ishtar fragment

March 31st, 2013

if it weren’t for gravity
i would inhale you

like sandalwood,

i would wrap around you

like the silk of rain,

but i must let go
at each of the seven gates.

my fine trinket made by the sun,
who would you be had you not
blown out the votives yourself,

had you not been brave enough
to go forth, empty-handed?

down here, what exists thrives
on things we do not wish to speak
about if we wish to live, but would
sacrifice our lives for.

you are mistaken if you think

death is the taker of life.

follow the sound,
like a bird in a paper cup,
i have become deaf
to make music for you.

put the river in a celestial cloth
no one can move for you

like i can.

i am the one underneath the mountains,
who has made your forehead

a map made of stars,

the underworld cannot see.

you were always reaching for it,

holding it yourself,

but thought you were bound by


quick draft


March 29th, 2013

the floating world

March 25th, 2013

geography has everything to do with it.

now i feel like a leaf floating in a stream
now i feel like eating a peach

the air is cold. just like water
moving down, from the mountain.

if you were a fragrance,
a hyacinth,
no further back
than that,
a seed, such
little heartbeats,
waiting beneath the earth

you would want to memorize more poetry,
wouldn’t you?

you would want to know how to charm
the world just right.

it’s as if there isn’t much time left
to do all the things you wanted to do

like every snow fall is the last
you’ll ever see-

i tell you this
because the earth is softening
around me.

there is light overhead.

there is everything in the world
to sing about.

the body
will be lost
in a bright
of color.

-based on neil young article and louise gluck the wild iris
-very fast draft

a warm room

March 14th, 2013

come darkness,
the moon,
an invitation,

a lone ship,

learn to see
from inside

watch me,
like water,
enter, you.

beating the other’s heart,
the cardiac cycle
of heavy rain,

a wind-swept plea,
to stay alive

in a wild forest
where there is no

don’t you think
we will go much further

when we turn out the lights,
see what it’s like to feel close
in a warm room.

-quick draft


March 10th, 2013

bulb, roots, the light,
not yet, flooding
from the inside.

fireflies, in the camera,
i wait for you.

make a stage
for dancing.

a still-life,
two yellow pears,
Opusculum paedagogum,
i wait, and eat, the poem,
so sweet.

after all of these years,
could you still be
more beautiful than
i imagined?

graphite sketch,
the first bud.
the telescope
comes into focus-

oh for the love of galileo
blind in his later years
from looking so much
at the sun.

i draw you,
a braille map,

a feeling list,
made of
living things.

we were made for dancing.

tell me what
the living do?

the river is moving,
you must be close


just like the flower
of the mountain.

-quick draft, after wallace stevens, check the facebook page called Opusculum paedagogum (Wallace’s Pears), and kate bush flower of the mountain director’s cut, and an endless sky of honey

notes on dissolution

March 5th, 2013

Juliet and Romeo tangled
in a pattern of stars,
addicts of yearning,
bloated with light
that causes separation
between things.

Dichotomies of form,
beautiful paradoxes,
halved and forbidden,
to become one.

They say, mirrors are a surface capable of reflecting
sufficient undiffused light to form an image
of an object placed in front of it. *

What if we turned off the lights?

Let Juliet, not be the east, the sun, the moon,
unplug the stars.

Ah the beautiful poetry of a love story
such as this, was it all
just a reckless playwright,
longing for god?

Let them have the most beautiful

Tell them, darkness is the answer.

Tell them, I am you.

*american heritage dictionary

-quick draft

no title

March 4th, 2013

even if you aren’t looking for it, the sun
in your hands, the way light, presses
it’s violently beautiful face:

even if you aren’t looking for it,
we are pulled by things we cannot explain

the way the bulb knows
the yellow flower it will
eventually become,

the eventual embrace
with the inconsolable,
and beautiful,


quick draft

in call and response

February 27th, 2013

once upon a time
tell her the very air i breathe
let this night remove the black coal around your eyes
tell her there is thunder in my heart
tell him i stand upside down, like an arrow in the dark earth
set an example on earth as in heaven above
i am the heart of the earth
i lay my head down to rest
i reach for your hand
i lay my head down to rest
but you do not reach back
this pattern of stars,
the moon eating birds are blind
i keep letting go of
mentally, they were one
i keep letting go of
this is the start of something beautiful
will you make it on time?
were always written on my face

experimental draft

found poem for krishna & radha

February 27th, 2013

The fruit of longing.
Ah! Is that your footfall?
Krishna can live without water
That when I meet you
I think I am dreaming.
Those flower-tender hands.
In your love-storms.

Where is he hiding?
In the dark grove? By the still brook?
Doesn’t he hear my echoing heart?
O Radha, say what magic charms
Snare his heart into your thought-cage?
My pond, without you,
Is empty.

*found poem*
this poem is crafted like a collage, original work all found from komarra juven katavinay krishna & radha poems

the heart has not stopped

February 13th, 2013

“The heart has not stopped.”- sylvia plath

many years ago, i wanted to start a revolution,
a lover’s revolution.

and so we formed a group. we held meetings.
we drew photos of weapons with pink hearts
exploding when the trigger was pulled.

we made signs that said “make love”
just the four of us, and stood,
in the snow, in the town square
in new mexico.

i remember this now.

i remember “viva la revolution!” “viva poetry!”

my heart beating just as fast as it did then.
the world still turning with such relentless devotion,
i’d bet my life on it.

i remember this now, i write this to you now,
the way you make love is just the way
we heard the sea reach shore together,
time and time
again. we repeat.

based on rumi and sylvia plath–such an unlikely couple

quick notes on an eventual poem.