1.21.2016

Parisian Ossuary


City of lights, city of romance,
words lost on your breath,

the catacombs are blood
beneath the streets in
the city of death.

Fueled by the eternal
mortality of human flesh,
fueled by the red-eyed lovers
lost with empty chests.

Its hard to breath again,
the floor is gone to screaming
haikus over the starfull sky.

Listening to my head,
whispering the thoughts
I never wanted, the golden
lie was told, the leather
cross shines with an
unimitable strobe
of humanity.

My poems reek of
solemn solace,
they start to hyperventilate
behind my back,
they kiss the sun
and burn in violet fire.

Yesterday’s cigarette ash
waits in my driveway
for the rain.

The rain that never comes.

The knife in my neck believed me.

The rooster didn’t wait until morning.

Menthol breath and bleeding
gums, the marriage of the crows
roaming Roman alleyways,
the perfect girl’s tongue-in-teeth
smile,
and love in vain,
once more.

1.15.2016

two cold bare feet

cool winter Cagliari
   morning.

Winter.

  up on a Pirri rooftop.

cold espresso and a cigarette.

  birds cooing, dogs barking.

smoke mimicing mine
  from a chimney across
      the street.

grey cloud masses
   obscure the view.
a patch of sunlight,
on the city in the distance,
   slowly fades away.

burning wood and olive branches.

simple, subtle, supple noon.

1.12.2016

Once a madness


Once a madness,
now enflamed as love,
a tepid growth
of warmth
through
all the
extremities.

A growing
warmth
that never
leaves,

growing
with the
summer,

growing
with the
autumn leaves,

growing with
the waves
and moon.

Growing when
you smile at me,

a moth pretends
it’s a butterfly,
reaching for the
light,

as my heartbeat
quickens with
the rain that
isn’t
there.

1.11.2016

Untitled Notebook Poem


The words a dictionary can’t define
live not in the riverbeds of sophistication,

or in the oceans of knowledge,

but in the streams
of consciousness
that turn red with
love.

1.09.2016

Ceaseless Rhythm


Then,
  you find something
    in rhythm with
       your heart,

   and if you’re wise
 you’ll sing and dance
    with the beat,
 move forever
   in it’s incessant
   hum.

        Do not
forget, even for a second,
that sacred passion
  that makes
  each day
 excruciatingly
    happy
  and calm,
the passion that
    makes the beat
              go on…
                    and on.

No train beat
    can mimic it.

No birdsong
    can sing the day
   awake like it can.

 It steals me,
while morningtime
       breaks
         summer beats

and airplanes
sing their gothic
   songs.

My rhythm
     won’t stop
  until

     my poems

cease to be
      her breath.