love&weather

i. amo

i drained the plastic cup too fast

to quench the august afternoon

remembering the august morn

when (for two hours) i sat with you.

cool, your words drenched and fell

on infatuated ears,

off the table, evaporated

you left.

but i though we could re-enact

our sentimental, seated dance

i thought, but then i never asked

you

twenty ounces didn’t last

as long as i’d wished them to.

ii. avatar

from a chrome ceremony

next’ bicubic glassy glow

flittering in bright-eyes blinking

flirting across the room

and

against the glass

shattering incandescence

reflecting on the vanity

of khaki shawls and earth tone-sneakers

clinking cups

and sounds of lips

sipping

drenched, and dripping

with liquid decadence

dharma evident in air

and smells

love, the other weather

where the blankets cover

beds of the raining lands

over heads

wisps of winds

and the when of currents

vexes droughted grounds,

with brings hope

seasons change with,

condensing into we,

where the gables channel

like the folded hands

at the altar-

then warm is love and

bright are days

when the other weather

becomes a sun in springtime lands

together smiles at eachother.

i. amo

i drained the plastic cup too fast

to quench the august afternoon

remembering the august morn

when (for two hours) i sat with you.

cool, your words drenched and fell

on infatuated ears,

off the table, evaporated

you left.

but i though we could re-enact

our sentimental, seated dance

i thought, but then i never asked

you

twenty ounces didn’t last

as long as i’d wished them to.

ii. avatar

from a chrome ceremony

next’ bicubic glassy glow

flittering in bright-eyes blinking

flirting across the room

and

against the glass

shattering incandescence

reflecting on the vanity

of khaki shawls and earth tone-sneakers

clinking cups

and sounds of lips

sipping

drenched, and dripping

with liquid decadence

dharma evident in air

and smells

love, the other weather

where the blankets cover

beds of the raining lands

over heads

wisps of winds

and the when of currents

vexes droughted grounds,

with brings hope

seasons change with,

condensing into we,

where the gables channel

like the folded hands

at the altar-

then warm is love and

bright are days

when the other weather

becomes a sun in springtime lands

together smiles at eachother.

iii. eucharist

every time we are, it is

every place we go it sits

(departing) every time it rests

and waits a day for our return

in this place, every friend

a delicately made vessel

the meal isn’t on the plate

but in eachother

common room confessional

and sometimes-chapels in our chairs

with cups that sip away our sins

and bread to eat away our fears

you and i are all we need

and it is here, amen

amen.

i’ve fallen in love with

(archetypes, and flowers.

lipstick, skirts and shoes.

memories of past love,

those shooting-star feelings.

eyes, lips, high cheekbones.

holding hands

and walking

and sitting

and everything

but) you.

i’ve fallen in love with

(archetypes, and flowers.

lipstick, skirts and shoes.

memories of past love,

those shooting-star feelings.

eyes, lips, high cheekbones.

holding hands

and walking

and sitting

and everything

but) you.

iii. eucharist

every time we are, it is

every place we go it sits

(departing) every time it rests

and waits a day for our return

in this place, every friend

a delicately made vessel

the meal isn’t on the plate

but in eachother

common room confessional

and sometimes-chapels in our chairs

with cups that sip away our sins

and bread to eat away our fears

you and i are all we need

and it is here, amen

amen.

i’ve fallen in love with

(archetypes, and flowers.

lipstick, skirts and shoes.

memories of past love,

those shooting-star feelings.

eyes, lips, high cheekbones.

holding hands

and walking

and sitting

and everything

but) you.

floppy red draped from her hips

(her sister Rosa looked down

on her, behind a veil,

her face so white)

and the words come out in drips

when in the morning, waking

to a breath

under a mutter

lips grasp for another

and pointed towards the ceiling

trips out of bed, (reverse of

last night. beneath

a tattered curtain)

decorates eyes for

a wedding, they’re so in love

embraced by a you-mold,

i subtly changed my shape

to include the presence

of eyes, arms, words. . .

when i woke,

the place where you

had pressed against my cheek

when i wrote,

a smudge of ink

left on my hand

and when i left,

something on my tongue

so bittersweet

yesterdays and yous,

and evidence of

negative space

floppy red draped from her hips

(her sister Rosa looked down

on her, behind a veil,

her face so white)

and the words come out in drips

when in the morning, waking

to a breath

under a mutter

lips grasp for another

and pointed towards the ceiling

trips out of bed, (reverse of

last night. beneath

a tattered curtain)

decorates eyes for

a wedding, they’re so in love

the bitter cold- the kind that

drinks the warmth

from your coffee,

colors red

onto your face,

seeps into

your holey shoes-

that wasn’t what shook

my trembling hands.

are you bitter, mother branch

for weeping such a cost?

a leaf’s a love at last sight,

a leaf’s a love at loss

are you blind, old man winter,

pruner of all hands?

the cold’s a crying forest,

the cold’s a woeful land

november yawns at dusk,

til dawn’s warm hand

touches her shoulder,

reluctantly, she wakes,

realizing

she’s one year older today,

and so am i.

are you safe, darkened room,

a coffin like the ground?

a bed is but a seed’s rest,

a bed is not a sound.

are you tired, empty road

of traffic’s rumbling drone?

a passing car’s a past away

a passing car’s gone on,

alone.

and november yawns at dusk,

till dawn’s warm face

brushes her shoulder.

reluctantly, she wakes

realizing

she’s one year older today

and every time i wake,

i’m also one year older

than the day the trees began to cry

and this place became colder.

i can’t blow kisses

sometimes,

and if by respiration

i sigh,

the leaves off of trees

like ideas dying,

like the torn-out pages

will only reach the ground

blinks before fate

is a funny word,

worn like a coat button,

worn like a shoe

it’s alone in the cold.

sometimes,

i’m sorry for my lungs

to take in air

inside your door,

as if i did not walk

here in the cold

taking of my coat

for you-

but i am no leaf,

or page torn-out,

so i’m sorry if

i breathe a breath

of self-preservation.

i can’t blow kisses

sometimes,

and if by respiration

i sigh,

the leaves off of trees

like ideas dying,

like the torn-out pages

will only reach the ground

blinks before fate

is a funny word,

worn like a coat button,

worn like a shoe

it’s alone in the cold.

sometimes,

i’m sorry for my lungs

to take in air

inside your door,

as if i did not walk

here in the cold

taking of my coat

for you-

but i am no leaf,

or page torn-out,

so i’m sorry if

i breathe a breath

of self-preservation.

are you bitter, mother branch

for weeping such a cost?

a leaf’s a love at last sight,

a leaf’s a love at loss

are you blind, old man winter,

pruner of all hands?

the cold’s a crying forest,

the cold’s a woeful land

november yawns at dusk,

til dawn’s warm hand

touches her shoulder,

reluctantly, she wakes,

realizing

she’s one year older today,

and so am i.

are you safe, darkened room,

a coffin like the ground?

a bed is but a seed’s rest,

a bed is not a sound.

are you tired, empty road

of traffic’s rumbling drone?

a passing car’s a past away

a passing car’s gone on,

alone.

and november yawns at dusk,

till dawn’s warm face

brushes her shoulder.

reluctantly, she wakes

realizing

she’s one year older today

and every time i wake,

i’m also one year older

than the day the trees began to cry

and this place became colder.

now i cry with God,

paling is my artform

sounding up to His,

weakness under strength

thunder swallows heartbeats

storm drains swallow tears

now i cry with God,

paling is my artform

sounding up to His,

weakness under strength

thunder swallows heartbeats

storm drains swallow tears

i saw a tree undress for sleep,

a stoic beauty underneath the leaves

slow revealed in staggered fade,

falling

around a wrist and tracing lines

all rough and darkened, pressed against the sky

simple, naked gesture names

a reach

(then rest)

Awakened by the cold of day

she poses her arms with just enough grace

shivering in slender dance

that betrays her strength to stand

still

a silent structure much more pure

her silhouetted

form against the wind

makes my footsteps

seem

so

vain

when just enough grace sustains her reach

and the beauty of autumn is underneath.

for no flowers

are storehouses

like the silos

for our grain,

when some flowers

wither too soon

and out of season

fall the blooms

cursed by wind,

or word or cold

or heat or drought

or time (most of all)

-some have tried:

a florist’s hand

at natural cloth

is no match

for looms in grass

and fields of waving thread.

for no flowers

are storehouses

like the silos

for our grain,

when some flowers

wither too soon

and out of season

fall the blooms

cursed by wind,

or word or cold

or heat or drought

or time (most of all)

-some have tried:

a florist’s hand

at natural cloth

is no match

for looms in grass

and fields of waving thread.

you died too soon

(we would say)

and no more

are your petals

and for no flowers

are storehouses

like the silos

for our grain.

but we, weeping, try

to bring you back

fruitless is our hand:

our vain attempt

to change the season

withers like the grass,

again.

i saw a tree undress for sleep,

a stoic beauty underneath the leaves

slow revealed in staggered fade,

falling

around a wrist and tracing lines

all rough and darkened, pressed against the sky

simple, naked gesture names

a reach

(then rest)

Awakened by the cold of day

she poses her arms with just enough grace

shivering in slender dance

that betrays her strength to stand

still

a silent structure much more pure

her silhouetted

form against the wind

makes my footsteps

seem

so

vain

when just enough grace sustains her reach

and the beauty of autumn is underneath.

when just enough grace sustains her reach

and the beauty of autumn is underneath.

i miss

the late night air

and the morning breeze

around cafe scents

i miss

the oaken leaves

and the red sunsets

behind the clouds, wisps,

i miss

the hum of cars

and the sound of your voice

over locusts’ hiss

i miss

the cycle of the days

and the end of all this.

i stand above

in the dark and

see lit-up vowels

on a once-quiet plain

like whispers to no-one

that i hear them

a concession

to a secret love

to talk to patterns

with my wonder

and my withouts

how could i?

or could i lie

face-up on roads and

fill my eyes

with filaments of

when just enough grace sustains her reach

and the beauty of autumn is underneath.

i stand above

in the dark and

see lit-up vowels

on a once-quiet plain

like whispers to no-one

that i hear them

a concession

to a secret love

to talk to patterns

with my wonder

and my withouts

how could i?

or could i lie

face-up on roads and

fill my eyes

with filaments of

i miss

the late night air

and the morning breeze

around cafe scents

i miss

the oaken leaves

and the red sunsets

behind the clouds, wisps,

i miss

the hum of cars

and the sound of your voice

over locusts’ hiss

i miss

the cycle of the days

and the end of all this.

nothing escapes your dusky eyes on a winter’s eve

and the starry skies sift through dark mirrors casting gemstones in your stare,

your eyes recalling fallen snow from clouds above

all aglow like neon lights, lit up by the moon and city nights.

Luminance dare not escape your dusky eyes, nor beauty,

and even my heart fails to fly away.

dust collects inside a house

as snow upon the mountaintops

dust to dust, ash to ash

death to life, spring

is lovely to the senses

pleases with its warmth

and scents, colors bright

the sunlight as it waxes, but

movement is illusory,

for it betrays the moment:

juxtaposed against the sky

the ground is pregnant, and

potent are the petals

tucked behind the bud

and pressed into darkness

words between the pages

dust collects inside a house

as snow upon the mountaintops

dust to dust, ash to ash

death to life, spring

is lovely to the senses

pleases with its warmth

and scents, colors bright

the sunlight as it waxes, but

movement is illusory,

for it betrays the moment:

juxtaposed against the sky

the ground is pregnant, and

potent are the petals

tucked behind the bud

and pressed into darkness

words between the pages

nothing escapes your dusky eyes on a winter’s eve

and the starry skies sift through dark mirrors casting gemstones in your stare,

your eyes recalling fallen snow from clouds above

all aglow like neon lights, lit up by the moon and city nights.

Luminance dare not escape your dusky eyes, nor beauty,

and even my heart fails to fly away.

i.

you and i,

we are two houses

on a ridge of our realities

founded on philosophies

we are brittle, and square

and it is known that wind opposes

all perpendicularity

but almost unnoticed

the nuances of the air

Sun fades fallen snow

rays strike a lonely blow

covered in soft cold once,

now the ground gives itself away.

sullen out with color now

once was silk, light with snow

Now the earth reaches through,

Awake.

ii.

the sky spits on the ground

the hail rattles on the ground

the way the windows also rattle

when the sound of thunder invokes their fear

and so each pane

in the sun is an eye

but in the storm

is an ear.

i.

you and i,

we are two houses

on a ridge of our realities

founded on philosophies

we are brittle, and square

and it is known that wind opposes

all perpendicularity

but almost unnoticed

the nuances of the air

ii.

the sky spits on the ground

the hail rattles on the ground

the way the windows also rattle

when the sound of thunder invokes their fear

and so each pane

in the sun is an eye

but in the storm

is an ear.

Sun fades fallen snow

rays strike a lonely blow

covered in soft cold once,

now the ground gives itself away.

sullen out with color now

once was silk, light with snow

Now the earth reaches through,

Awake.

iii.

lanterns flicker

dancing tongues

speak out into the night

people move about inside

songs are sung as light.

you and i,

we must construct

such a glass around ourselves

so we may too

may dance about

unafraid of weather.