POETRY


Film-reel 

There’s love for nostalgia

in the shades of race-stripe red,

empty sky-cyan devoid of intrusions; to incite

reactions.

Kungfu movie, 

played in lofty Sundance theater

built to mimic Hollywood grandeur 

with finely fitted rows of columns, Egyptian 

motifs in                   Art Deco filaments forming 

an entire sphere between red curtains – 

run-down mecca box office, 

rushing spaghetti western re-runs 

into all suspecting eyes, arresting 

outlaws in between pano shoots of monument valley

I wear my cowboy boots in solidarity. 

Five bucks for 

popcorn nuggets 

             stuffed in between seats 

like viewers strapped in                to 

roller coaster rides at the state fair,

passing the riveting view of  

mountainsides in tones of black and white 

as subtitles attempt to explain Italian 

neo-realism 

to American audience members.

 

There’s wonder in a split second,

a moment whose word is held between the tongue 

and tip of cupids bow – here; in technicolor,

I experience revolutions.


tins in the park

Dandelion weeds swing, 
bumping into eachother, losing 
            bits and pieces 
like strands of hair
slithering down drainage holes 

Kitten heels and sharp tongue, 
            stomp 
sticking the ridge of thrifted Manolo’s into 
sinking mire, 

wetlands minus the wet.

We imagine god losing track of his
          mushrooms 
exasperated, claiming with finality 
their edibility 

only to be fooled,
by track pant wearing hoodlums 
in London Fields

cigarettes half-cocked in mouth, ready 
to pulse
          with punctuated reason,

like shooting a gun
          blindfolded.


Exhaling the tang of adolescence in one 
long, drawn-out breath

we communicate by playing ’connect the dots’,
forming,
tick-tack toe arrangements  
on pulled turf, 

grass cuttings stick to the in-between of fingers 
as the stars settle in for the show.


soho

Bare your chest in soho,

spin in a swig or two

        of liquor, to clear

your throat.&

Speak

Where gussied marlboro bunnies,

pull, forged excuses

             out of pleather baguette bags,

 

and blame petit plastic ziplocks,

            warbled smilies

for their lapse in judgement. 

Perhaps they’ll make sense of sentences strung together incoherently, or think of 

a meaning

you hadn’t thought of

before. 

The pieces above ‘Soho’ and ‘Tins in the Park’ have been published in The Horizon Magazine.


memory

Resting on the base, 

         forgotten against the fallen leaves 

was a memory

implanted like seed in fertile 

          dirt-land-property 

fixed soley on 

the purpose of being 

imprinted, then

like rolling rickety scanner, surveying negative space in order to form 

lasting beauty. 

I smell the same air, crisp 

            flash of apple cider sliding 

down the trachea, or hitting 

pink rounded nose

       tickled 

in an attempt to render anxiety mute. 

Perhaps I love you more now, crossing 

             this bridge over towering Thames 

realizing how much of you is in 

everything. 

The piece above ‘Memory‘ was published in Soft Qrtly.


dirt

Everything out of place is dirt, 

i blink, clouded
attempting with fragility 
to rid myself, of 

intruders. 

A single stream, 
            like leaky faucet,
pouring

governing the topography of face 
to indicate,

disturbances

I can’t remember if it was specks
          or scratches, but

I spent the night weeping 
in response to it’s lingering presence,

in absence.


in the nuances

There is elegance in the nuances of living,

the pause,
              sitting strapped into the front of 
sun bleached sedan,
borrowed

from mother-sister-father
for coffee run,

raindrops tenderly tap tapping on the windows,
            side mirrors 

Things aren’t as close as they may seem

in a gentle reminder
                    of resuscitation,
as if pulling you out of your personal meditation
              on the movement of 

silence. 

Pull of a key, jingling jerk 
              against your kneecap,
scrapping

if only for the fact, you’ve rolled the seat
              as far as it can go
plight of the endless negative space existing 

above your head. 

The skies seemingly, swallowing 
              endlessly starved
only to purge efficiently 

following its feast. 

I desire the chaotic tick-tacking of cities,
but couldn’t be fooled
            to say

a small town’s stillness
isn’t rewarding. 


Piccadilly

Tiny piece of leaf, 

left swollen 
by rain’s incessant downpour 

pear-shaped dent 
in the ground where heel stuck in 
and out,
        came clumps

Piccadilly station frequently finding 
                  forms to the silence
from hissing frequencies
to drythroat screeching,

like cellophane plastic to the surface,

c l i n g i n g.

We’re all tossing coins,
into magnificent crystal
fountains,
        ornamental spurs spewing

only to blame our shadows for their 
loss. 


canal

In the wide sleepless stretch of an afternoon 
sticky-eyed yawn,
wandering willfully 

                where boats align, 
bright pink named Scallop 
or the blue Cala Mai 

I found a series of reserved spaces, 

some sneaking spiderwebs, sitting
undisturbed
on the corners of bright
                  wooden panels 
in cherry mustang or sailormens blue, 
a perfect
hue

      deep,
like the swooning restless back of moonlit 
      skies, 
              past midnight 

where even the stars find themselves
drooping.  

I tilt my head to smell light roses, 
blushing against 
fertile bushes 
                    dense with vegetation 
flickering light through their negative spaces, 
against the surface 

where ducks float together 
flapping as if racing one another,
leaving
          traces

Even glistening ripples tell a story if you open yourself up to it.


reverberating

Under my collection of freckles, 

blushing speckled
            skies,
lights 
like craters on the surface of the moon
describe

paintings 
outlined with heavy brushstrokes. 


This canal, 
            reflecting  
red perennials in the water 

diffuse their edges on ripples, 

illuminating
with halos made of backyard bonfires. 

A baby bluebell poly craft chair soaked in
          rain water, 
yellows at the center 
            worn through perhaps to narrate 
the passage of time. 

We slip under georgian periwinkle iron,
bent elegantly over 
        verdant, sunsoaked brickwork
and find ourselves echoing in laughter. 

Reverberating alongside entire ecosystems contained in a single stretch of water.


movement towards creativity

The world is made up of movement,

Gentle rustling,
like leaves nestled 
        in the succulence of 
late Spring 

cars,
wizzing past on zooming 
city streets 
      chaotic cacophony 
of bright neon 
in arsenic and canary. 

Even in stillness,
it’s bustling
the 
whiteblackblueredgrey, of 
television screen 
          static 

paused perhaps in the way the 
earth’s rotation
          does,

Incessant. 

A reprieve of imagination is then centered on the connection between movements. 

Like sparks ignited and 
set 
alight.


plant pot

I walked 5 blocks from our apartment, 
plant pot propped
on my hip 
collecting rainwater 

excited perhaps,
by the prospect of growing its own 
            garden 
held closely like a secret
in its cavity.

Aromatic lavender sat like baseboards 
on the edges of the street, 
creeping curiously
              through ironwork fences 
softly easing
into the air.

I got lost

between moss bitten alley ways and canary shop signs, 
on the edges of bold emerald bricks 
carefully crafted 
by distant hands

and found my way back at the mouth of the bridge 
whose 
droplets orientate, 

where illuminated peonies sit gawking 
at the hurried pace of men.

Come to think of it, 
I’ve always loved the unrestrained elegance of rain.


juice

Every morning I’d buy a juice from the lady across the street

a little stall of blushing cubic wallpaper,
where stray dogs tend to lay
licking their paws with patience 
as if collecting 
droplets.

I’d mix freshly squeezed orange with the heart of beetroot, 

for the perfect shade of amaranth 
slightly lighter than the flower 
passionate
in it’s carmine hue, but 
just 


as vibrant.

Sipping I’d smell chard onion stems from the man on the corner,
whose quesadillas rallied,
my taste buds 
or the rumbling in my pit 
and was reminded, 

sometimes 
love lives in the distinct flavors that surround us.


San Marcos

Trees dance by their tips 
besides,
San Marcos chapel

Weddings 
passing and crossing
          quinceañeras, 
rolling 
marking the hours 
with the precision of a 
clock. 

Filigree spurts of water 
shooting up into the 
sky. 
        As emerald
stone 
is held tightly 
in the arms of 24 karats. 

There’s a bull fighter that sneaks out from his clock tower at the sound of
            a bell,
an obsidian sphere
whose fingers, point 
delicately 
towards the passing of 
time. Seemingly infinite,

roses and gardenias 
litter the gardens against ironwork benches, of intricate
designs
            Slate silver 
like spray paint set in stone. 
Stating confidently,

There’s beauty in the simplest
of
things
like the setting of the sun
mirrored on the edges of,
                      Aguascalientes city. 


split

Bright blue and cordia boissieri 
brick by brick 
built, 

undeniably beautiful. 

We circled the city to avoid traffic, 

tariff or toll 
  taken to mark the passing 
of space. Split,

like rings in purgatory 
or heavens above, 

dividing.

The pieces above ‘Split‘, ‘San Marcos‘ and ‘Juice‘ are excerpts from Home in Limbo.


maroon

Maroon 
fluttering between tones
          Your guitar played, slowly 
in the corner of the room with that basketball, 
dribbled gently
beneath the coffee table
            as if hiding in,
reverence.  

Time can slow itself 
snails pace, crawled 
felt
    in it’s entirety, 
as if my breathing was suspended 
alerted to the transposition of your fingertips 
gliding 
like swans in lakes, across that palace 
    perfected place

Not the castle 
unless, it’s our own 
above the shop selling, 
    mushrooms by the pound 
and plantains that sizzle in our ceramic kitchenette. 

Sometimes making love has nothing to do with touch.


vultures

I imagined things in heat exhaustion,
docil is the sound of vultures
in the extremities.


swimming

Is it blue or is it green?

 
Perhaps its in this in-between
where you don’t know what’s up and what’s down that feels entirely like swimming,
eyes closed
diving head first into the cool water


          Open expansive liquid 
that I’m drawn to. 


Teal, I recall 
It’s teal.


I’ve never seen that shade before.


stroll

It’s near rickety trains,
above ground 
where the smell of freshly cut greens ~ wafts.

 
Over bridges of iron and steel 
whose brick buildings, weathered
from years of rain or snow 
sugarcoat.


Orange hydrangeas and the taste of maracuya,
sooth the impossibly loud sounds of my heartbeat

I smile and ask,

what is it you’ve done to me? 


blueberries

Bolts are shaped like blueberries,
        perhaps they too are indestructible


Burn in forest fires only to find themselves growing
regardless

they piece things together,
i’ve found
it’s fruit on the corner of train cars,
train cars,
         train cars,


where I find myself
            grown.

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