Three of Hearts

I am a relatively reserved person. I keep my expressions calm. Yet I feel often lustful. Moments exist when I’m scared of my own heart. Not that it will stop ticking, but the wilds she speaks.

We spent a couple hours talking at the coffee shop. Mostly about relationships and illusions. The way people feed into one another and create groupthink. All these little cliques of belief. The masses. The contingents. Securing a particular language. A secret code only for the initiates. If you don’t speak it, or attempt to learn, you are as good as gone.

I kept looking at her lips. Kissing them. My eyes betraying desire. I try not to stare, or ogle, but I do enjoy welcoming beauty into the dark wells of my sight. To see souls. To see into, more fully, the life of a person. She has a little goddess etching of birthmark on the underside of her chin near her neck. I remembered kissing it and gently nibbling. Running fingers through her hair, scratching lightly the back of her head. Pressing forehead against forehead. Seeing her eyes. “What do you want? It’s okay. What do you need?” I fell headlong. I kept seeing her teeth, scrunched up like a groundhog close to the earth. The fragrance of soil on her lips.

“You love being a poet, don’t you? Everyone must want to know who you are writing about.”

Lightning sparks from foreheads. Thoughts kiss. Like the rapidity of electric currents. Third eye linguistics, enmeshed. Timelessly conspiring, the telepathy of ancients. Entangled in breaths.

Veronica went on an interview at a sewing & design school. She unofficially received a job as a professor within minutes of the directors seeing her work. She spent hours making a bra. This is magic! She kept yelling. Until it wasn’t magic anymore. And then she let out a string of expletives. Honestly. She’s probably one of the best stitchers in the city. I’m proud of her for that. And humbled by her craft. It’s not terribly difficult to spot someone who holds mastery of an art upon seeing their work. There’s not a certificate in the world that can do that for you. It’s a gift.

I get so frustrated when I read the news, especially international politics, the continued destabilization of countries for the sake of oil. Power. Money. Control. The willful blind eye, American as apple pie. I ask myself why? Why do I keep reading. It’s maddening. Yet I have this urgency to stay informed. To shout into the abyss. A drop in the bucket of worldwide corruption.

I’m all for lowbrow art. But the esteem for being a dolt, it breaks my heart. There’s so much at stake. How easily will people be swept off their feet?

How do we speak a common language without losing the cut of a subversive tongue?

She grabbed my hand and put my fingers in her mouth. Tasting them in the early morning. Wetting them again. We pressed into one another. Gently at first, then more roughly, I wrapped a hand around her neck.

The largesse of an artist. The utter frustration of the writer whose pen keeps running out of ink. How are we supposed to communicate with one another profoundly if we haven’t dug out & filled in our own trenches?

She stepped out of the car, and I could smell the lingering of blood.

Every night she stayed over, the next morning I dreamt of animals. Horses. A large goat. They nuzzled me. We looked into each others eyes. They, always much stronger than I.

A Surrealist Episode

The witching hour, when shadows transform into a menagerie of wild beasts & the imagination overcomes the so-called debate. Politics flutter and break like a butterfly out of chrysalis, transforming flags whipping loudly in the patriotic wind. Money burns on the sandy shores of a foregone hell & a hand basket fills itself with fruits & pleasant greens. Alcohol sucks down softly, a straw of memories too intoxicated to decipher the trail of delicate cells, spellbound & brainwashed in personal sputtered out beliefs.

Anarchy astute in the complexifying crumble of conversations, wide-eyed & grasping symposiums of stars aligned disjointed like the steps of little ants climbing hills & bees building a geometry of medicine sticky in harmonic sweetness.

I wish it was a dream, said the realist. I know it is a game, said the dreamer.

And a galaxy falls in crunching leaves, hidden beneath a pile of shit not scooped, smeared across a sidewalk cracked open by magic weeds & trees buckle riotous against imposed structure.

Somewhere, the aroma of a chimney mirrors an invisible signal, the armageddon is false.

The apocalypse is up in smoke.

The telltale end only decomposed & nourishing a frenzied beginning.

The trickle down of ancestral lines wrapping roots around bent knees seated nicely at desks chipping away at pixels. Digital statues chiseled in cyber consciousness like the knowledge of babies bound up in wombs feeding vibrations of data painted unfettered. The fetus a spirit, a faint skeleton curled up on black lit translucent canvas, dispersed into stillness before knowing a first breath.

Every human, the new human altering futurism. Remember.

A tattered page peeled roughly like dried bark whipped from a holster of prayers shot thru the air silently challenging the science of myth-making. Every bullet calls forth a rhetoric of fear snaked around humanity choking the young to life. The blood of blackness nurtures street tar & the rebellion of adults is sequestered by news anchors. A holy vision erupts in a tired blasphemy on repeat shedding light slowly dispersing the subtle flicks of tongues tipped in cognitive dissonance.

Another tragedy dispersed across the earth like ash & soot. Another martyr freed in a luster of hope. Another cloud full of rain tears up and releases itself.

And somehow, the sun rose, bright and plentiful like a field full of thorns. And somehow, the moon cascaded into darkness like a waterfall splashing the harshness of oceans.

maybe it’s just ghosts
stirring in the past
blown open like sails,
or an anchor clanking
hoisted onboard
like skeletons & bones
clonking a hollow tone

it reminds me of a treasure beneath the sea

a blustery day
entangled in wind chimes
the jangle adds a charm to the grey sky,
the house itself creaks & whistles
like a wooden ship rocking to life

I took the whole place apart,
piece by piece
I put her back together

I scraped years and years of paint
always working on windows
& doors
it makes me wonder about vision,
and passage,
and stepping thru

my hands rough & beaten &
callused with so many blisters
accustomed to cuts &
I wear this body
like a glove
like a cloak
for my soul
to travel & work

I fell into this craft
this vehicle
this wooden ship
I landed
in this house

There is a widow’s walk atop the attic.
Its namesake comes from the women who
lost their husbands out to sea,
but still had a glimmer of hope
they might return one day

I go up there to watch the trees
to get a moment of solace
to fall headlong in the sky

before climbing back down to labor
to treat the house like my own
to imbue her with character
I sand
the grain & stain
the wood
like an old record
singing blues

It makes me think about lineage & history

I must have been a sailor in a past life
star-gazing on clear nights
drunk on swill & sea air
floating casually
thru storm & days of calm