:Questions For The Jeweler

Do diamonds know their worth? Can they recognize the value they hold? (carbon condensed and shapened into rarified beauty) Do they sigh and compare themselves to the ruby or topaz? Do they long for the hue of the emerald or the amethyst? Find fault in each chip and imperfection…? (with no one to tell them…

Poem: Grandma and Kim Jong Un

Granny was a Christian. She believed in a place Just beyond our grasp Where Angels invent hymns And spit-shine a lavish Diadem. A place where Free-will dissipates From the mind Like hypnosis. Eternal. Sunless and Omniscient. Hitchens called this, “a celestial North Korea” Equipped with joy and Warmth… All the accoutrements Of a drug induced…

Poem: Bobo & Nancy

Someone carved names into the wet concrete. “BoBo & Nancy 4 Life”, written in chicken scratched cursive at the very end of my block. Was it Bobo or Nancy who pierced the dampened aggregate? Solidifying their love, making a promise tangible. Through rain, sleet, snow and doubt.

Poem: Why It’s Always A Bad Idea To Talk To Your Ex

I used to write poems on your womb with my mouth. I used to dismiss the Sun, tell it that you were the very pulse of the Day, and that even Moonlight was an unwitting beacon, reminding me to gaze upon your beauty. Now like fingerprints placed on a stranger’s door I have transferred myself…

Haiku: Ancestors

Black Angel feathers slowly settled in my hair… Do they protest too?

Poem: String Theory

Somewhere… Perhaps in some parallel universe, or betwixt time and consequence, there is a version of you… unfettered, bathing in obsequious light. Perhaps there all mistakes and misunderstandings are inverted.   Perhaps there is a version of me there as well. Treasured by you, content in the depths of your love, with no knowledge of…

The Argument

This should be the last one. To repeat our pessimism now would be cyclical. We invented a language of sarcasm and slammed doors, and I can read your mind. The heat, once strengthened by confusion and a willingness to understand is warm now. Our eyes and hearts die in the distance like a supernova…  …

Martin 4/4/68

Love cannot die. It can be misplaced, set into the hands of the undeserving. It can be stalled, held against the obstacles of time and hatred. It is an eternal thought. An action pulsating through language and parchment. Sensed by those among us like rumors of tomorrow as it rests waiting to multiply.

A Silent Night At Sotheby’s: A Poem

Allow me to plant portraits in your mind. Angles with proper perspective and brush-stroked brilliance. Let it appreciate in value. Lock it into glass cases reflecting from your eyes. Blink. Savor the spectrum. Keep it as an inheritance. Unsold… Untouched… Eternal.

Poem: Oral Tradition

There’s a love I know. It was handed down to me from Elders and Shamans with ayahuasca breath. It wraps around my soul with tendrils dripping dewdrops upon a melancholy morn. I dare not write it. But if you allow me a moment to whisper to you it can be reproduced.