Morning Pyschopomp Raga

There are so many rooms in the house of sleep,
and for too long,
I’ve been pacing the hallway
listening to things clatter from behind locked doors,
and I’ve been too tired to stop
and search my cluttered pockets
for the keys.

It’s easy to talk myself into
believing this isn’t necessary,
that I have everything I need
in this narrow corridor—
but last night sleep possessed me
on the couch, still in my coat.
There was no arguing with it…

The Gift

A discreet sort of madness 

burns
in the raw opal of my iris,
a blue flame that sets me apart—
ecstatic, relentless,
intriguing and sly,
quick as a comet—
but this didn’t come from the sky
or from some stardust I swallowed
that forever poisoned me
with its brilliance

so I have to give credit
where credit is due:

you,
oh you—
the reason for me,
I can’t escape
geneaology…

Archaeos

for L.T. Rest in adventure, friend… you are cherished and remembered forever.

if you read between the lines
that striate my iris,

you’ll find a hidden reservoir of blue
with a name written on the other side
in invisible ink—

a poem written so long ago
and with such a young and heavy hand
that pen trespassed paper and broke into sky,

until I cried because no page could contain
the words that could describe him—

Passiflora

for Tori Amos (who appeared in the guise of a guardian angel in a dream)

in a place safe from battle
she awoke me from my deathbed
gently in a dream
of mauve and velvet
and the starry crowns

of violet-green passiflora

exploding from a fire escape,

attracting sparrows—
the only indicator

of surrealism

and half-asleep and blinking
I waited at her wooden table
as a teapot whistled—
and as she rode through the doorframe
like a birthday candle flame
in a dress made of peacock feathers,

I just listened

…

Water

…you shared with me the riddle
your ancestors passed down in secret—
if I solved it, you told me,
I would understand
everything—
it will sound too easy,
but wait, you warned me—
soon I’ll realize
that life itself
is happening
solely for this mystery

so I observed the clouds first—
since that’s where water came from,
but they told me to look to the ocean…

Words

Take these words:
they’re all I have to give.
If I wait for their unfolding,
I’m lost in the flood of quicksilver,
motive drowning in fulfillment —
too much satiation, too much matter,
and my mouth falls dry —
but words satisfy quietly
a distance from object you can’t hold
or let go of —

so take these words —
we can survive on them for years,
dreaming in their shadows,
dancing on their bones,
sucking them like bright candies
on a long highway ride…

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