Shadow Boxing

I’ve never been so
Incapable to communicate
While so many letters
And words rest at my disposal,
Despite the depth of feeling
The breadth of our experiences,
And all the moments we shared:
An endless well from which I draw
Now only blanks upon
The white, white page.
So love bleeds in every direction
Since having lost its permanence
And position in this world.
So where now should it go?
To some other holding,
Waiting or embracing,
For which it was never meant?
But restless and wandering
And wanting what
It can no longer possess,
This love goes nowhere,
And thus replaced by an effluence
Of poses and gestures that beg
For another chance,
Just one more moment,
One last lingering glance.
This love would have me fight,
But a shadow boxer
And unwilling partner
Stands at the farther end
Taunting me to wait,
Which to my impatient
And imperfect love
Is like the slowest death.

the things that we forget

It happened in a moment,
As I was looking for a pen
In the top drawer of my desk.

How long had it been there
Ten years, or maybe less
Since she wore it round her neck?

When I thought it was a rosary
A string of wooden prayer beads
With a pendant at its end.

And though her name escapes me
I remember every pattern
All the freckles on her chest

How she looked over her shoulder
With a question barely whispered,
“Could you please unzip my dress?”

And then she pulled her hair back
So I could free the loose ends
From the knots of her necklace

Next day I found the letter,
By the bed beneath the beads,
The tangled hair and golden clasp

In a word she wrote “remember”
So I buried all those treasures
In the top drawer of my desk

the california drought

California Rain

California needs rain – I know it
I hear it from the talking heads
And spoken from the cracking lips
Of its thirsty citizens
Still, what of it?
It will come, it always does:
Because never is what never does.

But rain’s release will mean everything
To me and to others
And will mirror
In me and in others
Something more profound than the dry
That’s dug deeply underground
Since heaven can’t keep
Or hold deeper mysteries
Than the emotions found
Buried beneath the soul:
With its weather-wild nature
Unpredictably cold
Irrationally hot
And uncontrolled.

Sufferings cycle —
The rains, the drought,
Though the meaning escapes us
Before it comes back around
Like mornings I’m tired
And nights I’m awake
Oh, the cycles suffer,
And though I’m deadly dry
Still I dread the rain.

a fleeting moment

i adore you and you alone
she said, again, again
again I’m drunk
which, ironically, is when
i believe her most
but still I ask
and so she pours
another whiskey ginger
and a fumbled glass
jambs my left thumb

she prefers jameson
so I bought her a liter
my kind of romantic gesture,
a bouquet better
than withering flowers
lined in a civil row
along the balustrade
of her front porch
where we recline
in whicker chairs
smoking cigarettes like soldiers,
flicking ash cavalierly
down the victorian steps

while our long looks grow longer
with each glass of liquor,
we drink quicker and quicker
until my gaze a little longer lingers
on her eyes, her breasts, her lips—
but her eyes, there longest

until she notices
and laughs, what?
nervously? I can’t say
no, it’s nothing
well, that is to say
what I mean is –
well, shit.
words don’t always express
or convey what I wish,
what I want to say.
instead I stumble, mutter
and wonder which end
will come first:
the bottom of the glass,
the snub of a cigarette,
our last laugh perhaps
well, whatever
pour another
gingy whisker