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even if it’s for no longer than a second.
Even, if it’s only enough time for your pupils to dilate,
for a thought to crack through your head
or enough time for
the oxygen in your lungs to bind to your blood.
How long it has been,

how long has it been?
Since your voice
shook the leaves off of your vocal chords
and the sound bounced like a beach ball
into my ears.
To have my neurons toss your voice
against the inside of my cranium is
a crease on my palm that I did not see coming.

But, until that ball runs out of air
or a crease frowls from my forehead,-*stay,


I wish I had more time to write,
more time to dawdle and rhyme.
About the morning and the evening-
the time when the sun is just right
and the wind passes pleasantly
reaching out a warm and soft hand.

I have work to do. Important-
I have no time for the rise and fall of the sun,
There is plenty- piles of work to be done!
Papers need to be inked, stretched and clamped.
They need to be organized, sutured together,
stitched into long paramount stories that
once spun, need to be stuck together with tape.

After all that, then comes the best part!
Ever tried using a staple gun? Hours of fun,
who needs the sun! Staple goes here there.
Staples in my shirt, shoes, socks, trousers,
pants, ring, watch,
nails, eye lids, lips, nostrils, ears,
hands, feet
and, a crown of staples on my head.


Pierce, crack, shatter. A clatter of tings!
I’m left in pieces again. Ting.
An infinitely-sided Rubik’s cube jigsaw puzzle-
No instructions, to boot.

The shards lay scattered across the floor-
some glitter while others
are as dull as the concrete they lay on.
I gather them- no piece left behind.

I glue them together, new shapes-
stronger foundations- that shape was fragile,
this one did not belong here, that one-
that one served me well as it was.

The heart? It’s shards float around me.
Eyes stare back at me. All different shades of blue,
different tones of anger,  joy, forgiveness.
The wind whirls them around.

Piece by piece is melded to one.
Every time it is smaller.
Every time a piece is gone.

In the city of spires specks
 of cotton are suspended in the air.
Warm days are like a lucid dream-
sticky sweet scent of a fig tree in St. Giles
and a cherry tree dressed in pink.
In a forest of bluebells I last saw you
walking barefoot with a loving grin.

It reminded me of when
I fished for crayfish down Kellermann Kreek.
When I held small cups filled with sweet water
in a greenhouse in a more southern place
and I was covered in delicate butterflies.
In the rustle and bustle of life I had forgotten-
I am a man of this Earth, and you, a woman.

My blood has been replaced
with a tingly thick liquid.
My heart pumps. It pumps. It pumps.
And falls. It sinks. My mind wanders-

I think of your smile, your parched lips,
how I can stare down your throat
when your face contorts and writhes.
Your mouth agape. You pant. You smile.

Prickling- ants piercing into my veins
when I think of your breasts, the scent that fills
me as I kiss your stomach. As I kiss your legs,
your soft thighs- I nibble. I bite. You bloom.

Listen here. I do not want you to fret.
Or maybe I do- see-
Words have been fleeting.
They have been hiding from me.
I am their captor, I bend, forge, temper.
Some become mutilated in the process.
Hideous, they stick out like a sore cliche.
It’s part of the process though.
How else would you know that describing
A swan taking a sniff of heroin from the hands of a drug dealing  Colombian Nazi would be
an allegory that made little sense.
Of terrible taste as well, mind you!
Bet the Queen would not take kindly to that-
A cracked up swan lake- Ha.
Anyways, what I was trying to get to,
I guess- is something more inspirational
than “do your best”.


Golden orbs oscillate in the wind.
Reverberate amongst the wild
whistling of nascent gusts.

They rise amongst the turbulence.
They glide amongst the calm.
Moving with direction.
With a purpose. Both
not their own.

But, steadily they fall.
The wind has to subside,
the downward pull never does
and, while once they had been soaring,
now they are spiralling, spinning,
dizzy ditsy little things
scuttling around the ground
being dragged by stranger’s soles
until they rust.

Crumbly. Brittle. Dirt.
But, there will be plenty more.
It is a seasonal trope, after all.

Starve, feel your stomach eat away at you.
Familiarize yourself with it.
You will never want to starve again.

Watch your wealth drain away, slowly.
Learn that wealth is temporary.
As fickle as any other aspect in life.
Experience will remain tattooed in your mind.
Paintings that will only fade
when you yourself are disappearing.

Know that there are those with a
larger potential than you who will
never have the opportunities
and support that you have had.
Do not waste any opportunity you are given,
for their sake, and your own.

Your work is what you will leave behind.
Regardless, of scope or intent.
You will disappear but your work
will remain as your testament.
Nurture it.

Do not rely on others to write,
to love, to create. Do this for yourself.
Discipline must come from within.
It is your energy source.
Make it sustainable and renewable-
energy dependence is disastrous.

Do not let fear cripple you
or your ambitions.
Dread is a facetious companion
who wishes to curb the germination
of any new ideas under the pretense of safety.

Safety is boring.

The roller creeks. Immobile.
No matter how much you pull, it will not budge.
You have to think, is the rope in a knot?
Twist the pole with all your strength,
all of it.
Watch it phlegmatically
ignore you and your efforts.
Think again, maybe it’s not apathetic.
Maybe it’s not you but it.
Maybe it is a bad time and it’s trapped in something.
Look up- not a clichéd expression
telling you to brighten up-
literally, look up.
Steel cables are wrapped around the pole constricting it,
constraining it. Of course it cannot move.

Now there is no choice. You have to climb the mast.
Walk towards it. Do not fear the fall,
see yourself on the mast, be one with the mast
-or just start climbing the damn thing.
Be careful though. Slowly
shift your weight from one foothold onto the other.
Many have climbed it before.
You might think it is safe because of it.
But, then again,
not everybody weighs the same
and some footholds rust with time.
Reach the top, give yourself a pat on the back.
Actually, probably a bad idea. Hold on.
Instead, finish what you started.
Loosen the pole from its entrapment.
Unwind the steel cables and climb back down.

Me he curado de ti,
de tus ojos de niña,
de tu rostro, tus piernas suaves,
de la manera que me mirabas en los ojos,
tu sonrisa que me dejaba sin aire,
que me consumía como las olas consumen
lentamente un ancantilado.
Como un río devora las montañas.
Pero mi amada, amor, amiga, corazón,
el río se secó. Solo quedó una anécdota

Ya no veo tu cara entre las masas,
ni entre los reflejos de este mundo
o del mundo de los sueños.
Ya no oigo tu voz en el viento,
ni huelo tu perfume cuando camino por la calle.
Antes quizás, sí. Ya no, mi conocida.
Pues mi memorias de ti desaparecen
con el correr de la arena
de un bulbo al otro.


Pebbled walkways winding
through carefully trimmed grass
crunch and crackle under my feet.

Past a fountain, to a pond
where goldfish wallow hidden
under a lone lily.

Murky waters reflect the grey sky,
Winter’s hold unyielding.

But, in a greenhouse,
the scent of jasmine carry
a warm soothing wind.

The wind is thousands of miles away.
A hawk shrieks in the distance,
I resurface.