Let the night be a snapshot for
the joy of the day after, Damsels
wending to endings, but then
Analía is missing
off the trail of Santa, but
things are found.
Snapshot of a girl’s things:
purple scarf in the ice
blood, a shoe, an axe
and a herring;
slay marks elicit
Sanguine ice crystals lay in
a few clues of struggle.
Meteor showers streak
like lines of hope in the sky.
At the Lodge, Analía
is found safe and
laughing with Santa.
There are many gifts except
a girl with a purple scarf
is missing a celebration
A moment in the snow
bleeds out in a slurry
of red slush upon a snowbank.
The night is frozen in a moment.
Vignettes of death and joy.
I’d have thanked a sunny day
if rain had not befallen a road,
if the rain hadn’t become beautiful
as if she herself had been the rain
and then if the rain had not distracted me,
if hallucinations hadn’t paused and caused:
a vision of a bird on a porch, then I’d have
praised a sunny empty day, but the patter
seemed like an omen, and
I knew I had to take an exit ramp
to visit her ranch with a porch.
In praise of rain, and reigning shelter
you cared for me,
and a sick bird there
still wet, yet I
will not thank a sunny day, but
I’ll love all the chirps and songs of you
in the reigning beauty of rain.
Leave me if you must go to another love
like the Sun craves the dark of space
and commands we turn our face away
I will not let the Sun set on us, and
I can not sleep at all tonight
when the heat of Summer is cold
In the earthquake
the favorite cup of my love was broken,
broken too the urn of her on the mantelpiece;
you, angel, have gone again in the wind,
fires have broken out and
the ashes from you have mixed with
the ashes of disaster, and
I join the march of broken people
soon to die as a crevice widens with dawn.
My child cries out:
Why is the world broken?
There is a chance that
you’ve seen how I fly,
how my eyes glisten
when your passion stare
melts into a look of more:
more of us
And I hunger for you:
for more than
a chance encounter
more than a
You’re invited for a formal dinner:
wear your formal façade and
He was so not back petaling flowers,
pun puny punny-funny et. al. and Allen
With lazy dead daisies
in a tipped over vase,
the daze days were lazy by default, by fault
and fault lines on the grounds for failures:
the languor of liquor-desperate follies, yes
inert pens in unhandy hands
cupping lackadaisical thinking
in bursting bubbles falling
made a quaky lazybones
blink and cry ink.