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what is there to convince me
that a night spent huddled in the warmth of the earth's core
that the light of the hazy, unfocused stars
can pull
in the same way, or better than,
the warmth of a breathing human
light pulsing off the nearness
of uninterpretable eyes while
the naked body fills the spaces between
blanket, leg, unspoken context?

liberated beneath a velveteen underworld
twisted trees and soft, un-existing galaxies
it would have been different, perhaps, to
have slept in the tent
and not outside of it

i am not convinced
that all time lost can be regained
or that my best and longest lovers
will always accord in their invitations and dreams
certainly i am a man of nature and of sound,
the shadowless non-contrast of a world
clothed in nighttime

also too i believe in heat.

what is clear, beyond my own simple context
is that there is breath either way, inhalations
of the greater kind
having made the choice
between one way and the other
i will choose next to stay close
even against the beckon of a cold spring night.

second try, a little more quiet

i have said, to pick oneself up out of
a small village and to land in this place, manahatta
it does not do. in the next room over
my lovers whisper of their lovers
or of betrayals that i could not have committed.
this is not the worst of things, nor unwelcome.
the passing cars are scarce
(a thing for which i am thankful)
and the birds exist, at least, if not in color
form, song as in the near-off land that
beckoned me in my dreams.

outside, there are no volcanoes.
not one.

i have said too that mine is not a wanting love
but it is love that i want. unable to weave
such subtle threads, now, today,
(unwilling, i should say; stubborn)
it seems deliriously and swimmingly pointless
to listen in on the murmurs of the friends i have
echoing through my hollow face
as i write poem after poem in search of
such an apocalyptic peace
as others before me
have found.

travel diary

unsolicited solitude, slinking, squirming this is not
ometepetl, the nahuatl fire-gods are not
singing in my ear and i am not
home, but rather
in a place.
from here, we grow.
riveting tin to hear the rain at night
pulling out moon and chickenwire from my hair
the uneven sunset, imperfect lives we fix our gaze upon.

who gets our help?
who gets to help us?
who gets to be a part of these clandestine whispers,
the ones of the first world (or last), the ones of love and hate
of a life so unbearable that one must move?
certainly not i, to any of these. not today.

"¿has visto managua, chico?"
"no."
"quizás algun día..."

he shakes his head.

opisthion

this is not the end of things
the backward-time
twilit, too-soon, and i must speak
that i am not the harbinger
or even the figurehead
no prophet am i
just a swelling resurgence
apples, pears, fruits of the valley
green things that never grew
or never knew how, or never were taught
what am i but a small part
of these new roots

one is normalized

all is one, said the scientist
glumly crystallizing quaternary carbons
aglow with sinuous and silent stressors
internally howling, rancor and stench in his claustrophobic,
nearly deceased sense of self

incessantly, unpleasantly self-aware. ambitious.

pure venom, pure reductionism. all wrong. all indistinguishable.
everything plays into
everything else.

sulfates

the way you roll off of my tongue
escalating, waving the way you carry on
stumbling me home with
scents of roses, ears full of cologne
two in the morning, kid, it's way past late
the arid lack of you in my mouth
the way you carry on
walking me home with a nighttime presence
or a daytime stare, it's too early for this
a case of you would knock me
far off my feet.

dendrites

the fire and its flames
slip and curl
unfurl the unnecessary questions
the why am i here and the what
am i doing, the curdling of the sea
the cerulean indigestions
the fire and its flames
weightless and sharp
burning out dreams
seaside towns and their silken skies
hollowing caves for shelter
singeing skin for sensation
ashing me down, crumbling, allowing cessation.