There are pigeon droppings
on my mane, but it doesn’t matter.
Nothing matters when you are
encased in stone. A day
or a thousand years are the same.
I cannot hear the city,
only the everlasting sound
of the ocean trapped in a hollow conch.
Before my fur was rock
it was the orange of chaos.
My gold eye, the fate
of wilder beasts, and my tongue
a sponge for lapping blood.
It is over, our time together.
Photographs dismembered,
plates broken like gazelles.
Another pigeon lands on my head.
I prefer this.
I prefer this to the steel bars
of your jealousy, and your fear
of being struck by fate.
DQ 11/16/07
11/16/2007
The Crucifixion
Had I known where it led
I would have chosen a different
path. Not that I had a choice
to have my arms secured
to opposite sides of my chest
by nails, or feet immobilized
to a wooden plank by another,
while my head was free to turn
to either side. My wife on one.
You on the other. My mother
kneeling in front, taking pictures
of all us singing happily around
the birthday cake. Someone said:
“There is your mother”
I suppose the spear is next.
DQ 11/9/07
I would have chosen a different
path. Not that I had a choice
to have my arms secured
to opposite sides of my chest
by nails, or feet immobilized
to a wooden plank by another,
while my head was free to turn
to either side. My wife on one.
You on the other. My mother
kneeling in front, taking pictures
of all us singing happily around
the birthday cake. Someone said:
“There is your mother”
I suppose the spear is next.
DQ 11/9/07
10/30/2007
Time Travel
The past is all around us.
It travels from earth, outwards
to space in a ripple.
Do you remember yesterday
when you laughed at my joke?
Look at your laughter, making
its way past the moon now.
And the summer when your
mother died? Look there…
-those are your sobs-
They are almost out
of the sun’s reach by now.
And there, by that star.
Those are your
first cries as a newborn.
I looked beyond that thinking
I’d find God, but all I saw
was your mother’s laughter.
DQ 10/29/07
It travels from earth, outwards
to space in a ripple.
Do you remember yesterday
when you laughed at my joke?
Look at your laughter, making
its way past the moon now.
And the summer when your
mother died? Look there…
-those are your sobs-
They are almost out
of the sun’s reach by now.
And there, by that star.
Those are your
first cries as a newborn.
I looked beyond that thinking
I’d find God, but all I saw
was your mother’s laughter.
DQ 10/29/07
10/22/2007
The Lazarus Journey
“And he came forth, feet and hands bound
with bands, and face covered in cloth.”
1. In hospice rooms, they weep
before they cross the threshold.
2. At the pound, all dogs on death
row have streaks under their eyes.
3. In my garden, flower buds
sprout with little droplets of dew.
4. In birthing rooms,
newborns cry at birth.
What are tears
if not proof that
this circle of life thing is
really lonely on the other side.
DQ 10/21/07
with bands, and face covered in cloth.”
1. In hospice rooms, they weep
before they cross the threshold.
2. At the pound, all dogs on death
row have streaks under their eyes.
3. In my garden, flower buds
sprout with little droplets of dew.
4. In birthing rooms,
newborns cry at birth.
What are tears
if not proof that
this circle of life thing is
really lonely on the other side.
DQ 10/21/07
10/20/2007
Equestrian Women
I am not exactly sure when
they traded places.
The supplanter, the displaced,
the daughters of Isaac.
It happened sometime before
the alarm clock rang. Sometime
between the tap on the shoulder
and the straddle of the hip.
There is usually a cautionary word
between one runner and the next
to warn about the exchange of the baton.
But not this time. There was no warning,
no approaching footsteps by one,
no reaching back by the other.
No halt of the race to exchange jockeys.
It was you that bounced
on my hips in the darkness
but someone else’s name that I called out.
DQ 10/19/07
they traded places.
The supplanter, the displaced,
the daughters of Isaac.
It happened sometime before
the alarm clock rang. Sometime
between the tap on the shoulder
and the straddle of the hip.
There is usually a cautionary word
between one runner and the next
to warn about the exchange of the baton.
But not this time. There was no warning,
no approaching footsteps by one,
no reaching back by the other.
No halt of the race to exchange jockeys.
It was you that bounced
on my hips in the darkness
but someone else’s name that I called out.
DQ 10/19/07
10/11/2007
When Knees Touch
Before making contact,
the invisible lightning arc sizzles
across inches.
And Jesus said, "Who touched me?"
When have you felt ether
fall from you like reflex?
Out of your skin
and into the flesh and space of another
like gravity
bound at each end by a string
with fish hooks politely forcing
a minimum distance
crackling and white
the baited touch of a woman’s skin
and after that, the stare of Eve
and after that, the sweet smell of apple
and after that, the fate of all my fathers.
DQ 10/11/07
the invisible lightning arc sizzles
across inches.
And Jesus said, "Who touched me?"
When have you felt ether
fall from you like reflex?
Out of your skin
and into the flesh and space of another
like gravity
bound at each end by a string
with fish hooks politely forcing
a minimum distance
crackling and white
the baited touch of a woman’s skin
and after that, the stare of Eve
and after that, the sweet smell of apple
and after that, the fate of all my fathers.
DQ 10/11/07
10/07/2007
Untitled
That afternoon the wind
turned trees to bone,
cut my face with leaves.
Every butterfly became a sail
and I became a prophet,
predicting it would topple
a dream house built from clouds.
Butterflies have returned since.
My face has healed.
The wind replaced the space
my body filled, and pushed
my half the sky along with yours.
DQ 10/07/07
turned trees to bone,
cut my face with leaves.
Every butterfly became a sail
and I became a prophet,
predicting it would topple
a dream house built from clouds.
Butterflies have returned since.
My face has healed.
The wind replaced the space
my body filled, and pushed
my half the sky along with yours.
DQ 10/07/07
8/03/2007
Revisiting Ravens
“Deep into the darkness peering, long I stood there wondering fearing.
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before”
- Edgar Allan Poe -
No longer silent, ravens
chase a piece of bread
on the sand, black on white
like octaves on the keyboard.
In my yard, ants scatter
at the mist of bug spray,
mimicking ravens fleeing
from a thrown rock.
An ink blot splattered
on a letter tossed aside.
A raven lying on the road
victim of a passing car.
At the coffee shop, a woman
points at the menu flaunting
a diamond surrounded by onyx stones,
a small raven’s nest on her finger.
I remember the first time
we made love on January 29th
a raven, colored like dreams,
landed on the hotel’s window.
I have never seen a better metaphor.
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before”
- Edgar Allan Poe -
No longer silent, ravens
chase a piece of bread
on the sand, black on white
like octaves on the keyboard.
In my yard, ants scatter
at the mist of bug spray,
mimicking ravens fleeing
from a thrown rock.
An ink blot splattered
on a letter tossed aside.
A raven lying on the road
victim of a passing car.
At the coffee shop, a woman
points at the menu flaunting
a diamond surrounded by onyx stones,
a small raven’s nest on her finger.
I remember the first time
we made love on January 29th
a raven, colored like dreams,
landed on the hotel’s window.
I have never seen a better metaphor.
7/30/2007
The Last time I Cross-Dressed
My mother sewed three makeshift
worm shaped duffle bags out of a sail’s
canvas the day after three men in
uniform walked away from the front door
of the old Spanish house in Havana
my family owned for over a century.
They came on the very night my father
dreamt they would. They carried our permit
to leave the country. They said we were scum,
said we betrayed “Fidel” and the revolution.
A week later my parents scrambled
to buy coats in the black market because
there are no department stores or winter in Cuba,
and Madrid (or any exile for that matter)
is always cold during winter.
All they could find that would fit
a six year old boy was the coat
of a ten year old Russian girl
who died in Havana as a result
of mosquito induced meningitis.
A month later, I walked through the airport
wearing an oversized dead girl’s coat
with big square buttons, and carried
my belongings in a worm shaped canvas bag
branded with a blue partial race number on one side.
They confiscated my mother’s
wedding ring, and said that a six year old
boy dressed as a dead ten year old Russian
girl from the Moscow sailing team,
should not be traveling wearing
his grandfather’s gold crucifix.
That was the last time I cross-dressed
and also the last time I filled a sail
with something else other than wind.
DQ 7/20/07
worm shaped duffle bags out of a sail’s
canvas the day after three men in
uniform walked away from the front door
of the old Spanish house in Havana
my family owned for over a century.
They came on the very night my father
dreamt they would. They carried our permit
to leave the country. They said we were scum,
said we betrayed “Fidel” and the revolution.
A week later my parents scrambled
to buy coats in the black market because
there are no department stores or winter in Cuba,
and Madrid (or any exile for that matter)
is always cold during winter.
All they could find that would fit
a six year old boy was the coat
of a ten year old Russian girl
who died in Havana as a result
of mosquito induced meningitis.
A month later, I walked through the airport
wearing an oversized dead girl’s coat
with big square buttons, and carried
my belongings in a worm shaped canvas bag
branded with a blue partial race number on one side.
They confiscated my mother’s
wedding ring, and said that a six year old
boy dressed as a dead ten year old Russian
girl from the Moscow sailing team,
should not be traveling wearing
his grandfather’s gold crucifix.
That was the last time I cross-dressed
and also the last time I filled a sail
with something else other than wind.
DQ 7/20/07
Rarely used (or failed) poetry forms
1. Falsonneta
The Falsonneta consists of anything else other than three quatrains and a couplet. The usual rhyme scheme is a-a-a-a, a-a-a-a, a-a-a-a, a-a and recited in an artificially high voice such as a shriek. In addition, Falsonnetas are written in amoebic pentameter, meaning that there are mostly 10 small single cell syllables per line, and that every other single cell syllable naturally divides.
2. Pantouhmmm…
The pantouhmmm… is composed of a series of quatrains whose lines are forgotten once spoken; the second and fourth lines of each stanza cannot be repeated as the first and third lines have been forgotten by this point.
Since there is no real structure to this form, this pattern continues for any number of stanzas, similar to a political address.
3. Balladiarrhetic
A balladiarrhetic is told or written in the form of a story, usually composed in a hurry in a public restroom. Any story form may be told as a balladiarrhetic, such as historical accounts of how pants were stained or rhetoric for ineffective pheromones. It usually has foreshortened, alternating four stress lines and simple repeating colic accents, often with a refrain.
4. Prosethetic
Prosethetic writing is usually adopted for the description of non-facts or the discussion of fake events incorporated in free flowing speech. Thus, it may be used for corporate newsletters, political speeches, tele-evangelists, love letters, debtor's notes, or famous quotes. This form is often erroneously credited to the signing of casts, or to the unusual fetish of writing free-flowing poetry on fake limbs or strap-ons.
DQ 7/28/7
The Falsonneta consists of anything else other than three quatrains and a couplet. The usual rhyme scheme is a-a-a-a, a-a-a-a, a-a-a-a, a-a and recited in an artificially high voice such as a shriek. In addition, Falsonnetas are written in amoebic pentameter, meaning that there are mostly 10 small single cell syllables per line, and that every other single cell syllable naturally divides.
2. Pantouhmmm…
The pantouhmmm… is composed of a series of quatrains whose lines are forgotten once spoken; the second and fourth lines of each stanza cannot be repeated as the first and third lines have been forgotten by this point.
Since there is no real structure to this form, this pattern continues for any number of stanzas, similar to a political address.
3. Balladiarrhetic
A balladiarrhetic is told or written in the form of a story, usually composed in a hurry in a public restroom. Any story form may be told as a balladiarrhetic, such as historical accounts of how pants were stained or rhetoric for ineffective pheromones. It usually has foreshortened, alternating four stress lines and simple repeating colic accents, often with a refrain.
4. Prosethetic
Prosethetic writing is usually adopted for the description of non-facts or the discussion of fake events incorporated in free flowing speech. Thus, it may be used for corporate newsletters, political speeches, tele-evangelists, love letters, debtor's notes, or famous quotes. This form is often erroneously credited to the signing of casts, or to the unusual fetish of writing free-flowing poetry on fake limbs or strap-ons.
DQ 7/28/7
7/18/2007
Three Rings
For five years I filled a light green
three ring binder with poems about you.
Each sheet chronologically archived
and dressed in clear plastic covers
to avoid the paper from being stained,
or damaged, or wounded by the bite
of the three hole punching machine.
Poems describing stares, kisses,
and the taste of sweat. An anthology
of lovemaking told in color and scents.
Poems about your hair and your breasts
and your thighs and how each of them
felt on my skin. Poems about fire and
dark nights filled with moon and stars.
It took five minutes on a night like that
to set the light green binder on fire.
Only the metal rings remained,
all three equally black and welded shut
small symbols of dead lovers moving on.
DQ 7/18/07
three ring binder with poems about you.
Each sheet chronologically archived
and dressed in clear plastic covers
to avoid the paper from being stained,
or damaged, or wounded by the bite
of the three hole punching machine.
Poems describing stares, kisses,
and the taste of sweat. An anthology
of lovemaking told in color and scents.
Poems about your hair and your breasts
and your thighs and how each of them
felt on my skin. Poems about fire and
dark nights filled with moon and stars.
It took five minutes on a night like that
to set the light green binder on fire.
Only the metal rings remained,
all three equally black and welded shut
small symbols of dead lovers moving on.
DQ 7/18/07
7/12/2007
The Sky is Dark Orange
The sky is dark orange,
the grass is red violet.
I walk my bicycle
with square wheels.
Blood is blue green,
my skin is light blue.
I stand awake
on my bed all day.
Oranges are dark blue.
Blueberries are yellow orange.
I have forgotten you
and I no longer love you.
DQ 7/12/7
the grass is red violet.
I walk my bicycle
with square wheels.
Blood is blue green,
my skin is light blue.
I stand awake
on my bed all day.
Oranges are dark blue.
Blueberries are yellow orange.
I have forgotten you
and I no longer love you.
DQ 7/12/7
Prayers
The waters of Biscayne Bay turn darker blue
with every inch of sea displaced by shoulder
with every stroke of paddle dug deep into the wave,
each breath breathing the pride of ancient sailors
who charged to sea by mere wonder of what
lies beyond the threshold where the water falls to the abyss.
A quest of man and 14 feet of durable plastic that will end
right back where it started, on the roof rack of the old jeep
five blocks away from home right before dinner.
But for now there are hours between dinner and horizon,
there is distance between horizon and dream, and there is me
between the dream and the reality of the jeep’s roof rack.
For now there is no asphalt, no work, no money
or street lights, no red x pin-pointing my location.
For now there is only motion of arm and wave
only the traveler’s pleasure of an unknown destination
only effort and sweat, only one breath with every stroke,
chest rising and falling like the tide and the rain
and the woman giving birth, and the meditation of the Buddha.
For now, there is a man canonized without a rosary or nails
a visionary saint without papal decree or Vatican council,
a threshold seeker displacing water and salt by shoulder,
sitting in a 14 foot cathedral made of durable plastic.
For now there is me in awe before the teal vastness of god
a small moon on the liquid ring of a distant planet.
with every inch of sea displaced by shoulder
with every stroke of paddle dug deep into the wave,
each breath breathing the pride of ancient sailors
who charged to sea by mere wonder of what
lies beyond the threshold where the water falls to the abyss.
A quest of man and 14 feet of durable plastic that will end
right back where it started, on the roof rack of the old jeep
five blocks away from home right before dinner.
But for now there are hours between dinner and horizon,
there is distance between horizon and dream, and there is me
between the dream and the reality of the jeep’s roof rack.
For now there is no asphalt, no work, no money
or street lights, no red x pin-pointing my location.
For now there is only motion of arm and wave
only the traveler’s pleasure of an unknown destination
only effort and sweat, only one breath with every stroke,
chest rising and falling like the tide and the rain
and the woman giving birth, and the meditation of the Buddha.
For now, there is a man canonized without a rosary or nails
a visionary saint without papal decree or Vatican council,
a threshold seeker displacing water and salt by shoulder,
sitting in a 14 foot cathedral made of durable plastic.
For now there is me in awe before the teal vastness of god
a small moon on the liquid ring of a distant planet.
7/10/2007
Red Giant
They say in future eons the sun
will enter its red giant phase as
hydrogen fuel in its core is depleted.
They say the sun will swell
large enough to overcome
the orbits of all the inner planets.
Earth's water will boil and
everyone will call god’s name
before being consumed by fire.
I remember you came like that
one night in September,
and it seems to me that
dying while screaming engulfed
in the luminous swell of the fire’s
combustion won’t be so bad.
DQ 7/10/07
will enter its red giant phase as
hydrogen fuel in its core is depleted.
They say the sun will swell
large enough to overcome
the orbits of all the inner planets.
Earth's water will boil and
everyone will call god’s name
before being consumed by fire.
I remember you came like that
one night in September,
and it seems to me that
dying while screaming engulfed
in the luminous swell of the fire’s
combustion won’t be so bad.
DQ 7/10/07
7/09/2007
STICKS
A poem is friction between two sticks
the by-product of rubbing poet and subject.
Example
Stick two: Me
Born on the feast of Vesta, goddess
of the hearth, patron of torrent and rush.
Lava, combustion, and lust.
Stick one: You
Female. Long hair, preferably dark.
Breast size unimportant but firm.
Ass not flat. Likes to kiss.
Poem:
Hips imitate the hammering of molten metal
heads tilt back, mouths shaped like howling.
Smoke rises from the flesh pyre.
DQ 7/8/7
the by-product of rubbing poet and subject.
Example
Stick two: Me
Born on the feast of Vesta, goddess
of the hearth, patron of torrent and rush.
Lava, combustion, and lust.
Stick one: You
Female. Long hair, preferably dark.
Breast size unimportant but firm.
Ass not flat. Likes to kiss.
Poem:
Hips imitate the hammering of molten metal
heads tilt back, mouths shaped like howling.
Smoke rises from the flesh pyre.
DQ 7/8/7
7/01/2007
Point of Arrival
When I arrived at the side of your bed
like an answered prayer, you asked me
where I’d been all night and I said
“keep your eyes closed”
so you could not see the wooden
wings attached to my wrists.
We spoke about the magnetizing force
of moon and the failing path of sunlight.
I reminded you of how light we were
the years we spent naked
and how suntanned your body was
from the fire that used to be my stare.
We spoke of the heated color of blood
and the sudden vertigo induced by lust.
Every dream has two sides
Yours, calling my name in sleep
mine, waiting for the dream call
attached to the cross of your voice
like a Daliesque St. John hovering
above the Catalonian shoreline.
DQ 7/1/7
like an answered prayer, you asked me
where I’d been all night and I said
“keep your eyes closed”
so you could not see the wooden
wings attached to my wrists.
We spoke about the magnetizing force
of moon and the failing path of sunlight.
I reminded you of how light we were
the years we spent naked
and how suntanned your body was
from the fire that used to be my stare.
We spoke of the heated color of blood
and the sudden vertigo induced by lust.
Every dream has two sides
Yours, calling my name in sleep
mine, waiting for the dream call
attached to the cross of your voice
like a Daliesque St. John hovering
above the Catalonian shoreline.
DQ 7/1/7
6/23/2007
Rings
Entrance.
There is silence in the concentric circles of tree
stumps. No leaves rustling, no branches creaking.
The light colored rings indicate a spring season.
The dark colored rings, the absence of spring.
At the center, a dark spot marks the day
the seed was buried. It mirrors a planet.
Journey.
There is movement in the thin ocean layer
of rocks. A floating desert carousel chiseled in air.
The light colored rings are the bedrock grave
of a companion moon. The dark colored rings,
the absence of moon. In the center, a mass that invented
itself when the universe formed. It mirrors a ghost.
Exit.
Fluid statue. Ripple. No fingers moving, no legs walking.
The light colored rings in the slice of a ghost
mark times it was loved as flesh.
There are dark rings for every time it was yelled at,
laughed at, cheated, beaten, tortured, or raped.
There is no center. Only the green scent of seedpods.
There is silence in the concentric circles of tree
stumps. No leaves rustling, no branches creaking.
The light colored rings indicate a spring season.
The dark colored rings, the absence of spring.
At the center, a dark spot marks the day
the seed was buried. It mirrors a planet.
Journey.
There is movement in the thin ocean layer
of rocks. A floating desert carousel chiseled in air.
The light colored rings are the bedrock grave
of a companion moon. The dark colored rings,
the absence of moon. In the center, a mass that invented
itself when the universe formed. It mirrors a ghost.
Exit.
Fluid statue. Ripple. No fingers moving, no legs walking.
The light colored rings in the slice of a ghost
mark times it was loved as flesh.
There are dark rings for every time it was yelled at,
laughed at, cheated, beaten, tortured, or raped.
There is no center. Only the green scent of seedpods.
6/12/2007
Five twists and a black hole.
There will not be a Dr. King.
His re-incarnation was pronounced dead at
an Atlanta hospital, the victim of a gun shot.
There will not be a next Krishna.
He was one of eight killed by an explosion
at a Indian house near the Pakistani border.
There will not a 15th Dalai Lama.
The small child was shot dead by
Chinese troops while fleeing Tibet.
There will be no second coming,
The boy was killed by a car bomb while
walking to school in Bethlehem.
There will not be another white Rhino.
Poachers shot the last two,
killing one and wounding the other.
…and you?...Where the fuck were you?
Laying in bed watching the news?
The globe turns its face and looks away.
DQ 6/12/07
His re-incarnation was pronounced dead at
an Atlanta hospital, the victim of a gun shot.
There will not be a next Krishna.
He was one of eight killed by an explosion
at a Indian house near the Pakistani border.
There will not a 15th Dalai Lama.
The small child was shot dead by
Chinese troops while fleeing Tibet.
There will be no second coming,
The boy was killed by a car bomb while
walking to school in Bethlehem.
There will not be another white Rhino.
Poachers shot the last two,
killing one and wounding the other.
…and you?...Where the fuck were you?
Laying in bed watching the news?
The globe turns its face and looks away.
DQ 6/12/07
5/22/2007
A Woman Always Wins
Six hundred ninety six
is really the sum of
Sappho, Plath and I.
Elizabeth: instead of
loving thee
count the ways
you come tonight.
Maya, watch us
Yin Yang the mirror
in half.
How would you
know which poet
I like?
Here is the winner:
read my pants
in Braille.
DQ 05/22/07
is really the sum of
Sappho, Plath and I.
Elizabeth: instead of
loving thee
count the ways
you come tonight.
Maya, watch us
Yin Yang the mirror
in half.
How would you
know which poet
I like?
Here is the winner:
read my pants
in Braille.
DQ 05/22/07
5/06/2007
The Sun
The title and first line of this poem are borrowed from a poem by Charles Baudelaire.
The Sun
Along the old slums where
the ruined shutters hang
a grouper exits a window
swallows a whole yellowtail
swims towards the next building.
Below the kill, a garland of algae
hangs on a barnacled street sign,
a school of sardines gathers above
the walk-don’t walk pedestrian sign
at the corner of the four lane street.
The sun shines above the waters.
It feels like summer. Year round
the mermaids lay eggs while
archeologists mermen dive kitchen
drawers seeking small tridents.
We could never agree on much
you and I. Even when mother
was ill, we argued over her health.
You said it was car sickness
I said it was years of smoking.
The doctor said it was heat stroke
the politician said she was fine
the priest said it was incest
kept blabbering the rhetoric
of how long ago they climbed
the ark two by two, and fled higher.
Even while we watched the news
we could not agree on how to keep
the polar ice caps frozen.
Now it doesn’t matter.
Even the rainbow has fled.
DQ 5/6/7
The Sun
Along the old slums where
the ruined shutters hang
a grouper exits a window
swallows a whole yellowtail
swims towards the next building.
Below the kill, a garland of algae
hangs on a barnacled street sign,
a school of sardines gathers above
the walk-don’t walk pedestrian sign
at the corner of the four lane street.
The sun shines above the waters.
It feels like summer. Year round
the mermaids lay eggs while
archeologists mermen dive kitchen
drawers seeking small tridents.
We could never agree on much
you and I. Even when mother
was ill, we argued over her health.
You said it was car sickness
I said it was years of smoking.
The doctor said it was heat stroke
the politician said she was fine
the priest said it was incest
kept blabbering the rhetoric
of how long ago they climbed
the ark two by two, and fled higher.
Even while we watched the news
we could not agree on how to keep
the polar ice caps frozen.
Now it doesn’t matter.
Even the rainbow has fled.
DQ 5/6/7
4/27/2007
Poet
To your words I am glass.
Across the clear solid
their blazing power approaches.
Penetrate without shatter.
Verbal x-rays, a testament
to your vision, which must be solar.
The cadaver of a young swimmer
is how you say floating.
A whisper buried in ice
is how you say forever.
The coals of the sky
is how you say clouds.
I would like your ink stained
handprint left on my surface.
A smudged aperture to the chest
where you words are stored.
A visible meditation to verify
your existence from here.
In your own words
through the glass, this is me
when your sun comes through:
The cadaver of a young swimmer
in the coals of the sky
a whisper buried in ice.
DQ 4/27/07
Across the clear solid
their blazing power approaches.
Penetrate without shatter.
Verbal x-rays, a testament
to your vision, which must be solar.
The cadaver of a young swimmer
is how you say floating.
A whisper buried in ice
is how you say forever.
The coals of the sky
is how you say clouds.
I would like your ink stained
handprint left on my surface.
A smudged aperture to the chest
where you words are stored.
A visible meditation to verify
your existence from here.
In your own words
through the glass, this is me
when your sun comes through:
The cadaver of a young swimmer
in the coals of the sky
a whisper buried in ice.
DQ 4/27/07
4/26/2007
While We Wait for Mae
Lava in a dress, culprit of brimstone,
everything beyond the tip of your
eyelash burns. Make your body shake
from the shoulders down in
sinusoidal liquid smoke. Shimmy.
Where does the sun set?
Not here.
We're not like
those who fear the slow
pressure cooking of your gaze.
Where does the sun set?
Not here. We're not crouching
behind a faux stage.
We do not crave
sleep, or vaudeville,
or the bodice of spring.
We look to the solstice
and wilder things
in the direction of the set.
Sexsette.
Where does the sun set?
Not here, not exactly.
We came upstairs to see
the dazzling tulips one last
time but got lost in your dress.
A thousand suns were
sewn in the rosewood
mold of a guitar.
EN/DQ 4/25/07
(a collaboration between Edward Nudelman and DQ)
everything beyond the tip of your
eyelash burns. Make your body shake
from the shoulders down in
sinusoidal liquid smoke. Shimmy.
Where does the sun set?
Not here.
We're not like
those who fear the slow
pressure cooking of your gaze.
Where does the sun set?
Not here. We're not crouching
behind a faux stage.
We do not crave
sleep, or vaudeville,
or the bodice of spring.
We look to the solstice
and wilder things
in the direction of the set.
Sexsette.
Where does the sun set?
Not here, not exactly.
We came upstairs to see
the dazzling tulips one last
time but got lost in your dress.
A thousand suns were
sewn in the rosewood
mold of a guitar.
EN/DQ 4/25/07
(a collaboration between Edward Nudelman and DQ)
4/17/2007
Celeste
“I am haunted by Azure, Azure, Azure, Azure”
S. Mallarme
Serene splendor of the wind,
the scent of lavender is overwhelming
Slow machine of perpetual mantra,
the sea is overwhelming.
Silent dome of everness,
the sky is overwhelming.
There! in the azure…
a living poem floats among petals
of seaweed. It must be Ophelia.
No. It is someone else.
I have come face to face
with Venus’ shimmer
reflected on the ocean’s swell.
Her eyes are overwhelming.
DQ 04/15/07
S. Mallarme
Serene splendor of the wind,
the scent of lavender is overwhelming
Slow machine of perpetual mantra,
the sea is overwhelming.
Silent dome of everness,
the sky is overwhelming.
There! in the azure…
a living poem floats among petals
of seaweed. It must be Ophelia.
No. It is someone else.
I have come face to face
with Venus’ shimmer
reflected on the ocean’s swell.
Her eyes are overwhelming.
DQ 04/15/07
4/08/2007
Ars Poetica
“A poem should not mean, but be.”
Archibald MacLeish
The chime exhumes a single note.
It is your voice.
A nightingale sings in bird
speak. My ears squint, I sing.
Ghosts touch each other unaware.
Eyes and words do the same.
Every night dreams are sacrificed
to the sun. The moon is proof.
Two images collected in a puddle.
Mine above. Yours below
a pale shadow buried in mud.
In my eyes, a tinge I never saw before.
DQ 4/8/7
Archibald MacLeish
The chime exhumes a single note.
It is your voice.
A nightingale sings in bird
speak. My ears squint, I sing.
Ghosts touch each other unaware.
Eyes and words do the same.
Every night dreams are sacrificed
to the sun. The moon is proof.
Two images collected in a puddle.
Mine above. Yours below
a pale shadow buried in mud.
In my eyes, a tinge I never saw before.
DQ 4/8/7
4/05/2007
Nepenthe II
Eternity is the immortal
soul-kiss of your body
pressed upon my hand
aphrodisiac whisper
residue of rainbow, perfumed
hue between my fingers.
Tomorrow I’ll question whether
the scent is yours or mine,
forget the world for a moment or two.
Right now, there are chimes
and bells strung on this
tightrope that binds us
this fragrant silk web
pathway of angels
colored ripened rose.
DQ 04/5/07
soul-kiss of your body
pressed upon my hand
aphrodisiac whisper
residue of rainbow, perfumed
hue between my fingers.
Tomorrow I’ll question whether
the scent is yours or mine,
forget the world for a moment or two.
Right now, there are chimes
and bells strung on this
tightrope that binds us
this fragrant silk web
pathway of angels
colored ripened rose.
DQ 04/5/07
3/23/2007
Keepsake
I keep a small pebble
in a shoe box labeled “last kiss”.
The box sits on a shelf in my closet
among scrapbooks and dust.
There is one less rock traveling
the sky. I saw it blister the riverbed,
a scarlet trail hissing behind it
before being extinguished
by the water’s numbing lips, which
through slow years of contact
polish the scarabs and birds of
hieroglyphics into unsaid words.
The last time we met
you blew a kiss into your hand
and threw it out of the car window
towards where I stood.
It went in my mouth and
rolled down my throat like moonshine.
A small seed of your ghost blistering
somewhere inside me, a scarlet trail
of incense hymns to Lazarus.
Here it is after years of coughing
in a shoe box labeled “last kiss”.
The whole universe is in there.
DQ 03/23/07
in a shoe box labeled “last kiss”.
The box sits on a shelf in my closet
among scrapbooks and dust.
There is one less rock traveling
the sky. I saw it blister the riverbed,
a scarlet trail hissing behind it
before being extinguished
by the water’s numbing lips, which
through slow years of contact
polish the scarabs and birds of
hieroglyphics into unsaid words.
The last time we met
you blew a kiss into your hand
and threw it out of the car window
towards where I stood.
It went in my mouth and
rolled down my throat like moonshine.
A small seed of your ghost blistering
somewhere inside me, a scarlet trail
of incense hymns to Lazarus.
Here it is after years of coughing
in a shoe box labeled “last kiss”.
The whole universe is in there.
DQ 03/23/07
3/03/2007
Multimedia in Canvas
I work on small sections at a time.
Crayons scribbles in a corner.
Round face stick figures smiling,
some of which have faded.
I weaved shoe laces and sewed
buttons on it, some which tore,
or fell where the canvas weakened.
Small little lies repaired, pasting colored
patches from other paintings on the rip.
I also pasted post-it notes in random
places. Some with names written
in pencil, some in ink.
Post-it notes fall. They stick to my shoe.
I drag them when I walk by, loose
them in the piss of public restrooms,
loose them in dog shit while I walk the dog.
In the center, oils, Alizarin crimsons,
Indian reds are tediously mixed. They
join with no line of demarcation.
They streak like blood spill, the
color of her lips.
One day I’ll complete the piece.
I’ll see it from behind held up to the light,
and forget where to find the artist’s signature.
DQ 3/3/7
Crayons scribbles in a corner.
Round face stick figures smiling,
some of which have faded.
I weaved shoe laces and sewed
buttons on it, some which tore,
or fell where the canvas weakened.
Small little lies repaired, pasting colored
patches from other paintings on the rip.
I also pasted post-it notes in random
places. Some with names written
in pencil, some in ink.
Post-it notes fall. They stick to my shoe.
I drag them when I walk by, loose
them in the piss of public restrooms,
loose them in dog shit while I walk the dog.
In the center, oils, Alizarin crimsons,
Indian reds are tediously mixed. They
join with no line of demarcation.
They streak like blood spill, the
color of her lips.
One day I’ll complete the piece.
I’ll see it from behind held up to the light,
and forget where to find the artist’s signature.
DQ 3/3/7
3/02/2007
The Beautiful
Woman standing by the podium
shirt rolled under your breasts
exposed belly stretched
an inch from birth.
You strike the lump
in the uterus with
fists and rage until you
become a living body bag.
You squat over the recycling bin
and drop another child.
God shed His grace on thee
and crown thy good with brotherhood
from sea to shining sea.
There he is returning home in uniform
with your flag over his casket
resting in the ancient silence of the womb.
DQ 03/01/07
shirt rolled under your breasts
exposed belly stretched
an inch from birth.
You strike the lump
in the uterus with
fists and rage until you
become a living body bag.
You squat over the recycling bin
and drop another child.
God shed His grace on thee
and crown thy good with brotherhood
from sea to shining sea.
There he is returning home in uniform
with your flag over his casket
resting in the ancient silence of the womb.
DQ 03/01/07
2/27/2007
Music
My body moves aquatic.
My body shaped liked Satan’s tail.
My body crosses Beale Street.
My body outside its flesh walls.
Patrick Henry said it
Give me liberty or give me death.
Strike your palm and thumb
on the Conga’s leather.
My body is a whore’s legs.
My body’s current ionizes air.
My body is not ashamed.
My body can fly.
A bird transposed
his wings on my back.
My body is a weightless note
chasing the sun’s arc.
DQ 02/27/07
My body shaped liked Satan’s tail.
My body crosses Beale Street.
My body outside its flesh walls.
Patrick Henry said it
Give me liberty or give me death.
Strike your palm and thumb
on the Conga’s leather.
My body is a whore’s legs.
My body’s current ionizes air.
My body is not ashamed.
My body can fly.
A bird transposed
his wings on my back.
My body is a weightless note
chasing the sun’s arc.
DQ 02/27/07
2/26/2007
Woman offering Coffee
The moon’s layers peeled
one by one reveal the small
sugar cube at the eternal place.
Arrows of fire skin point
where thighs come together,
where flesh changes tone
in color, gravity and scent.
Scent that undulates the air,
weaves itself a half spoken
smoky sentence, and places
a drunken fabric over eyes
no passing sun or reason
could ever penetrate.
The caramel pull stretches me.
No one returns from where
the sea falls to the abyss.
A red light inside warns:
Primal mode only. But no
one watches the control desk.
Just a cup of coffee she said…
and here she is rooted in my
tongue. Nothing will ever
move us again, not even
the smell of fresh coffee.
DQ 02/26/07
one by one reveal the small
sugar cube at the eternal place.
Arrows of fire skin point
where thighs come together,
where flesh changes tone
in color, gravity and scent.
Scent that undulates the air,
weaves itself a half spoken
smoky sentence, and places
a drunken fabric over eyes
no passing sun or reason
could ever penetrate.
The caramel pull stretches me.
No one returns from where
the sea falls to the abyss.
A red light inside warns:
Primal mode only. But no
one watches the control desk.
Just a cup of coffee she said…
and here she is rooted in my
tongue. Nothing will ever
move us again, not even
the smell of fresh coffee.
DQ 02/26/07
2/23/2007
Tattoo
“You shall not make any cuts in your body
for the dead nor make any tattoo marks on
yourselves: I am the Lord.” Leviticus 19:28
I have a tattoo of a woman’s name.
It makes a written halo over her head.
Her head rests on her hands.
Her hands make a cradle, palms down.
Her hair runs past her elbows.
Her elbows rest on her knees.
Her knees partially cover her breasts.
Her ankles are crossed
not covering much, and her
feet disappear under a pillow
she is using to keep them warm.
It’s a very nice tattoo.
Now listen Peter…
spare me the canon bullshit.
Your written regulations
only mention the body.
DQ 2/23/07
for the dead nor make any tattoo marks on
yourselves: I am the Lord.” Leviticus 19:28
I have a tattoo of a woman’s name.
It makes a written halo over her head.
Her head rests on her hands.
Her hands make a cradle, palms down.
Her hair runs past her elbows.
Her elbows rest on her knees.
Her knees partially cover her breasts.
Her ankles are crossed
not covering much, and her
feet disappear under a pillow
she is using to keep them warm.
It’s a very nice tattoo.
Now listen Peter…
spare me the canon bullshit.
Your written regulations
only mention the body.
DQ 2/23/07
2/22/2007
Window by the Writing Desk
Through this window
poems gently drifted,
lovestaining paper
with the fresh morning
toffee color of your eyes,
and perfectly describing
pyramids of lovemaking
and the aftermath grave
silences we made embalmed
in the scent of our opposite skins.
Years later you are still
my sweetest dream
and I watch , by this window,
the rain distort the world
as it writes lines across the glass.
I force words on paper
and watch them fade within
scattered dark blotches.
Paper stains the same
with tears and rain.
DQ 02/22/07
poems gently drifted,
lovestaining paper
with the fresh morning
toffee color of your eyes,
and perfectly describing
pyramids of lovemaking
and the aftermath grave
silences we made embalmed
in the scent of our opposite skins.
Years later you are still
my sweetest dream
and I watch , by this window,
the rain distort the world
as it writes lines across the glass.
I force words on paper
and watch them fade within
scattered dark blotches.
Paper stains the same
with tears and rain.
DQ 02/22/07
2/04/2007
Stone Maker
Acrobats practicing balance
turn to obelisks at the threshold
of your gaze. Stonehenge.
Insects crawling by
the riverbed solidify as
as you kneel to drink. Pebbles.
Music notes fall from air,
petrify and shatter
as you walk by. Dust.
Here in my mirror, you tame
the indigo mane of snake hair
with both hands. Stone maker.
I would believe the myth
if it wasn’t for the fact
that you are bouncing
on the liquid that use
to be my hips as I
melt beneath you.
turn to obelisks at the threshold
of your gaze. Stonehenge.
Insects crawling by
the riverbed solidify as
as you kneel to drink. Pebbles.
Music notes fall from air,
petrify and shatter
as you walk by. Dust.
Here in my mirror, you tame
the indigo mane of snake hair
with both hands. Stone maker.
I would believe the myth
if it wasn’t for the fact
that you are bouncing
on the liquid that use
to be my hips as I
melt beneath you.
1/24/2007
Missing stars of the Confederate flag
High on the top shelf of my closet
along with scrapbooks and yearbooks
is my father’s helmet. Six stars remain
on the confederate flag sticker weathered
by rain. I remember staring at all the stars
for days on our way to Naples beach.
I was eleven years old and Nixon was
president. I sat on a small cushion bolted
to the back fender of his Harley Davidson.
We rode within the rumble of mufflers,
long beards and flashes of chrome.
His friends called me “Clickie”.
They knew my father as “Click”.
That was the sound his camera made
when he snapped pictures of motorcycles,
bonfires, drunken men and naked women.
They called me that on the day they
knocked at our door with the helmet.
Part of the sticker was missing.
They never mentioned his real name,
they said his pictures were legends.
I held the scratched up helmet by the strap
as my father did, and locked the door.
That was the last click they heard.
DQ 01/21/07
along with scrapbooks and yearbooks
is my father’s helmet. Six stars remain
on the confederate flag sticker weathered
by rain. I remember staring at all the stars
for days on our way to Naples beach.
I was eleven years old and Nixon was
president. I sat on a small cushion bolted
to the back fender of his Harley Davidson.
We rode within the rumble of mufflers,
long beards and flashes of chrome.
His friends called me “Clickie”.
They knew my father as “Click”.
That was the sound his camera made
when he snapped pictures of motorcycles,
bonfires, drunken men and naked women.
They called me that on the day they
knocked at our door with the helmet.
Part of the sticker was missing.
They never mentioned his real name,
they said his pictures were legends.
I held the scratched up helmet by the strap
as my father did, and locked the door.
That was the last click they heard.
DQ 01/21/07
1/05/2007
An Index of Hours
The graceful hours. Ether.
Slow motion acrobats
tongues tethered
above each other.
Small predators.
Slender mountain mints
in ghost white linen.
The adoration hours. Smolder
Scarlet striped tigers
gorging in yin-yang.
Repeat my name. Fever
Repeat my name. Fervor
Spotted jewelweeds
in fire brick red.
The petrified hours. Terrain
Stonehenge embrace.
Lovers chiseled in marble
one sleepless
unmovable kiss.
Evening primroses
in goldenrod khaki.
The moving hours. Maritime
Nirvana cocktail
inside you
the tide beats the seawall
bedposts speaking lace.
Venus looking glasses
in aquamarine turquoise.
DQ 01/06/07
Slow motion acrobats
tongues tethered
above each other.
Small predators.
Slender mountain mints
in ghost white linen.
The adoration hours. Smolder
Scarlet striped tigers
gorging in yin-yang.
Repeat my name. Fever
Repeat my name. Fervor
Spotted jewelweeds
in fire brick red.
The petrified hours. Terrain
Stonehenge embrace.
Lovers chiseled in marble
one sleepless
unmovable kiss.
Evening primroses
in goldenrod khaki.
The moving hours. Maritime
Nirvana cocktail
inside you
the tide beats the seawall
bedposts speaking lace.
Venus looking glasses
in aquamarine turquoise.
DQ 01/06/07
1/02/2007
Why we Fall
1.
Five stories he fell, fighting
gravity like a bird statue chiseled
from granite, slapping the air below
the scaffold while urging wings to
come alive until the last second
when the asphalt nest became stained.
2.
He never wanted his feet
to touch the tangle of aquatic ivy,
or find out what type of fish
seabirds dive for. His face was
a desperate shade of blue,
when he drifted on the beach.
3.
The flame, domesticated candle
scented in the flavor of vanilla
sandalwood, first devoured the curtains,
then the entire building while she slept.
She wanted to be buried beneath flowers,
not cremated in room four of the hourly motel.
4.
There is no free will when falling in love.
I could not fly out of it if I had wings.
I could not save myself from drowning in it.
And when my heart reddens with passion,
I could not deny its walls from melting in the fire.
Maybe every time we love, we die a little.
DQ 1/2/7
Five stories he fell, fighting
gravity like a bird statue chiseled
from granite, slapping the air below
the scaffold while urging wings to
come alive until the last second
when the asphalt nest became stained.
2.
He never wanted his feet
to touch the tangle of aquatic ivy,
or find out what type of fish
seabirds dive for. His face was
a desperate shade of blue,
when he drifted on the beach.
3.
The flame, domesticated candle
scented in the flavor of vanilla
sandalwood, first devoured the curtains,
then the entire building while she slept.
She wanted to be buried beneath flowers,
not cremated in room four of the hourly motel.
4.
There is no free will when falling in love.
I could not fly out of it if I had wings.
I could not save myself from drowning in it.
And when my heart reddens with passion,
I could not deny its walls from melting in the fire.
Maybe every time we love, we die a little.
DQ 1/2/7
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