defence

fencing
Pulling strands of taffy from my mouth,
candied liniments soaking the tedium
out of knocking phrases,
casting rhythms into wooden stays.
I saw you watching.
Your figure cut in four,
face divided and blocked
by flaking shades of decay.
I saw you, but kept pulling anyway.
Your face arched and bit at
the corners, spitting aged sawdust
and gnarling soft cheeks to get through.
The frame stayed.
I saw you, but you didn't know.
I kept pulling.
I needed the sugar.


inked
etched out in the black of India ink
shaded with lithographer's strokes
scraped into relief
the sigh of clarity,
a great shove to externalize
the deep gouges made
intentional, and offered at the time
the grace of creamy stone.

these lines hold the black of India ink
sucking chemical color to the
scrapes, a sweet relief,
a balm of blood to wet
the wounds seep down, internalize
the deep gouges made
improbable, and wanted at the time
the grace of creamy stone.

cold as soap and pliable,
irreparable, beautiful, stained
with the black of India ink.




Bangkok March
Swift impatience waits round quivery little corners,
the edge of overly bright shores and quiet city nights.
Such a trip to stumble about these raven blocks,
syncopated stepping to keep up
with misheard rhythms in your voice.
The very timbre of my marimba ribcage
fortells tales told true and without words.
Only a weight follows such a song,
heavy limitless mirrors to light a deepening
corridor from one continent to another.
Listening too carefully to capture the signature
that is only common time,
waitless I proceed
stepping with care to my own vessels,
and keeping quiet
heed the chimes and gongs counting out
the days in their weighty brass calls,
simply, indicate hours between breaths.
Go. Misery wants no company here;
she is busy with others.
Stamp out with calloused soles the heart of you,
as feet spiral inward making a carven table
of sands newly whetted
by this salty rising tide.


water babies
January holds no reflection so we wander in
spring and fall,
know the depths where we find comfort
in the floating and pushing against the body,
joints heaving among denser stuff than we.
Tastes of allspice and ginger, rooted things,
chamomile and sage and fresh salt weeds,
companions in the days and winter nights
when we are locked out of the mud.
We who love the fog and rain,
the constant kiss of change.