Blood

Generative Capacity


In the parking lot of an oversized, corporate grocery store in a small-standard college town, a chubby nine-year old Hispanic boy was choking on his own blood.

Streamers of it streaked his dirty cheeks and chin, gobs of it coughed down the front of his oversized and now undecipherable T-shirt (quite possibly black with a familiar wrestling logo adorning the fabric front). He did not know where his mother was. His mother, who was more concerned with her grocery selection (quite possibly not the healthiest given her own overweight appearance and casual disregard) left him in the car for "not very long at all" while she chose her poisons from the long shelf lines in Capitalism's clutches.

A kind, middle-aged woman found the boy stumbling deliriously around the cemented plains of the parking lot, where heat waves rose and bounced off the glares of mirrored metals. She spoke to him in soothing tones and pressed a miniscule wad of paper towel against the scarlet; he struggled to recede from hyperventilation and spit fat piles of the thick fluid onto the dusty pavement. It stained the woman's carefully manicured hand, swirled around the edges of her carefully placed gold ring, and threatened the careful floral blends on her blouse, but through calm questions she ignored it.

Another concerned couple caught the scene in passing and found an old red dishtowel in their backseat, rushing it to the boy, who was now surrounded by strangers and sweat and blood but no worried mother or father. The solo napkin drenched with body dahlia:discarded and replaced, as more curious bystanders peaked and briskly turned away. The male measure of the couple, a selfless and wise Capricorn, lowered the bleeding child to the hot asphalt between the cart return and a vague Suburban as the workers were alerted of the parent-less boy's distress. Warm-hearted Cap's inherent quiescence placated the boy slowly, while the girlfriend quietly and gently distracted him.

The milling marketing masses tuned out the loudspeaker like always, and the unfit mother blended into the aisles like the stale frigidity in the meat section (plump with preservatives and mindlessness, the rankness of exploit). While her son had stumbled out of the deserted car in a panic to seek help, unable to manually cease the flow of his blood, she tapped her Target flip-flops and tried to decide between instant rice and potatoes-in-a-pouch (might I add, neglecting to pick up repetitive cell calls).

Uneven pitches of tone and breaths of frantic pants as his chest heaved in beats of two and three; between all these he admitted this bleed was the first with unknown cause and the worst one yet. His grubby white sneakers were now gilded with the cardinal spattering of a day he wasn't soon to forget...hopefully. His mother, on the other hand-
she is lost already.

His sable hair shone slick in the perspired drops of sun, a close cropped sort of flat top, and the blood kept ebbing nimble and sticky beneath the pressure of rag. His own wet, coagulated gurgles brought cries of near terror from his throat; the couple murmured comforts and convinced him to lean, lean and breathe deliberately,
it's okay, it's slowing,
Mom will be here soon.
She'll hear her own voice through the overhead and come running.
He drank the cold water Capricorn brought him and attempted communication through muffled fear.

When Mom came, however, she simply walked to the corner between cart return and car where he was slumped and wedged. With demand to know what had taken place in her innocent absence, annoyance a plenty, her only worry centered on abandoned groceries and the possibility of her car doors left unopened in her son's haste to find a pair of attentive eyes. As she went to check on her vehicle, he spat more wads of red on himself and averted his eyes in shame.

His rescuers patted his sweat stained back and hesitantly took leave with hidden disgust,
sinking into the sanctuary of themselves and trying to fight off the anger and creeps of disquietude.




and on a night that silent sirens swirled with patriotic colors that penetrated fall's new stillness,
and outside the open doors the air smelled of moist, sunken earth,
she almost stepped on dried wax the color of dried blood in the bathroom,
a simple tealight spill after he lined her bath with candles and incense,
turning off harsh fluorescents and opening the window to let the cricket music in.
But now as she studied the clammy, hardened splotches of burgundy and copper,
so oddly reminiscent of mummified plasma
she was no longer thinking of their wedding music,
and instead was remembering the involuntary twitches and visions and impulses
as the energy cross-haired her body and electrified her pore by pore.
She remembered her dreams of harvest,
of strange Indian women lying upon her mother's bed unclothed from the waist-down
in search of healing-
she kneaded the dark skin and dug for the abnormalities she feared in herself,
feeling the entity of her own fertility impale her
with questions and a truth she could not uncover nor deny.
She felt the call, the sting of semiotics,
remembered her own blood being pulled from her core like clockwork
or moon hypnotism,
the red tide,
or return of fruitfulness after las inundaciones y la sequía.

And then, the choking...the painful, heavy inhalations of heady sex in disguise.


He left his roseate juice in disregard and
She imagined the ghost of a teakettle to be a train

but this time, when she fled the bathroom,
she didn't forget to close the door to keep the heat in,
the oxygen out.

Alpha

in the beginning

before Shy died.

When she was a child of no more than seven, she began to long for traveling rollerskating rinks she was yet to know existed. Circus tents of bright carmine and vivid sapphire pitching above smooth wooden floors that shone in the Texas sun. It was autumn, and she sunk into the season with glee and a soft grace that already spoke of her magic and lined the folds of her imagination. She hung plastic pumpkin buckets in the most modest of the front yard branches, and when the time was ripe she would delve into the scarf collection and cloak herself in labyrinths until she wore thin. In the trees she was at peace. Sometimes the air would get too thick and her throat would tighten, but up there, against the stains and curls of bark, she could see her veins more clearly beneath the youth of her skin.


When she learned how to roller blade, her body taught itself to move.
She slid her callused feet into the pads wedged between the gleaming plastic and streamlined strange driveways, catapulting and churning visions into asphalt battles. Her hours were injected into dimensions of pebbles and crystal mattresses beneath the sharp wooden starburst of home. The backyard forest of nonexistent broken bones and the berries;
the berries, that mystery of eternal clusters of
ever present red planet pomes
and lines and lines and
corners and droves
of...
borders.

trophies and the taciturn

Take me into you.
Take me in like the last lingering beads of heat,
as the remnants of summer cling to the suckling breast of fall,
hang on-
Hold tight to the rush ,
arms clenching veins pushing back, into
the final hoorah of summer's sex.
Self love in the bathroom.
Some sort of plain cubicle with its dusty tile sores,
its reckoning-
Olive ceramic beckoning and backwards light switch,
the splash-splotches of nondescript gray cloud plaster clusters
and the lack of window is still inviting,
however briefly.


Sweat globules seep slowly.
Damp hairline and now bleeding into those chestnut strips of bangs,
stale and somehow still novice-
Unseasoned in this birth of season,
like the chewed bones of sea or grandma carpet
the color of Redwood bark.
Blackberries ripen rapidly in this air.
Stilled breath pocket for old pangs,
pressed roughly against the counter edge and driven like horizontal rain-
His hill country underestimated patience,
as the stormy redhead's ruddy cheeks place in her
an eerie and enigmatic calm,
a beloved echo for her own roots unparalleled
as Red scavenges for cigarettes and
his chipper black-clad form molds itself to the football futon.


Stove-top pot jolts.
Packed tight heat waves,
like familiarity of regularity, the cathartic tea aims to soothe-
The blunt end of those reflections
or maybe it's the feathered fedora curls that simplify,
bulls-eye,
tongue-rub out the stamps of months passed.
Smooth stimulus.
Scratch your coated teeth upon enamel sheen,
watching a certain red-wine stupor stumble to the fridge-
Meteoric dozing and douse of second-round shrimp,
the filtered water tastes like blank slate and mobile home memories
that are not quite your own.


Cool air crispy-creeps.
Suddenly radioless room and the smell of meat,
temperature summoning and reeks of classroom flings-
Old French movies,
black and white and steaming tea mugs of last year
(always the Queen of Selection)
recalling the half stranger with a knack for black humor
and wordplay sliding his cold hands up the steaming curves
of beneath-the-shirt.
Lips flawlessly pushy.
And the not-quite-bedtime memories overpower,
the heated panting and lonely bed smudged with dirt-
Avoided like hush that night the apocryphal shotgun leaned into the corner
and he whispered into your silence,
sweetened the itch of skin.





Tonight muscles bunch around bones
and dreams are side by side
assembly lines of vitamin warriors like movable mountains,
a sort of St. John's wort mood.

shame on

i am black eyes under limp hair. stringy drizzle in the threads of thrift stores clothes-supposedly the best kind- (supposedly, always supposedly, shot in the dark. he says it's all a shot in the dark)-
but easy to come by, already worn thirty-six times. there is vibrancy in the shift of continents but no condolence for those who sponge it up. drop by drop by drop and still faded. still the holes they sink within themselves, into a sheltered veil of safely cultured ignorance. and the blender mind, shallow breath, saggy old bones.
and when you touch my cheek and tread my dirt, the barren land is moist once more, fertile and teeming with ornamental lines of grace. not of this world. i will twist and struggle and thrash and shriek, i will cut my own bruises just to watch the contradiction of processed progress,
but each time i refuse to stamp myself with the destruction of healthy water molecules and trembling bits of jade-shaded hopelessness. the wine of sticks of iron in my organs.
ashes ashes. we all break down. the threshold is a humid piece of chewed gum underneath the sneaker of success. redress and then undress, curl up in your own stagnant fears again. stand tall, every day is Judgement calling. his beard hides grey well but then there is the black, the rivulets and streamers of sky and of black, pure and potent and hard-shell. where is the fallacy? each time I send search teams, instead it finds me. every time. time. every time. illusion, seclusion, delusion, fuck you quantum physics. fuck you organized religion. fuck your science and your truth and your common sense and your metaphysics and your independent ethics and your rationale and your irrational love. in the end, we all fall down. until then, i just want a warm bed and windows open to let fall crawl in.

scathed, it will pass and evaporate like the hover and blink of endless nights.

the moment missed,

dismissed as time blankets the thick of brine in 

double nostril sigh,

choke...don't choke,

i'll gently pull the lever of layers

and peel away the cloaked pressure of

black. black like the minds of so many lives in denial,

table scraps for the monster and its alien claws toughen,

molars harden, eyes darkened,

grows and grows and grows and.

you think I will allow it.

too locked away from light to peel the lids open and meet the eyes 

of dreams. brush of skin against that lightest of feather chamber, 

opening dainty and gulping air like grass. it transfers and lingers

like years of clumped salt and dirty grains. mouthful. mouth full

of torn pockets of exploit. teeth clenched tight around the gnarled, 

decrepit fingers of beat. deadbeat smiles. 

slow rain like soft rockets of discontent. nervous shifting,

sheetless mattress. 

it's ok to sink a little, deep.

vapid and colorless. melted sands of grime and shit like mudsockets,

but keep your fingers stretched high

and wait for that moment the twine wraps tight.

on the other side,

there are no rainbow goblins. 

golden smears of sticky sustenance,

honey windchimes.

the repletion of fall's lullabies stapled into your joints,

droplets sucked up the strings of leafveins until the void is echoing once more,

and the abyss is quite suddenly 

lacking a certain lifelessness.

up and up and.

i found you on the riverbanks breathing red sand like justice
and when the waters sighed, your hair curled against my skin
and held me there with flower stems.
the latitude of leaves and multiplication surges
depends upon the ability to release the follicles from their
waxy prison. behind the source there burns the sun,
behind the sun there is an efflorescence
an opening, an outstretched network of spiderweb furrows,
the silhouette of truth.
imagine-
truth in the sway of your laughs underneath the shade
these sweet brief rains, tints of shedding and peculiarly crooked change
they fall upon me like the draping of autumn.
and September sings in
saffron ceramic.
I'll make that beloved 5 minute walk,
7 if I linger just right at the muddy roots
imagining you as though you
were truly real and not just some figment of
foreign imagination,
floating on the puddles, purely peppermint-ginger memories
where the souls of our soles are stamped into the wet dirt
like the ash in the lungs of Santa Ana summer in the West.
deep violet stranger;
the companionship of cardinals-
not simply outside the panes but in the trees of reach.
I'm imagining the red that runs like sweet mountain thyme
beneath the paper thin crown of skin
of delicate wrist.
you are, it is,
piercing.
space scalped and then hung up like hot compress towels to
air out,
dehydrate,
rest.
and yes,
I remember the star-winds
I can practically feel the brisk pull of the arteries
the moon-call of the tar-gravel rocks upon the sticky roof tiles of the treehouse,
the bottom of the mug my relief.

unwound,
founded on nothing more than the rush of electric blood and thunder
as my bones greet the season with
new reason to
unfold.
étranger douce , vous remplissez mon cœur.

for those of you that want to follow our travels

here is our travel blog:
http://hummingbirdhighway.blogspot.com

Creaky bones sighed beneath the stretch of stringy, wilting skin that beset her weary body, singing in blind faith as only the most devotional of hymns do, stretching the silences like painstakingly hand-woven quilted blankets. Her handled crutch inched forward languidly, she was in no rush to live, or to remember. Breakfast was a stable subsidy of the not-so -distant future, and the wide, perpetual grin congealing her cracked red-stained lips gave confirmation to this fact: she was not afraid of death.

Genavive moved with the slow reason and humility of forgetful grace, stringy oyster hair giving glimpses of scalp while her gaping, toothless turtle mouth sculpted an inexhaustible smile that seemed to give away her merciful joy. That same jack-o-lantern smile was fixed on the recollections of the sincerity of spring rather than aches and pains, no matter how prevailing or arresting. She held the steaming mug close to her hollowed chest, which was still gently rising, falling beneath her cream blazer; the pantyhose crumpling under her open toed sandals, balling near the pinky toes, seemed to sing of the rings of years past like the innards of the most archaic, judicious of redwoods. Her peach silk shirt rustled in diplomatic complacency as her napkin stippled her face in an effortlessly stately manner, pooling into a lingering and unwavering gaze that emanated contentment.

She sat in the bay window alcove looking out over the neglected yard and once-garden she could no longer afford the strength to sufficiently maintain, no tinge of regret visible in her eyes, all forlorn debris wiped clean by reverence for life and all it brings. Her dry whisper of a cough barely made a ripple in the gentle air of the pea green house with its teal and coral trim, brittle like the trembling age-spotted hands and sunken wrinkles of time etched into the corners of her eyes. There was an immeasurable dignity in her gestures, the clutching of the warm mug with two hands, grasping the cup as if it were a prize, a small treasure in peacefully delicate times. She always drank hot apple cider in the summertime even though it made sweat gather and bead beneath her nylon stockings;it stirred a peaceful familiarity within her that reminded her of years past, cold winters in her old New Jersey home, back when she could still bounce for hours on the oversized trampoline with her eyes closed. Soothing to the soul.

Staring out clasped in dream, she soaked up the scenes of droopy green landscape, with cracked tin watering cans, rustling brass wind chimes, and rusting wrought iron gate lines, posts pointing skywards in silent exalt. The old wooden swing swung and creaked lightly from the unfolding hands of the largest tree branches shadowing the sloping hills of yard, its frayed yellow rope peeling away like slivers shellfish skin and quivering in the humid breeze. Genavive's children lived halfway across the continent and never bothered to visit. The grandchildren they had blessed her with were already too old for swings, but even when they were still ripe with youth and budding with energy, the swing had hung lifeless and empty from the sprawling elm arms, a device she had appealed upon a strapping teen boy in the neighborhood-teeming with moxie and the need to build, move, create-to decorate the lands of her lawn with. She had hoped it would help entice more children to come and play within her viewing distance, so she could watch contentedly from her window, absorbing the purity of ecstasy and echoed staccato bursts of laughter. She was a happy woman. But even the happiest get lonely. Perhaps those that are capable of containing the most powerful of joys are also prone to the the heaviest of isolations.

But of course, it helped to have Erica. Erica had been her saving benefaction for many years now, had shared these long silences bridging tighter and wider as the days grew quieter. Erica had been with her, by her side, for the most lackluster of nights and the most aching of mornings. Erica had faithfully walked beside her every cool evening, down the road to the edge of the the grass knolls above the wide expanse of clearing that Genavive so adored-although not as much as the feel of the soft down of tight chocolate curls of her companion underneath her wizened hand. There was one lone tree that stood strong in the dead center of the valley, a tree of unknown name and breed that proudly shed its sheath of leaves in winter, reveling in self rebirth, and turned fire copper at the onset of autumn's sigh. This tree was very special to her. For this tree, Genavive had a place of the highest veneration perched on the pumpings of her heart, right next to the spot in which her beloved Erica remained.

Before dinner every evening the temperature allowed, she slowly worked her hips specifically to make this walk, for this tree, with Erica traipsing alongside her with no lack of loyalty. She would always stop her journey at the boundaries of the lush precipices bordering the trough, wishing she possessed the same balance, virility, and sturdiness the tree maintained, so that she could venture down the uneven terrain of the hills and cross into the mossy lowlands where the tree lived and breathed the Southern air like sailors inhaled the sea. But she did not lose herself in the wistful longing, she did not burden herself with ruefulness. Instead, she lived through the tree, from a distance- she lived its history, its honor, its growth, its vitality and veins of salted earth. She would remember the feel of another's fingers with her own. She would relish in the tree's whispered secrets, and the way that all existence ceased to exist when she spoke with it, from afar. With Erica always sprawling in the shade near her feet, sometimes panting and squinty eyed when the sun bled just right, but always watching her, Genavive would pray for love to always remain, and for each day she once again opened her eyes to reveal to her the world.

tendrils

my marrow's spiderweb tunnels echo with your walk of life. across the wide red river grains of the Southern Provinces of the Sahara and within the staccato outlines of the museums of Old France, you drive my smallest bits to become something infinitely more powerful than religion.

my pigtails ache for your alternative medicine.
soaring through the high reaches of arches in the dirt crosswalks of the Capri Islands
or building bridges across the muscled bronze contours of a new breed of David-
you were felt in fibrous existence even months before your bang thrust persistence
of entrance.

(in Rome we walked the alleys of rippled drumbeat breath circles,
i sensed you growing wild in the distant reaches of my secret Arcadia,
in every shadowed brick crevice.
moonlight illumination.
between the book bars and coaxed cafe Campari hushes,
i taste a real woman's soft whisper meditation,
her chocolate serenity,
and watch her shoulders curve just the right way on the stairway:
and already an effortlessly blinding birthing of light grew on my pixie rings of peace,
my self salvation germinating.
we push our approbation through the lands of search-
barbarian bus stations and Jesus sandals that wrap our ankles and break our bread,
and somewhere a slice of my head is simmering
in the juices of your pre-bliss preparation;
beard saturation &
rainbow recollections
that lead me to believe every step was one in accordance with the laws of
Lot.)

pigment

there are times I feel it wash over me like the crests of distant oceans,
when corrosion is nothing more than a few days worth of eager impatience-
waiting to stack the waning wood piles high with gasoline coatings as the
old foreigner blue jays sing,
vicious, soaring libertines-
supposedly spiritual symbolism that sometimes spontaneously
chokes you:
distant and mocking.
Yet a resonance of your stretched taut smile,
under the history of darkened Southern lit streets, in the feared fluorescent grocery aisle,
morphs the memories of false whimsies
into shades of future paintings-lights in the mountain villages and trees,
trains that only flee onward into the invisible cities of blue hour vagaries:
suddenly-
it is rather unthreatening,
recalling
the reminders of days you felt the sting
of ambivalence shake your roots like an unrecognizable pair of eyes
in a red lipped smudged mirror
after night mist
(set in and settled in your calcium-deficient bones).
Only now they creep upon you like the reposed recognition of happiness,
outpourings of admittance and proliferation like spring showers
in the beckoning field light
of morning,
when the drought is at its weakest
and the terrors crouching belly-flat beneath the floorboards of home
are only quivers of earth, now
like miniscule, mysterious seeds of delight,
meant to rattle the lungs and flat land plains of familiar territory
with new fight evident in their book-end fringed eyes,
(pages upon pages of beautiful, poised artifacts, now alive)
becoming echoes of folk tales around fires,
succumbing,
when everyone knows exactly when the bean stalk begins its growth,
can sense the dirt shaking beneath their curled toes.





(like water for chocolate),
i will be
your carefully contemplated ambivalence towards technology,
your favorite instilled and installed gift of ideology,
your specialty ingredient, fresh-baked cakewalk reward,
your sexually explicit diving board,
your 1000 years of solitude,
your pre and post creation music mood,
your freedom river waterfall walk,
your bedroom artwork stolen chalk,
your everything free-falling, flying, and flowing,
the children you raise beyond candlelit autumn sowing,
the movement of your point to point,
the oil that heals each premature creaking joint,
the learning that blossom-feeds your large cowboy-hatted head from every (forgiven) ego driven instance,
the conquering and delivering of every new country's distance,
the softly inhaled dust of your centuries birthing ancestry and crossing blood lines,
the building of villas and vine-strewn gardens that embody the beginnings of family wines,
the seeping of your silent stillness,
the raging of your self nemesis.




(like connect the dot chakras in mediation),
you are
my canopy of zipline refuge alongside fresh mango strewn leaves,
my shifting season-weather skin metamorphoses,
my pureed purified water pancakes (not flawless in shape but perfect in taste) upon waking,
my gleeful, leaping jump into epic leaf piles after heaven sent sweaty afternoons of raking,
my homemade salsa, immaculate enchilada cravings fulfilled,
my mid-winter hot spring dip sigh of relief involuntarily spilled,
my inexplainable, irreversible "chemical reaction,"
my sunburned headrush of simple, pacific satisfaction,
my home brightening houseplant leaves and blooms, purified oxygen,
the foreign sunbeams & moonrays coaxing my eyelids open upon the lands of every place i've been,
the hand constructed bridge for Mecci's pond,
the unexplained lightshow through the glowing horizon fog,
the magical realism growing wild,
the triumph attained with each unpaved mile,
the dictionary of favorite nursery rhymes,
the rocks that pull me skywards on solitary and shared mountain climbs,
the gleam in my masked eyes above naked flesh deep within November wood,
the absorbent petal protection, my goblin Robin-hood.





the most organic, timeless phenomenon
has lit the wicks of my life.
and around every corner i find
more reason.

el tramposo [parte uno]

The day the news was spread like squealing lightning siren fire, from eave to eave like dangling, dripping, darkened happenings beneath moist autumn streetlights, a woman came home to her husband. She found him lying naked on the cambric couch, drowning in his dreams, where dew gathered in his throat and children with eager eyes sucked the ends of honeysuckle blooms and stood nearby, leering. The steel kettle was feverish and whistling deliriously, reminiscent of the wailing of winds and whistle warning alarms as she pulled her tornado tennis shoes on and tried not to think about the threat of sickness, tried not to float away.


Sometimes in his subconscious he would play with fire trucks- not minuscule plastic trinkets, but bright red monsters with ladders like claws, swinging and swooping and soaring. But on this particular afternoon, with its tightly wound coating of humidity that kept the mosquitoes plump and greedy, his soul was trying to escape-and in its valiant thrash of struggle it was choking him, floundering legs kicking at his throat and licking him with flame like Midwest field grass fires.


In another life, at another time, he would wake up startled and soaked in his own sweat, and his wife would sit next to him in the darkening light of the living room and rest her hand on his stomach in concern. She knew what it felt like, sleep that strangles, and she would murmur into his ear, nose nestled into the coarse curls of sideburns there, and tell him,
"Sometimes I forget I'm looking at another person."


He would twist his position and realign himself with her, breathing beginning to recycle, and ask her in a voice guttural with extinction,
"What do you think you're looking at?"


"Myself."


But on this day, he would not awake yet, would keep himself suspended in the sludge of detox as he slept, slept restlessly like a child on the bright blue nap mats after recess and apple juice, and she padded quietly past to the kitchen to check the voice messages, feeling the mounting pressure of trepidation swarm her skin in prickles like something was beyond not right in the world. The birds weren't chirping. There was a deep and thickening silence like the static weight of underground, but with a barely concealed current of menace like the hot wired charge rumbling through the hollows of tall ceiling rods.


The air outside was boiling in such a way that made people forget, momentarily, their own names, and stumble through the darkness of the day.


And the woman found no red blinking light amidst the black plastic, but she found a hastily scribbled note on the purple sticky pad resting on the dining room table,


Call Joe


it read.


The woman felt a strangeness wash over her, and she picked up the cold cordless phone receiver and walked to the patio door window, drawing the blinds high and peering outside as the storm rolled in quicker like the unfurling spindly fingers lining God's palms. She hated the sound of dial tones and dialed the familiar number quickly; next door the new neighbors were watching a Wonder Years marathon, and the screen flickered across the grey outpourings of bloodclotted clouds, beckoning to her from the twilight zone of Janurary's dim.


Rain pellets suddenly blossomed across the clear panes before her eyes, picking up shards of shattered light like CMWK rainbow droplets of saliva on a computer screen, and she fell to her knees and screamed. Her despair was shrill and careening as the telephone slipped from her hand and hit the chilly, indifferent marble tiles with a crack and a snap, breaking apart and eviscerating itself instantaneously.

breakfast

And he refilled his coffee, quietly beautiful beyond the crystal rock candle holder, peppermint smile; even the adolescent pre-teens with cokes and cartoon knapsacks and string-bean legs could not ruin this morning moment. Over the conjoining gazes, there lived a lone kiwi splash of green on the plate palette, as the lovers spoke in the tongue of Southern forest regions where canopies sheltered the flourishing foliage beds like queens protected by stone air castles.
"I want to kiss you again," he whispered across his second cup, crumbs clinging to his favorite sweater sleeves lined with static along the casually fathomless talk of authentic Spanish cooking, Mediterranean lifestyle cravings. His coffee spilled as he sheepishly stumbled over his concession and thanked her absentmindedly but meaningfully for breakfast, gratitude slipping from his profuse, scaffolded lips.

And they became symmetrical strawberries. Split perfectly down the middle, two equal portioned parts of a ripe, delectable whole. Fiddling, he was quite simply breathtaking, and there was talk of Franz Kafpka: breakfast of champions, hungover life of the Gods. There are gourmet cheeses, fresh fruit, chocolate croissants, and fresh baguettes; across the small, subtly lit room, the old woman coughs, a dry and wheezing sound, as he inquires the restaurant owners about the coffee...something about the earthy-ness of Fredricksburg origin.
And then there was Mexico. "I have to show you that place."

And she believed him.

The dark, rich Mexican coffee. Thick, sweet bread fresh and steaming in the windows of the street bakeries, fish tacos and virginal bananas. The mention of chorizo and barbacoa cooked in a plow disc, with iced chileda to wash down with, made saliva gather in her mouth regardless of her vegetarianism.

It's all about the separation of flavors. Being inside of one another. And she could see her reflection, echoed back effortlessly.
He was growing passionate about Tibetan highlanders, the practices of women marrying families of brothers...and she was studying his pineapple-brie smudged fingertips intently, wondering if it would be considered an appropriate response to suck the remnants off. Probably not. But when he worked himself up and his storm blew in,when the vehenemence of his animation beset him, she couldn't help but humor the stumble of her composure. He licked them, catching her eye. That smile. He. Him.


"Did you hear about what the Pope said?"

One statement.
Cleaning the crumbs.

The Catholic Church was tooting their own horn and she felt the relishing of glory as a lightbulb fizzled on in his top right brain quadrant and he text messaged his editor about the next article he would write. She could sense it turning over in his words, passion singing and slightly smug as he deserved to be.

Later she would long for the Tibetan Book of the Dead, hearing the Munich monks chanting once more in the spinning carousel of her head, haunting her beautifully. He would take notice and mental note it, plotting the next novel he would buy her, small gesture of affection. He had packed up all his things, ready to send off, live a monastic life, and it was flooding his eyes as he admitted this, holding her hands across the table. He loved her enough to be her fellow conundrum, watching her closely from the other side, the sway of her rainbow earrings, lips tumbling smiles at her sadistic curiosity and mention of past pain inflictions.

The Universe works in the most mysterious of ways, sabotaging her sabotage. It would not let anything ruin these slow Sunday mornings,
the sunlight newly glowing in their eyes as they descend ever deeper into the world,
completing circles of soul.
Welcome home.








There exists a transition from religious to spiritual,
it is a crowning point, a spark plug, exigency,
high noon.

Stillness speaks.
"When you stop trying to define it, you can actually be it."

All the in between,
the most powerful of joys, ecstasy,
are not meant to be spoken about aloud or described accurately (and yet still, the pen is impossible to set down sometimes).
And maybe being a good writer is to understand this.

even Russia.

Cool air seeping in from the grubby, cracked windowsill soothing and smudging
along naked flesh,smothered in rivulets of warm water
beneath the detached shower head
being cradled between bare legs
in careful cogitation
as if a honeyed olive oil soapsud complexion
could celebrate
a body's onomatopoeia,
reinforcing the source
through port manteau
like Spilling
fresh homemade salsa,
piquant and playfully sheepish/
straight from the jar all over work clothes
or the beans about being in love, accidentally, on the deck over the river mid-rant.

Clumsy collection of collisions
akin to a pre Columbian coalition
of stalwart-skinned feet caught in the gateway;
beloved hindrances
like hitting sensitive hips on the doorknob,
or reading Great Gatsby out loud during the simplicity of bathroom trips.
And there exists an aggregate becoming,
coming
full circle,
a newfound and spellbound Discovery Zone
after loss of patience and false defeat.
Her finding lies
in an earth vendor,
an enthusiastic lender
of an open ear to the elderly Air Force storytelling
and ramblings
about gardening and Indians,
as squash plants and basil leaves distinguish
a damp and dewy resting place,
untrodden landscape,
state-of-the-art
and slowly paving the path
for nest building,
exploring bandwidths of growth
from the smoldering ash of eradication
creation from destruction/
jolting forward in soaring space and
vein webbing.



The Night Sky stretched and wrapped tight across the swept lands of epitome
like MamMah's quilted counterpane,
painstakingly and fearlessly encompassing all directions,
nursing
childhood nostalgia bled from starlight, sweeping winds of Capri blowing secrets
and the three of them have suddenly become
the most exquisitely delicate of
leaden soldiers
looking forward.



It must be.
(Es muss sein)
Go.
Take it and run with it.
Respect Wordsworth's original words
as the clouds of Plaster edge ever closer to the moon,
floating with Southern seeds of the future's call to arms
advocating steel sunflowers around a wedding band finger
and yet foreseeing something far more superior,
when questioning the hunting of doves
quickly becomes an entity
quite utterly crushed
beneath the helm
of the favorite
worn out
pair of
shoon.

She took off her black strappy sandals,
soft wine stained lips
parted in contemplation
of past flings,
voice transpiring
to echo like moisture-beaded cave swallows
in the hollowed glass.

Her Mexican blood was bubbling
as a floater's should,
head bent to smell the non-jasmine blossoms
in the tree overhang.
The dynamic embroidery on the caustic yellow
of her blouse
clung to her thin frame
in geometric floral swirled traditions
with practiced ease,
and she was fully unaware of her cultivated beauty.

They sat outside on the cabin's stone porch
beyond the stretch of summer,
sweat beading quiet as he wove tales from his mountain days,
stealing glances at Honey from across the way,
the cradle of hammock recumbent
and swaying.
He spoke of the music of lightning storms,
of rock throwing contests
in open

air fields,
of week long sojourns to nirvana;
eyes glazed with recollection of escape.


She would find ways to blame herself
and they would resist,
choking her words away
with
rich wines,
virtuous foods,
heated water,
tree fairy tinkle-bells of laughter,
sour cream coffee cake.

And they celebrated her life that night. The severing of a tie, the receding of stagnant tide.

Creaky bones sighed beneath the stretch of stringy, wilting skin that beset her weary body, singing in blind faith as only the most devotional of hymns do, stretching the silences like painstakingly hand-woven quilted blankets. Her handled crutch inched forward languidly, she was in no rush to live, or to remember. Breakfast was a stable subsidy of the not-so -distant future, and the wide, perpetual grin congealing her cracked red-stained lips gave confirmation to this fact: she was not afraid of death.

Genavive moved with the slow reason and humility of forgetful grace, stringy oyster hair giving glimpses of scalp while her gaping, toothless turtle mouth sculpted an inexhaustible smile that seemed to give away her merciful joy. That same jack-o-lantern smile was fixed on the recollections of the shrill, sincere giggles of youths rather than aches and pains, no matter how prevailing or arresting. She held the steaming mug close to her hollowed chest, which was still and gently rising, falling beneath her cream blazer; the pantyhose crumpling under her open toed sandals, balling near the pinky toes, seemed to sing of the rings of years past like the innards of the most archaic, judicious of redwoods. Her peach silk shirt rustled in diplomatic complacency as her napkin stippled her face in an effortlessly stately manner, pooling into a lingering and unwavering gaze that emanated contentment.

She sat in the bay window alcove looking out over the neglected yard and once-garden she could no longer afford the strength to sufficiently maintain, no tinge of regret visible in her eyes, all forlorn debris wiped clean by reverence for life and all it brings. Her dry whisper of a cough barely made a ripple in the gentle air of the pea green house with its teal and coral trim, brittle like the trembling age-spotted hands and sunken wrinkles of time etched into the corners of her eyes. There was an immeasurable dignity in her gestures, the clutching of the warm mug with two hands, grasping the cup as if it were a prize, a small treasure in peacefully delicate times. She always drank hot apple cider in the summertime even though it made sweat gather and bead beneath her nylon stockings;it stirred a peaceful familiarity within her that reminded her of years past, cold winters in her old New Jersey home, back when she could still bounce for hours on the oversized trampoline with her eyes closed. Soothing to the soul.

Staring out clasped in dream, she soaked up the scenes of droopy green landscape, with cracked tin watering cans, rusting brass wind chimes, and wrought iron gate lines, posts pointing skywards in silent exalt. The old wooden swing swung and creaked lightly from the unfolding hands of the largest tree branches shadowing the sloping hills of yard, its frayed yellow rope peeling away like slivers shellfish skin and quivering in the humid breeze. Genavive's children lived halfway across the continent and never bothered to visit. The grandchildren they had blessed her with were already too old for swings, but even when they were still ripe with youth and budding with energy, the swing had hung lifeless and empty from the sprawling elm arms, a device she had appealed upon a strapping teen boy in the neighborhood-teeming with moxie and the need to build, move, create-to decorate the lands of her lawn with. She had hoped it would help entice more children to come and play within her viewing distance, so she could watch contentedly from her window, absorbing the purity of ecstasy and echoed staccato bursts of laughter. She was a happy woman. But even the happiest got lonely. Perhaps those that are capable of containing the most powerful of joys are also prone to the the heaviest of isolations.

But of course, it helped to have Erica. Erica had been her saving benefaction for many years now, had shared these long silences stretching tighter and wider as the days grew quieter. Erica had been with her, by her side, for the most lackluster nights nights and the most aching of mornings. Erica had faithfully walked beside her every cool evening, down the road to the edge of the the grass knolls above the wide expanse of clearing that Genavive so adored-although not as much as the feel of the soft down of tight chocolate curls of her companion underneath her wizened hand. There was one lone tree that stood strong in the dead center of the valley, a tree of unknown name and breed that proudly shed its sheath of leaves in winter, reveling in self rebirth, and turned fire copper at the onset of autumn's sigh. This tree was very special to her. For this tree, Genavive had a place of the highest veneration perched on the pumpings of her heart, right next to the spot in which her beloved Erica remained.

Before dinner every evening the temperature allowed, she slowly worked her hips specifically to make this walk, for this tree, with Erica traipsing alongside her with no lack of loyalty. She would always stop her journey at the boundaries of the lush precipices bordering the trough, wishing she possessed the same balance, virility, and sturdiness the tree maintained, so that she could venture down the uneven terrain of the hills and cross into the mossy lowlands where the tree lived and breathed the Southern air like sailors inhaled the sea. But she did not lose herself in the wistful longing, she did not burden herself with ruefulness. Instead, she lived through the tree, from a distance- she lived its history, its honor, its growth, its vitality and veins of salted earth. She would remember the feel of another's fingers with her own. She would relish in the tree's whispered secrets, and the way that all existence ceased to exist when she spoke with it, from afar. With Erica always sprawling in the shade near her feet, sometimes panting and squinty eyed when the sun bled just right, but always watching her, Genavive would pray for love to always remain, and for each day she once again opened her eyes to reveal to her the world.

hún jörð

this purple rubber heart is a gift.


and the frame had pink gloved hands, green and pink (white 70's) sneakers chewed at the toes,
mangled and majestic,
it stood stooped and clumsy awkward,
but still supporting itself proudly with tribute to the endowment stored within.
and inside its sweet iconic embrace was the little boy, bald head and Dumbo ears,
cupcake icing smudged across his boyish lips,
goofy and half mischievous glee scrolled across tender features-
like the undercurrent of colorful candy shops with unicorn horn rainbow swirl lollipops-
complemented by the buffalo t-shirt.
and the eyes were the same,
still penetrating at such a young age.

Later, there are eyes like Bibles in the ancient ruins, converging and manifesting origin as she swears she will not let him lose faith in himself, ever. Stale popcorn like simple pleasures, the blood of Christ like living room floor promises, thriving in the light of your spirit and the life of your essence.

"Issachar is one tough donkey
crouching beneath the corrals,
When he saw how good the place was,
how pleasant the country,
He gave up his freedom
and went to work as a slave.


I wait in hope of your salvation, God.
Gad will be attacked by bandits,
but he will trip them up.
Asher will become famous for rich foods,
candies and sweets fit for kings.
Naphtali is a deer running free
that gives birth to lovely fawns.
May the blessings of your father
exceed the blessings of the ancient mountains,
surpass the delights of the eternal hills,
May they rest on the head of Joseph,
on the brow of the one consecrated among his brothers.

Benjamin is a ravenous wolf,
all day he gorges on his kill,
at evening divides what's left over....

Joseph threw himself on his father, wept over him, and kissed him."


Genesis 49.16-50


It's funny, the things we forget when we become too proud.


And
(No use crying over)
wine spilled...
(but they still did)
Over her,
and suddenly it was upon him as well,
and the pages were rolling with the waves of the purity of past moments
that are held balanced between two palms outstretched, exposed and naked,
there is nothing secular about the way your lips seek mine out in reverence, between shadows and the sun's last fading rays.


Two slots in the ice cube try were replete with watery sustenance, and there are gunshot fireworks on the horizon, like bombs falling in the distance, as the little girl with pigtails and the young boy in denim suspenders held hands and walked until the end of the earth was upon them. His heart was heavy and hers was thump-thumping furiously as she suddenly sensed his hidden tribulation, as the earth shattered from its outskirts inwards, explosives descending to splinter fate as they lit the hillsides with broken yet newly blossomed faith and highlighted the small children's darkening, freckled skin...devotion bleeding shard-bits of the allegiance it had been simmering in. The passing cars were whispering hints of street rain like they did in the early summer when porch lights were still meaningful enough to remember, when the warm oil-soaked strands of Yucca branches called out across the foreign lands to lure in strangers from the past. Sirens squalled in the far-off as God spoke through her for the first time. They cried together, and they loved one another, and the Universe collapsed inwards as the lights of the city skyline sizzled and fizzled out, disappearing with puff-puff-puffs of air (breathing in, and out, slow and steady). And yet, in the darkness, their eyes still sparkled.



Frozen wine bottles and giving trees were not quite enough for me,
but I will hold your hand no matter how dim the candles flicker,
and when all else ceases mobility I will swallow the disquiet until I begin to tremble and cannot contain the movement of your soul,
then I will explode and scatter (fear existing but abating)
all over and upon your every waking moment
like the realization that clouds can burst while still propagating.










And when the morning comes the sickness will be in her, stout, having sucked it from the martyr's skin while he slept and subconsciously slipped out of, shed the sloughed shell of struggle.