your equivocal smile
curves every hope of mine.
I stretch my hand
so the good can no longer
be distanced.
the blinders protect us
from the outside
that hides in the shadows.
my body encircles itself
with your physical thoughts.
with all the candid arrogance
that this morning light
comes with
it can wait.
the universe broke open an
arrangement, a melody that sings
to the stars every night
and leaves us begging
lay our bodies down
and lift us up in our
nakedness.
but she,
left me bleeding
with progressive rhythm
and subtle taste of
her intergalactic lips
to die.
i heard the melody that night
for the very first time.
i met them two
ladies, at 4th and Brannan.
their face had given up
on wrinkles.
their hair was warm as
the lord’s blessing
any given Sunday.
and colored as bright as
Lucifer’s face.
their bent back pointed
towards the future
of us.
all of us.
one of them had colored
dotted socks on.
maybe they matched.
or that was the trick?
the other one had the
sleight of the bluest southern skies.
they were both out
and about at an AM in the morning
when you’d still be regretting
the existence of your loneliness
or awkwardness of last night
in your dreams.
them?
i’ve never seen a smile so contagious.
you ask
how I write poetry.
those words that
rhyme together in an
unusual way that
stays, with you
and the ones getting
wet in their rain.
there’s no secret, darling.
these words
and their poetry that
you claim to see
is not even real.
the only poetry
I believe
I ever saw was in
your wild hair, hypnotizing
its audience in the
wild wind ampitheatre
and in your
eyes, when you look
at me, and
smile.
tipsy hair, swaying
with the breeze
sound of her
smile, dancing
to the tease
faded denims, feet
in heaven
her, the stars
and old number 7.
i drank poetry today.
the dripping speck
of its black ink
invited my enticing taste buds
to grab a sip from the
hot, steamy brew
of words
dreaming together like
the arctic bay breeze.
i brought it closer
to the horizon
of my eyes, and wished
upon myself
the fortunes of
no bias, and lies.
even though the truth
was bitter as
her sly smile, it was
still the truth, in
every word and line.
i drank poetry today.
or
maybe it was just
coffee.
the sun rises.
the sun sets.
don’t complicate the process.
smile.
I met
this old woman
one time
at a bus stop.
“do you got money to
get me home?”
she asked.
I checked. no cash.
I shrugged.
her heavy eyes looked at me
full of cynical sly and
a broken smile,
and said,
“life’s a pitch.”
she couldn’t pronounce her ‘b’s.
a fine printed poster
of the fab four
stares down
at the wrinkled
blank canvas
of my bed.
“I need a woman,”
one of my pillow
whispers.
even the bedside lamp
longs for
fragrance of your
hair and
your morning smile
once in a
while.
“Dream.”
he said.
“I can’t.”
she replied
with a smile on her
face.
“It’s your fault honestly
I’ve ran out of things
to dream about
because of
you.”
Life in a blog 