Monthly Archives: April 2013

Trespassers Shot on Sight

There’s a sign out back of my grandma’s garden

a sign that says:

Trespassers will be shot on sight

and though I’d grown up spending summers at my grandma’s

I was never sure what a trespasser was

till I was nine years old

for the first nine years of my life I walked in fear of being labelled a trespasser

and shot on sight

and even when I learned its meaning I still wasn’t sure its exact interpretation

to my grandma

I mean, I knew grandma related to me on both a literal and metaphorical level


I learned at a young age that most words are relative

even superlatives

even when used literally by a literal relative

can be misdirected

by a different set of eyes

I accept that

I have always feared accepting a chamber’s worth of bullets

anywhere on my person

and though I know grandma loves me

I spent sixteen years avoiding the back of her garden for fear of words I didn’t understand

words I never knew were just in jest

though I’ve never had the imagination as I did when I was a kid

I was too serious for my own good

is this what Nietzsche meant when he wrote:

Mature manhood: that means to have rediscovered the seriousness

one had as a child at play

I wouldn’t play in that garden as a child

cause I didn’t know the difference between a serious threat

and some serious sarcasm.

Why We Invented Pointillisim

Words lost in translation

are only symptoms

not cures to all that we are missing

in these spaces separating us from ourselves

in these spaces between our fingers

as we hold hands

our hands hold us

as we aspire to be

reaching out to be touched even while touching nothing

so close too close to feeling

where I end and you begin

so intertwined we can’t feel nor see

where your skin ends and my skin breathes

and though I itch

I scratch your skin

so hard it bleeds

cause I feel no relief from my finger nails

as they dig in to your skin.

Haikus Made From Glass

Time’s sand and stained glass

reflect and refract sunlight

crafting memory.


Something came from naught

therefore, naught came from something

even this nothing.


All colors make white

in the absence of nothing

all paints mixed make black.


A photo of you

like Winter’s sun can’t be felt

I put on my coat.


All I know is what

I used to believe is now

what I make believe.


Weapons of Mass Creation

Invention is the mother of necessity

giving birth to the spark that gave light its breath

to the splitting of the atom

this mother would have fooled Solomon

how Santos-Dumont wept as his gift of flight became a weapon of war

how we blame God

for the cruelty of humanity

when we can fly above on the same wings

that carried the Enola Gay over Hiroshima

are the same that can carry our love back home across the sea.

And This Dream Shifts

I had just finished tying the snake around the mountain

when the demons came for my potion

then Vishnu’s dream shifts like a kaleidoscope’s sand

and there I am in the Ganges with fifty million of the faithful

cleansing our souls eternal

bathing in this stream of consciousness

and in the rising tide

currents carrying me past bodies of memories bobbing up and down

so old and water logged

I can’t even see what they used to mean to me

they could mean anything

all I know is what I used to believe

is now make believe

and what I used to see as hazy

this horizon dissecting this sky and sea

under a sun so mean

why I trust my eyes as far as I can throw them

knowing the horizon is not really swimming in the heat

the horizon doesn’t even exist

it’s just a fine line traced by this mind

these lies my eyes devise

to parallel truth

as the earth chases the sun

like this puppy dog chases his tail

after awhile

you start to root for the puppy dog

“Come on, puppy! Catch your tail!”

Then the puppy catches his tail

then what?

We need to let go to hold on

to what we love

when even dreams seem real

some times realer than this reel of reality

like moon light shining upon the silver screen.

Remembering To Forget

One of those nights where

the past is stood up by the future

and the now is caught in between

with a present for both

but nobody’s got hands to grasp what wisdom the right now holds.

One of those nights where

you can’t tell the ink from the unlit


and this writer’s left tossing notes down black holes

hearing echoes of new songs played to old memories

remembering there are no new memories

can right now be a memory?

Forgetting you’re in a deja vu

photographing the mirror image of a dream

calling home to a continent you left this morning

and hearing them speaking from tomorrow.

I always ask who won the ballgame so I can go make a big bet

yet tomorrow always seems to know as much as I do.

Let’s Call It A Day

We’re so impatient

impatient for time

we’re time’s patients

we’re clocks that unwind.

Clocks go round and round

call it clockwise

tethered to 360 degrees

tethered to time.

And how stupid is it to measure a fastball in miles per hour

when it only travels a few seconds at a time?

We’re infinite circles

we call molecules

we’re as many suns glowing

as are lost in the sky.

And how stupid is it to measure each step in feet when we only step one foot at a time?

Like calling it Winter when it feels like Summer or Summer when it’s cold as hell

dogs to a papery clock pinned to the wall telling us when to ring the bell

but still we skip a page to jump to next year

we’ve got two hands on the clock and two more on our backs

pushing us forward

doesn’t it all seem so stupid so arbitrary pretending we’re chasing the sun

try and go round and round

Columbus got lost renamed what he found

everything must have a name

we’re so drunk on time

let’s call it a day.

Why I Can’t Kiss You

This circle has no center, no radius, nor diameter

enlightened by a force that moves faster than the both of us together

a universe salted with suns to stop the planets

from getting too close and imploding

destroying themselves with such a kiss.

No pressure,

but this is very much how I feel when I am close to you.

The Poem Outlives The Poet

Judging reality by reality

is like the police policing the police

this is what for metaphor

this is what we invented poetry for

this is how we see dreams

even bad poetry it seems

can reduce this earth to ashes

as the bad poet

(though a good human being, which, in a verse all to itself, tells why he’s a bad poet)

and this bad poet smokes delicious cigarettes

inventing rhymes

that will fit in to no times

sparked by the times

he felt words he could not spell

hell has no purr like a bad poet reciting the curse of his verse

the audience felt collectively

as he came to the ending of his Ode to a Shoe Horn

and the audience started to laugh

and the poet became the reluctant comedian

knowing no one respects the jester

and no one quotes Shakespeare’s comedies

remembering it’s his tragedies we remember

bodies mapped by scars

literature wrapped in wars

gives our souls peace

to reach such misery

misery we need

to know when to laugh at the bad poet

misery we need

to know when to cry at the great poem.

Closing My Eyes To Breathe

Why this kiss on the lips

and this pressure on the hips

to weigh how much I need you

when this world spins so fast

most memories don’t last


this kiss tonight could ignite

sunrises at midnight

creation from dynamite

a new chemistry

where one plus one equals the infinite

and everything we

ever were and ever will be

is closer than sight

so when I close my eyes to kiss you

I open my mouth to breathe.