Dance Partner

In these close quarters,
the altered rhythms
of our breath,
the strong mix of sweat
and saliva smells like-

the sick-sweet ache
of thorough thrill;

an uncaged thing
its new, fuller range
delightfully discovering.

The cry that quakes
and quenches our
thirsty throats
sounds like-

old pain exorcised;

wrongs and wounds annealed;

new joy tapped
while time writhes,
warping, bending-

union.

Lilly of the Valley

"Mutant Mosquito?",
thought still sluggishly
sleeping Charles,
as to a whir and buzz
most unaccustomed
was he, with amazement,
roused up.

A hummingbird,
chupaflor, huitzil,
hovered at his exposed
and hair-covered chest,
and with extended beak
and flicking tongue did
upon his best nectar sup.

After the disorienting
dart and dash,
when realized he
the benign nature
of that most delicate,
thirsty, wingly thing,
was he to bemusement shifted,
the initial annoyance
of being tickled
from his fickle dreams
evaporated, lifted.

While a deep-soft laugh
in his whiskey'd throat
rolled and bubbled
did he decide
(most untroubled)
that should his fist-sized,
blood-red flower
nourish this sweet-seeking,
blithe and beautiful bird
for even only an hour,
then was he as finely Fated
as any man of whom
he'd ever heard.

Toward the Cemetery/ Hasta el Cementario

I’ve come
to bury your ghosts.

Which is to say
I’d like to vanquish them-

completely.

And completely without violence.

Let them go
and fly out
your haunted heart.

I’ll let them live
in the oceanic spaces
of which my dreams
are composed.

There will they die-

of freedom.

And when they exhale
their last breaths,
in my own mouth
will the most
blessed canticles be-

ready to send them
heavenward.

Incense will be burned-

solemnly.

In the depths
of my own chest,
in luxurious coffins,
will they rest
until they convert
themselves into flowers-

so I can offer them
to you every day.



He venido
para interrar
tus fantasmas.

Que es decir
esperaría vencerlas-

completamente.

Y completamente sin violencia.

Suéltelas volar fuera de
tu corazón embrujado.

Las permitiré habitar en
los espacios oceánicos
de que mis suenos
son compuestos.

Ahí las van a morir-

de libertad.

Y cuando exhalan
los últimos suspiros,
en mi boca propria,
estarán los canticos
más bendigos-

listos para mandarlas hacia cielo.

El incenso sera quemado-

con solemnidad.

En los fondos
de mi pecho proprio,
en sarcaphagos lujosos,
descansarán hasta que
se convierten a flores-

para que yo podría
ofrecértelas cada día.

On Night's Wing

I dreamed

her hair

poured, draping drunkenly,
through my foundling fingers;

ran, a stunned silk,
beneath my quenched lips;

spoke an elegant Farsi-
of great Priestess
conquerings told,
entwined the tale with
Kingly, honorable
surrenderings most masculine.

And I understood.

I dreamed

dark storms of song
danced delirious
in her great-dark eyes;
ghostly pasts hurtled wildly by
smelling of lost, black-red roses.

I dreamed

her strong, small hands
bled light in great, sweet swaths
drew mercurial tears from
my much amazed eyes
and coaxed light laughter
from my howl-torched throat aloft.

I dreamed

a jasmine scented
amulet dangled from her
lithe and lovely neck.


Then she said my name,
soft,
beneath her breath,
as it,
strong and simple,
sang its prayed,
protective note.

Wag: Response

Once was Charles,
by Queenly chiding,
given to know that
shy was he to gift his tongue.

An now that he's hung a while
upon that quiply comment
does he oathe without equivocating-

My sweet, my tongue I give,
to you, most freely,
replete with it's limited ability
to frame such sounds
designed to touch
your dearest hearing.

These bellows too, my lungs,
give you easily I,
to resonate the chords
where my throat's heart thrums.

And if you'll bear my nearness
these cardiac sounds ,
these pounds of rhythm mine
outside the poor constraints
of a wronging, rectilinear toy of time.

These I can and will and do
most natur'lly give,
if only you might deign
return them then to me,
leave me room that I might employ
my fearless songs and whispers
toward some intimation of eternity,
blow soft upon your dear heart's
wondrous, sometime wavering flame
while flowers fragrant
now bend and bow
and bud and bloom-

the efflorescence
of your one true name.

Both Ends Burnt

Sister me most wondrously
and I'll brazen brother you
into many a mild mischief.

Accept this green silk kerchief
with only perhaps a surprised sigh
and as these drooped lids quiver
will I read you Rumi
til slip you sweet beneath
slumbers dream-riddled river
companioned by my glowing glance.

We'll make a mockery of chance,
choosing 'stead to set a world
gone much awry aright again,
our heads lifted heavenward
when the dawn o'ertakes the night.

The Lay of the Loam

Passing by the new-churned
eucalyptus mulch exuding
much strange perfume,
the next, from mnemonic ooze
of two-score years,
does Charlie, yeoman-like, exhume.

Upon the sharpened stake
each time (questionably, but)
without fail does Chuck
himself most naturally impale.

The pain comes, somehow still,
as half-surprise and
we can easily surmise
that, as life flows from him freely,
then whimpers he, but barely audible,
as if he half-suspected
the summed up scars of years
(though himself conquers
each/every time his deepy fears)
might allay the initial, unconfected spike
of pure-white pain
which never assumes
the fickle form of pleasure,
as splashes out his truest treasure. (love)

And though the evidence lay
like a seeping war-glove incarnadine
on drifty dreams of snow
(a pristine white most renewable)
Charles can fathom no other course
than the hapless expenditure
(in molten dribbles from the crucible)
of his little well-sprung wealth
that ever over-bloats
his human heart's account-
a direct deposited line
long established from the
supra-abundant fount,
the one Good, True, Beauteous Source.

Bagatelle: Sophia's Symphony

The tune of you
wrings things of me
which, ever unbidden,
only mean the most
an untethered hawk heart's
untrained voice through bill/beak
can freely, not merely speak,
but say songsingingly.

Tis not a consummation
cooked-up by whisk-whirring wrists
through the lank lists
of retrograde recipes,
but the full wrought score
of star-struck symphonies.