poems from “Trilce:
tragedy of dressing for tomorrow
like the joke of my laundry:
clean then get over-the-line dirty, says Venus,
the mud gush of the heart, and no, he
convince you if you participate in
tragic turbulence of injustice.
no one is getting into the water,
my fake rule book
becomes a feather, and everything
veils what will become of me,
all stains my ass
the challenge in propriety,
of gloom, sellers of the waltz of property.
yes it’s better if you return to laughing;
yes better that morning opens its
of washed rope, my jailor
me to launder souls. Better that morning start
satisfaction, open thought, honest
perceptive speech, so that it can
NO GO IT’S A DUD!
and firmly planted in chaos.
coincided with a poor young cha-cha dancer
was conducted hastily from the scene.
mother, her brothers were amiable and well-mannered
her unfortunate “you’re not going to spin me.”
a certain negotiation would make me admirable,
circular ban has the air of a florid dynasty.
novice churns water,
knows well that my solitude raises
love to be grasped badly.
taste goes toward timid sea creatures
dears all daring inside their folds,
how your breadth travels along the little dots,
the melody written by your deputy of occasions.
when both sides of love lift in a hot parrot wind,
breaks up my contract and yours
the barrier to fear.
has the guts to say it’s Sunday
down, here with the spider waste
the shadow cast by the truck’s big, pure grill.
mollusk attack and your mouse eyes scream,
reason out two more low-hanging possibilities
the breathing that installs blood’s remorse.)
these dreams aren’t proper like pressed pants
like naked blood in the corpus cavernosa
three-a-day doubling totality.
if our degraded hubs just exited drooling! As
no one learns by simply embracing
whole of fatality’s diaries!
so many of our habitual loves offend.
one’s own lock on habitual love cajoles and pleads
befriends slaving which others see
has the nerve to think big on Sunday,
arrested, six lame codes lament
manner of being, colored by tides of sentences.
love works best on the elevated, below
two sighs of Love,
tertiary feathers, torturers,
papal passageways to the orient.
look, the problem is living these days,
houses have fronts but not much more.
forager, entering, dirty
a quadrangular raid on what never happened.
flop. The balancing of weight and weight
ten-cent vices conflict with all these cons,
for ratings to be the highest, the blackest pieces
to die in the arms of the State.
tune with the divine’s broken eyes,
sun lazes, its mercies jagged,
oxygen volunteering to be good,
quantified but then not ardor, and soon
sadness doubles with mountain uplift.
one day no one will be able to enter
exit, with the punishment of earth
in your eyes, forager!
serpentine sun is in your fresh hand,
skin dramas catalyze your curiosity.
Nobody knows that the state’s in me,
allowed in. Shut up. No breathing. Nobody
I’m marinating in unity’s suck:
of the obscured, mythical amazons.
the flayed autos later,
let my people, dear atrocity, enter laughing finally
to those who act.
hands and my hands are reciprocally tied
of protection, practically like depressives,
sensible and frugal.
me for a good time, creepy future,
spike energy to lower the intimacy, these uncorked
of dry temperate bureaucracy
cups, of life right under the skies.
again into the heat, fanless; baby’s stealing water
as the pulping station splinters like love.
eating brown rice and then a year’s passed!
you don’t say is, better it than you.
lash into mothers who go to college,
should only study their reflections; we too love our flesh
dear openings. Because you slowly understand
in quelling, one has an itinerary to nowhere
it rampages across the scene.
the day that the year passes
you don’t say is, better it than you,
rotate the whole scene.
there is your separation,
you don’t love older women enough.
technically all reflections are diced
of air, no?
drawings have bite, both obscure and singular,
taking the side of children and
jumping up too much in life,
simply because of our circular hearing.
we’re really just clouds of gas.
and poetry have appeared in Double Room, 14 Hills, 3rd bed,
Mad Hatters’ Review, Poemeleon, Drunken Boat, Able Muse,
Eleven Eleven, BlazeVox, elimae, Cannot Exist, and Otoliths. He
recently completed a manuscript of mistranslations of Cesar Vallejo’s Trilce and
is currently working on English-to-English translations of Emily
Dickinson. He works as a freelance editor and lives in Berkeley,