Master of Foxhounds

something
punched my ankle and bit my heel while stripping the shoe and sock from my toes.
the bottom half of my leg trunks
are naked, and something,
      THAT THING,
has buried itself in my digits.
that hasty
little


eager
      little arrowhead
       (hidden for one
                thousand
       years until now)
beat me to the chase.

Dark Roast

The taste of that darkness
knocked me back into my chair.
My tongue fought against the
backs of my stained teeth,
struggling to break from the prison
of my jaw, so rigid.
Even the strongest muscle,
which my body has prepared
for these very battles,
is crippled by the bitter
sip of espresso.
No one warned me
that this small ounce
of mature flavor
is aptly named a shot.
A shot through my palate,
once soft before the shock
that heavied my mouth like cement.
A shot through the maze in my brain,
caffeine setting fire
to those once dumb parts.
A shot through my heart,
hardly equipped for these impulses in excess.
A shot, an injury, a bitter realization.
Is this a thing, a dark thing,
that becomes less terrible with age?
I cannot imagine that now,
my tongue still seeking
an unstained cavity
for just a moment of distraction.
The taste that remains is dull,
and throbs mildly in my veins.
A very forgettable pain.
The foreign baristas, those robust lovers,
have mastered this sensory weapon.
They have tamed the beast, or learned to live with it,
to learn from it,
letting it only control the moment.
This was my first encounter,
and so young.
I hear you grow used to the flavor,
with experience.
A taste easier to swallow,
in time.

So I brought it here to you.

I pull my knee down
like a mountain
below the sea
and these tiny clouds
are a crown
around the space

the waters pool
on the shore
my stomach
like a tide drawn
high and out
by breath

that motion
coming and going
leaves a mark
on the rocks,
woven lines on my fingers
from warmth of friction

drops of water
make the fields of grasses
tumble down the
sloping hills
my shoulders
my hair

this hot season
that makes steam rise
from everything
makes flowers unfold their petals
my lips part

And you tell me
that you aren’t compelled
to be there.
That you are comfortable
under your roof under the stars.

I am
not
so separate.

Turn

There is a hint of frustration in the air
on this burnt orange day,
which is technically, by the calendar, fall.
With my eyes closed and my feet stepping forward
I anticipate the crunching of leaves,
but find June bugs beneath my shoe instead.

I don’t know why complaints are our songs instead
of celebrations that the warmer air
has allowed our trees to keep their leaves
with green for at least a handful of days.
Yet we are always looking forward
to the autumn when those leaves let go and fall.

I find that I am not alone in that we have all fallen
out of love with September, who has chosen heat instead
of the familiar chill. Move forward
with the time. Get your proud nose out of the air
and let us celebrate our old days
together! If you love us, forget the sun and leave!

The autumn months are better because of the leaves
in piles, that seems to be begging for someone to fall
into like a child. Better because the days
of work are shorter and the nights see company instead.
Better because you can fill your lungs up with the air,
and its coolness powers you to keep pressing forward.

We need the hope of everything going forward.
It’s why we are so attracted to the changing of the leaves
and the feeling of thinness in the air.
The constant changing so familiar to fall
helps us to take delight in our own seasons instead
of dreading the differences of coming days.

We are holding out that today
is the last day of the summer. Move forward,
like clockwork! It is our secret desire that instead
of pretty green branches, autumn would make way for red leaves.
Do not make us wait any longer for the fall
that makes us want to taste the air.

Those cold days bring more than just a change to the air.
Our souls can move forward with the coming of fall.
It gives us peace, instead of fear, for the shedding of our own leaves.

Night Light

The sun brings out a certain quality in you.
Your eyes seem brighter, your laugh sounds lighter,
but the shade shows me something more true.
I notice the shadows hugging the lines
that make you look more like your age.
Don’t call them wrinkles
because I put them there!
I brought those smiles to your face.

I love how romantic and tender you get.
The glances you steal have a charming appeal
when candlelight brings out your blush.
But when the light in the room gets dim
I can feel your cheeks warm at my touch.
Don’t dare to cover
yourself with a sheet!
I love those curves at your waist.

There isn’t a thing in the world you could do
to change the way I look at you.
Not in spite of your changing face,
not with conditions about your shape.
There is no one more lovely,
No one more true,
No one could age with more grace than you do.

Feast Your Eyes

I just can’t wait
to taste
this dish.
Oh,
there’s such beauty
in this room.
Did you set out flowers,
or is that just your perfume?
Your apron
must have come undone!
Please, let me assist.
It’s hard to tie,
so sorry
if I linger on your hips.

You’ve got flour in your hair
and some sugar
on your lips,
but perhaps you wouldn’t mind
if I removed that
with a kiss.

I hope you don’t misunderstand
when I say
this kitchen is so small.
Let me suggest
we take this meal
to your room
just down
the hall.

El Hombre Gris, Neruda, Viejo

Sus palabras son extrañas
en mi país, mi mente,
a mi comprensión sobrio.
Sus versos de la liberación
del agua en rios libres,
poesía con el corazón
de un niño enojado:
un niño confuso que sabe
la realidad del universo
y su vecindad.
Me hace que desea
una voz
más riudosa así que pueda
susurrar mis ideas
con la convicción
de ese niñito. Pero,
¿qué de ese hombre que hace amor
a cada mujer,
a una tierra que escuche,
a las paginas que entienden sus intenciones?
Deseo que conocerle también.
¿Cómo es posible que
esas dos mentes
existen por el mismo hombre,
el las mismas líneas de la pasión?
Lo sé cuando
estoy asustado perder
todo lo que amo y odio.
Lo sé cuando
lucho para la belleza
con mis palabras,
de mis palabras,
para cavar por lo menos
un sepulcro hermoso
en los márgenes.
Lo sé cuando
puedo encontrar humor
en esas tragedias
una causa para luchar más
en ese amor.
El mismo amor
del niño,
que vino sea el hombre,
que vendrá sea su libertad.



Una traducción para los que no hablan el lenguaje del amor:


Your words are strange
in my country, my mind,
to my sober comprehension.
Your verses of the liberation
of water in free rivers,
poetry with the heart of
an angry boy:
a confused boy who knows
the reality of the universe
and his neighborhood.
You make me want
a louder voice
so that I can whisper my ideas
with the conviction
of that little boy. But
what of that man who makes love
to each woman,
to an earth that listens,
to the pages that understand his intentions?
I want to know him too.
How is it possible that
those two minds
exist in the same man,
in the same lines of passion?
I know it when
I am fearful of losing
everything that I love and hate.
I know it when
I fight for the beauty with my words,
in my words,
or at least to dig
a beautiful grave
in the margins.
I know it when
I can find humor
in those tragedies,
a cause to fight more
for that love.
The same love
of the boy,
who grew to become the man,
who will grow to become your freedom.

Drive Through

Babel, The Last Kiss.
"So is that all that happens?"
I don't understand why our culture needs action
It's precisely those kinds of movies that have the highest potential
to make people think and challenge their beliefs in the moments of silence and awkwardness they incite.
and we want better endings
we want twists
and drama
we don't want reality
unless it's not really real, unless we can vote with texts on the endings.
we are so impatient
so selfish
so simple
so decisive
and it makes me so disappointed.
it makes me want to stand up
and tell people to shut up and listen
or watch
or
to just keep running their mouths
as if no one were listening,
until they started saying things they truly believed.
then I'd be satisfied.
because it's all bullshit
and because I can't even enjoy a movie about pain anymore
I'm better off watching the news
wham bam thank you ma'am
crisis in the middle east
death in japan
terrorism
thank you, that was quite a show.
I'm glad I know the ending
fuck
that's why it's scary writing poetry
it's scary speaking my mind
it's scary to be quiet too
because it's just not big enough.
fuck

So Clever With Things

I mean too much to myself now.
I cannot compromise those beautifully unique things about myself
to satisfy even a lover who will share my heart.
And please, if you know and love me,
don't praise me for the sake of praising.
It exhausts me to give thanks for the sake of the gesture.
Just shower me with kindess,
genuine acts and words of your appreciation
with no agenda for cordiality.
I am not stuck in my ways,
oblivious to a changing world
and my dynamic nature.
I challenge you to help me grow into new desires,
out of bad habits.
I will change with you,
but I will never leave my deepest person behind.
I pray that you discover
that intimate part of me
and that you embrace it tighter than I ever could,
love it more deeply than I know how.
I am delightful, I know that to be true.
I hope you understand
that this deliberation is not an aim of conceit.
I just recently discovered my worth
and I hope you burn to take me on.
I am sufficient.
I am more than enough for any man.
I will love you more than any woman can.
I just ask that you respect and adore the creation I have become.
I am an entirely wonderful creation
ready with love for you.