Other Earth

Welcome to this new blue
world: a more distant dot 
concealed within folds 
of our deep fervor 

where rivers run unchecked
to unburden husks
of open hands and mouths,
from which red-orange   

molten light of words  
rise up as fortress, monsoon
cloud, kingdom of language
translating sisters & lovers

into indomitable being  
where once our skin
blistered and broke  
our names washed up

bloodless, expired onto shorelines 
to be consumed by the rollicking
from that lament of time,
that scar of gravity

scraping at our feet;
instead --  here we run
like we never ran before
laughing so hard our tears

ripen and drop as figs, forsythias
and our golden arms grow pinions
to finally lift up into this sun the kernel
bursting from within our throats

Ritual: Coffee

The ceramic mug laden with mustaches is the one I choose each morning. Its shape is perfect: rounded and robust handle, solid and thick stature of containing body, lip widening slightly outward to hold the full moon liquid of black coffee. Frida’s unibrow is on there somewhere, and you would think Hitler’s fascist micro-stash would be in the milieu of famous facial hair, but I guess this was intentionally omitted. The actions which repeatedly perform themselves within the trajectory of our roaming, wise bodies, which feel our decisions before we make them. The question becomes not how but when. When all of our deeds are done, who will be left to turn out all the lights? Who will have guessed and guessed right? What if our choosing is always inevitable? I pretend to know what my body tries to make of me.



We sway
against music sloshing
between our temples
watch:   the soft pulse
a sea of moss green
points riddle the air
above the darkened field

soft-bodied entities
and their beguiling flares
approach         but with caution
invitation to cling, expire
never in our backyard childhood
have we seen so many

speckling the dark
with Morse code dots
the tender light let out 
in poised pursuit --
sky inks onyx-blue
beyond tall grasses

and the night is warm
our bare city feet
skim the dew, find
traction in considering

if our far-away loves can see
this tidal of wanting
in the kindle of insect hearts
enough to signal back
through the ever-present 
beacons of our phones

meanwhile we attempt speech
my confused tongue
canters ahead of me
as I melt 
into the grass