I imagine you heaving and chanting like

I imagine you turning like time in the sky,
fucking the sun
resplendent vines wrapped tightly round in sweet perfume symphony
coming in brilliant waves
I imagine you here


Is that the way you stand when you're talking?
I think I've seen that
pulling you close makes the moon glow more brightly,
stoned to the tits

sweet butter of lust
your thunderous whispers
burst the clouds
and make the young man hide
but you... you'll take him inside of your
winding flower
and show him the way your heart devours the night

besar tus senos dulces
kissing your sweet breasts
the sun's erection turning you to rainbows in the sky

She is the colour of everywhere

I have tried to move her slowly with my kisses,
digging in the earth of her garden,
beetles rich with dark carbon hums,
iridescent green hiding amongst the stones.

The sun pushes the buildings low,
but even here through the cracks
grow angry xlyophones.
Perhaps she doesn't see,
although she points and says it's different.

She is the colour of everywhere the sun lies down
and holds us in her arms
the grass is not soft here, so we stand
(at least, I think that's why -
perhaps we'll never know the truth of it)

No, not like molasses

She is slow like children;
the clock before she arrives is different.
The morning unfolds slowly, but she runs
-this way and there-
and when she arrives, flushed and happy,
here has moved only a little.
...and the flowers have new colours here
like her shoes, which are the same
and don't sound at all like falling into water,
their swishing a sound I don't quite remember.

Neighborhood walk, with relish

A walk through the neighborhood reveals:
flowers,
and mud,
and evidence (of lives lived with joy),
and sorrow,
and other things without names.
A world's own history in every puddle;
a tiny moment large as the cavernous sky,
blue with heart's own relish.

twitter poem: kiss in the windy street

ah! a kiss that makes my head spin/like turning around and tumbling in/all in a moment I couldnt tell then I knew: instead of falling I flew

fifteen hundred miles

there's music through the airport crowd
like a butterfly amongst the clattering dandelions
and I have 1,500 miles of thought
and I see them stretching out
straight as the prairie

(if I glance up)
perhaps I'll see you instead of gray
perhaps your dancing has blown away the sullen tiles
to cast me into swirling sky

or perhaps I have 1500 miles of taupe
polite but empty miles
so I stare straight ahead
and try not to dream too brightly

Twitter poem: gastown balloons

A crumpled berry of remembering.
Pink says birthday
from
the branch that snatched you
from the wind.

twitter poem: airplane haiku

beginning the flight.
Needles made it through customs;
Fingers twice flying.

Twitter poem: piercing the veil

I have devoured the morning
and pierced the light with my sharper eye,
pounded on the gates of heaven,
demanding satisfaction

my love is not refined

my love is not refined
edges sharp instead of fine
by the sun it keeps its time
my love is not refined

it has not sword and shield, but spear
bruises lips and bites your ear
hunts for joy and laughs for fear
my love is not refined

The moon is drunk

The moon is drunk;
Her eyes roll back, her head lolls -
she mutters and rages...
Who will take her home?

Gentle curses spill from my lips,
like diamonds too rough for jewelry;
I clasp the cool night - a sudden lover
The moon in my heart drunk also

Ingenuous, the night pales,
awaiting sun's mortal blow;
Each of us alone...
And like the moon, intoxicated.

Hope is a shoebox

This morning, I wrote a poem for you... but it was very sad.
I thought of a new word to describe things... but it's too hard to say.
...I let them pass, unimpeded

I uncovered an old memory, like a photograph in a shoebox
in my mother's basement that I thought I'd lost.
I turned it over and around, searching... wishing I'd taken better notes.

I will remember the tree, pointing to the sky like a finger.
...and the wires that hang here and there,
they seem to me now like pencil lines, dividing the world into spaces

I will remember this poem,
which is about things I have forgotten.

My hands are sad and made of wood

my hands are sad and made of wood.
speaking to them, I cursed...
and I felt in them the rain,
it gathers close around and shivers
too near to touch

...and there;
it dives deep and flashes,
like a dream that wakes then dimly fades
in thunder of eyelashes on my pillow, but you:
your words recede softly into that dark water...
casting shadows against my eyes

A poem for your mouth

I'm watching your lips
they speak to me twice
of butterflies in sweet grass
testing their wings
rushing and resting

your breath moves sweetly
carrying my heart
in a basket of feathers and stones
darting blue and green
resting low on your hips like jewelry

I'm drinking your lips
a story I've known and not known
tell me again...
while I close my eyes

Here!

Here! a
circle of stones, lustful
empire undressed, spreading
naked among the flowers, full of
sweet cakes and beer and gentle samba.

Now! her
hips warmly laugh, full
breasts like warm bread, soft
heart smooth like riverstone, gentle
whispers hiding softly among my bones.

my heart speaks in tongues
the warmth of her gentle hollows

InMyPocketICarryaPictureOfYouDreaming

InMyPocketICarryaPictureOfYouDreaming
wearing a hat that has been to the top of the world
and brought you back pictures of the powerful women there
one of them is you
another carries comfort
that brings you home

InMyPocketICarryaPictureOfYouDreaming

your hat is made of pictures from the top of the world
pictures of the ghosts that guide the powerful women there
to the secret future I glimpse behind your sleep
your eyes are that secret future
cathedrals to wondering
holding me tightly