like a train that keeps going

on tracks, rather than on time;
a lunging


irascible against time

Sometimes I think I know
what the whole love is
or that through this emptiness
or lack of space
I can understand
things clearly,
the invariable things
that blunder through fixed days.

This kind of air, a
plunging moment in green respite.