white papers

Comes this hush

lays me down

coiled breath

wets his eyes

lashes weighted low

unblinking crystals.

The crunch of his press

deceives.

No trace of heavy feet

can I find.

postpartum depression

after

un

    coit

us

she crawls inside
the well of his navel

nesting on soft lint
and graying hair
translucent in the absence of light

she sucks her thumb still
at twenty-six
a fixation he appreciates

just moments ago
her toes flooded with hard satisfaction
but now,

now

bony knees greet her chin
to pray their discontent

that happy-feel-good "thang" gone
lost in the cave of dark sheets

she mulls her rage like wine
kicks her heels hard
against the belly of sleep

a faint prick only
felt, his thin eyes blind
to her porcelain rot

not even knowing that
his tangled kiss
was her rescue

Two Elements

The sweet-n-soured Prince said
before good night,

"Taint everything.
't ain't every thing.

Love evolves,
dissolves the cake in the rain.

The gold ring
slips off frailty,

chokes
fattened calves."

She's warned:
goldfingers rig the gun's trigger

a 9mm snout
locked-and-loaded

the measure of gold-plated love
equals the weight of empty chambers

amorous ammo makes stardust splatter
and somewhere,

Morgana criss-crossed alchemies
draining purity

a dirty distillate only
remains of the Dane.

simmer

these poets' elixirs

undo my lips

ambered words

simmer slowly

in velvet arms


For Ô¿Ô, Ozymandiaz and C.S. Perez. Three poets from the three corners: East, West, and and what remains. Offering delectable ink for the wet anthology.

Don't be fooled though. These poets aren't confined to the planes of eros.

As Ozymandiaz demonstrates. His beautifully wrought lyric sounds off this week's Ringing of the Bards X. Weaving in the works of others to unravel the heart of a poet, he just may reveal your own weak seams.

repast (revised)

they fed each other spoonfuls of mangoes
the morning after
carving crescents of yelloworange
with yawning hands

pushing the plate aside
licking the spoon's belly

she is still hungry for the hush in his eyes
that blankets the small bombs targeting her sun

she hordes her words and the silence swells
encroaching on a tabletop neatly set for two
stealing the soft cotton in her voice
that spun him roundround when they first met
(she hasn't spoken in days)

he watched the brown melt out of her eyes
and darken her skin

the fruit perspires between them
her spoon idle
despite wanting to gorge on the promise
of tomorrow

but that would make her fat

so she sits
envying the roomy hips
of the one remaining mango

Chateau Marmont Bungalowed

When I away to Marmont went
L.A. L.A. L.A.
I flagged a stallioned chariot
to carry me there where Sunset sits.

Draw bridge down across I crossed
L.A. L.A. L.A.
Ushered in by phantom men where
stilettoed feet meet lowered hems.

Wood lobbied chairs in deep I sank
L.A. L.A. L.A.
And drank soft ice in leaded glass
tongue sifting slow the cut of class.

Into their Nile stars bungalowed
L.A. L.A. L.A.
Packed rainbows they as fortune's guests
room serviced sleep, though not rest.

cellar door

                                                 behind the closed cellar door
                                                             time ferments
                                                          a discarded bowl
                                                          of hollowed fruit
                                                   poisons the bellies of flies

                                     the sidewalk outside sprouts yellow wings

Biting Tongues: A Sonnet for the First Amendment

To speak of dark and wet and secret things,
gives rise to petered peckers and tapped phones.
Whether entwining limbs or skewering kings,
rough words must not be ground dull under stone.
Well-aimed barbs pierce the breast and bleed
crimson truths that pinch the loins and rend hearts.
The fool for love of country we dire need
not to whisper but to roar the hard parts.
To soak dry linen from an unstoppered flask,
let freedoms surface beneath still moist sheets.
Between the tickles, bites and who licks last
love and liberty reign when minds, not heads meet.
Salute the jester with middle finger extended,
and grasp the unknown as was first intended.




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The Gladiator's Sword

the petals melt in her mouth
the faint taste of thin suede on her tongue
diffusing a soft lesson

gladiolus: n. sing., latin root "glad" meaning sword

all flowers are not fragrant
or color fulled
or firmly rooted

their limbs tear easily
(the sword lily can be split with pinky fingers)

and frequently
they are abused as guilt offerings
bruising even under rude glances

but still they bloom
in glorious defiance
on the coliseum floor

The Last Lullaby (for Lebanon)

Pleiades' heart breaks.
All her stars have fallen out of the sky,
a fiery trail of quasar tears.

Her burning hush settles
on the canopy of still skins.
She quiets crying tongues
with soup spoons of dust and dying embers.
Rockabyes babies with diaphanous songs.
Their small hands open for the promise of candy
as she

smothers them in their milk-fed sleep

this tender mercenary weeps moon drops for the dead,
swaddles them in frankincense robes,
lays them down
on pillows of jasmine moss
where they will rise by a jasper river
and cross over.


In memory of the Qana Massacre on July 30, 2006


The following images are accompanied by the haunting arabic song "Yamma" ("Oh Mother"), a tragic lullaby that in some transcendant way makes the suffering bearable--even as your eyes burn while watching.

These are the lyrics:

"Yamma"

Oh mother, my from the winds!
Oh mother, my...
The stab of daggers but not
The rule of the unjust.

I walked under the rain
And the rain quenched me,
And the summer when it came
Set my fire aflame.

The age of the youth remains
A vow for freedom.

Oh night, the horizon has swayed
Witnessing my wounds;
Forget the enemy's army
From all around.

The night has seen evil
Learning by me.

The rifle of the mountain
Is higher than the heights;
Open the road of hope
And hope is in the towers.

My people, no, my heroes
I'd venge you with my eyes.

Oh mother, my from the winds!
Oh mother, my...
The stab of daggers but not
The rule of the unjust.

--thank you to Ashraf Osman for the translation