(from the moon series)
I am in a million photographs
of people I don't know.
Will I live forever?
Settled behind mirror water
pondering lives long since gone.
Trying to imagine the unimaginable,
a ripple amongst ripples, a single
carving amongst millions.
I have a mouth I don't use,
the walls are made of ears
that speak a different language.
I watch lips touch, cameras
flash, the shoes, the memories.
I am here and all this will be gone,
by bomb or nature, the columns
can not stand the weight of another
sultan, this time, snapping pics
at no one at all.
Apr 5, 2010
Girl with the Moon Tattoo
(from the moon series)
on her back, slides through sheets,
in the windows of winter, under clouds
that move quicker than smoke
in the blue sky, with finger prints
that disappear just after touch.
She wants and she moans,
she writhes and times the gasps
between radio fuzz. She slips
through the holes of time, dormant
adventure repressed. She tells
the world in stories, the man
who bought a whale, the lizard
and the tunnel, the fabrics of the night.
She explains love and yet
she's only been to Germany.
But that moon, that moon
on her back, the muse
of a million dead writers
and an insignia that looms
in the dark hours of loneliness.
on her back, slides through sheets,
in the windows of winter, under clouds
that move quicker than smoke
in the blue sky, with finger prints
that disappear just after touch.
She wants and she moans,
she writhes and times the gasps
between radio fuzz. She slips
through the holes of time, dormant
adventure repressed. She tells
the world in stories, the man
who bought a whale, the lizard
and the tunnel, the fabrics of the night.
She explains love and yet
she's only been to Germany.
But that moon, that moon
on her back, the muse
of a million dead writers
and an insignia that looms
in the dark hours of loneliness.
Words by the Sea
useless in the wind. Vain suggestions
to an endless tide. The beach, grains
of ears, listens to the whispers
of a blurred cloudy sky. Sun
of the Mediterranean, daughter
of the gods, (reader of Kafka),
let us talk of sadness and eat on the cliffs
with a castle between us. Let us glorify
these holes, these human faults,
this inability to connect. Let us suppose
the context of night dictates personalities.
Let us reflect on the transient abilities
of the mind. Bold trees grow from sand,
the legless walk amidst the noise of doubt,
the waterfall of words assembles
in short novels on the broken shelves
that line the cliffs.
- I have been asked to speak
for the glowing eye in the night,
the rises and falls, the black
intervals that mark time -
The wingless birds wander the coast,
too big to notice ants crawl under
their feet. Let us do all of these things
without purpose. We'll cast nets
in the water to catch the ugly words
that swim in jolts and end up catching
a drowned moon, full and rotten
from the salt of the sea.
to an endless tide. The beach, grains
of ears, listens to the whispers
of a blurred cloudy sky. Sun
of the Mediterranean, daughter
of the gods, (reader of Kafka),
let us talk of sadness and eat on the cliffs
with a castle between us. Let us glorify
these holes, these human faults,
this inability to connect. Let us suppose
the context of night dictates personalities.
Let us reflect on the transient abilities
of the mind. Bold trees grow from sand,
the legless walk amidst the noise of doubt,
the waterfall of words assembles
in short novels on the broken shelves
that line the cliffs.
- I have been asked to speak
for the glowing eye in the night,
the rises and falls, the black
intervals that mark time -
The wingless birds wander the coast,
too big to notice ants crawl under
their feet. Let us do all of these things
without purpose. We'll cast nets
in the water to catch the ugly words
that swim in jolts and end up catching
a drowned moon, full and rotten
from the salt of the sea.
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