poems after sobriety

People get closer than expectedNow the plauge has been liftedHeading home to empty kitchensTo make meals for no one elsePoised against love as if it meantSomething to them – thoughI lost the difference in Derrida’sMeanings now paid in coinsCharging yourself less onlyTo make more in sacred piety“The Road is Long” for thoseI met along the…

“They used to put on raves here?” – You spitWe pass a sign. It reads: Welcome to FairylandI see that the world’s fair is now just a landfillWe sat and I told myself I would quitOnly if michael told me so – He did notThe Ghost of The Red Lion Inn agreedShe was the kind…

We Microdosed Dependency and paid for the death Of an over used Clipper card we stuffed in our pocketsWe made a pair of flimsy French fake IDs Hoping paris would soon follow in our wakeOnly to find ourselves spending the honeymoon Wailing at the Berlin Wall – Screaming our frustrationsI only know marriage in the…

I was not thereFor thirteen minutesI was not thereNineteen & nineteen years oldTwo separate householdsWhere a plot of pain would unfoldThey preach that Yeshua would walk on palms & sing psalms with Jose y Maria(The very Maria I called Ida)But that did not happen.Instead I -A field medic –Held a girl who’s last breath had…

Lost & prayingSan Antonio findsMore of an exitThan God can providePete’s keysRusted locksFair gameLuna’s childMy father, DomingoWith a Devil’s ComplexMy mother, lily-likeGrander in sanityThough No ExitTruly lasts I wasrazed in spite ofNurturing a Succubus

Pablo Neruda wondersIf in his grave he will rotBecause even in the soilHis heart’s love is like theWater on the beaches we’veAll called home –No es que soy boriquaEn la luna, tambien esQue soy la luna

I settle in coldReady for the nightA chorus of loverswho cried outFor in that deathI would seeA teacher of songwho would speakOf valiance unfoldedI would fly bychecking the timeTwice painted on my wrist –I miss the sleepless nightsWhere I heard the coquiTelling tales& Weaving lies

The art of flirtation is dead -Although she need no introductionShe is well founded in the gravelof a late night red wire voicesI find her bereft of all antiquityIn sexts of the witching hourIt is impossible to distinguish herFrom the cries of pained angstAnd yet –And yet…I know her look, her evil eyeHer soft brazen…

1200 miles–When we metit was cold.Many modern meetingsare cold.Typing isolated tapsdrinking in decryptedvestigial voices – phoned inI recall your voice on the linea hand outstretched in the snowI fell asleep to the cool touch of stone.1.5 miles–It did not take long for us to rot in your bed.Though I a virgin, and you a bullIt…

Heavy-handed I lookTo memories of BlissTo know what it is likeTo feel pen & paper inkAn illness with no nameLeaves me to blame