The Very Serious Game

A rose flattened into math
under the weight of a book on Ingres.
All the pretension of depth and curve
shown to be illusion
by a French master’s authentic love of deception.
Her petals, hips, and stem
all numbers determined by logic
no matter how wild, majestic, and unpredictable
their beauty.

Her history from seed, to plant, to flower,
to a cut beyond death and into a vase
can be viewed as destiny or chaos.
The words you water her with determine
how you will see her. Why this one, of the dozen
bundled at the foot of a coffin.
Babies breathing in soft white bubbles
singing, if not commanding you into the rocks.

The meaning of the world,
is the separation of wish and fact.
A flat rose. A dark smudge
on a yellow book. A mouthful of dirt.

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Confession

At some point
you must confess
that a system of imperfect
pieces making the beautiful
isn’t a consolation
but an art.

At some point
you must confess
that for all the errors
caught in your eye
there is equal softness
on your fingers.

At some point
you must confess
that knowledge
eats itself, and that outside
things are just inside things
that are ‘there’ instead of ‘here’.

At some point
you must confess
you must confess
you must confess.

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She Broke

She broke up the pieces of her day
into manageable chunks
floating in a settled stew.
The hearty potato of daily meetings
and busy commute orchestration.
A sprinkling of chopped vegetables –
complimenting a stranger
affirming the mirror.
Sinful red meats, like love,
are saved until the bowl is almost dry.
To taste last. To end with a glass of wine
on the patio they built together.
Motionless.

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The Watched Pot

More love is made in the kitchen
than in the bedroom.
If one cleans dishes
the other should dry.
If the other stirs,
the one should
cup her womb and spice her neck
with soundless words.

The sweat of summer
will not stop the baking of bread
or the dance of narrow
avoidance which
reminds you of distance
and proximity. The thirstier
the better the wine tastes.
Desire is a fulfilling of that
space between moving hips.

The other does not paint her face there.
The one does not own there.
All of it merely is.
An is that waits to boil.

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A Complicated History

Headline, status, embossed letters
on pulp and skin
when its not digital
its complicated.

Hair, heists, the hot breath
of espresso and adrenaline
things you pull to feel good
its complicated.

Lines of soldiers
stand at attention
invasions on the news
but when its love
it isn’t enough to print

its just complicated.

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Skylar and Doug (I)

I.

By the time the wedding ended
Skylar was over it.
Seeing Doug under pressure
had reduced her blue
liquid eyes to a thick
syrup ready to fall
into the repose of marriage.

Above him,
the wind tugged violently
at the cloth firmament
pinned by a phalanx
of alabaster spears  –
so subtle a struggle
that no one would eulogize
their nameless
valor.

Pearls hung in her hair
like daytime stars.
Bathed and jeweled
she was as clean as an angel.
Doug secretly
worried that beneath
that billowed fog
which rolled
from under her corset
was a waterfall
he would dissolve in.

The artificial kiss
had felt like skin under gold.
The watchers gasping
from on high
as Doug reached within himself
to unearth their intimacy
in this backyard colosseum.
His heart roared like a lion
even now as his mouth
mimicked a hyena’s laugh
at Skylar’s drunk uncle’s buffoonery.

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M(I)ss Ed and the Opportunity

begging for it all to give

Her mind alive without her
a twin                                                                            a twin
here at the cafe

lying in his bed
hands full of cotton sheets.
Her body warm but tight

fumbling over a tea cup
nervous fingers
bring the heat
to her lips.

Cries of pleasure
call him forward
to the rocks

She leans into
coy questions
placing him
between bangs

He cups her neck
and pulls her forward
she has won

He rises
without provocation
dropping money
onto the table.
So he goes.                                                                              But he goes.

She begs him to stay

She begs him to stay.

She is left

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Tentative Fate

Together they would come to know the cause.
Resolved as they were in their affection
To be a love greater than any laws.

Her look would have given Adam pause.
The fruit of choice being against perfection
Together they would come to know the cause.

His tongue gave name to her virtues and flaws.
The taste of it all provoked the infection
To be a love greater than any laws.

Upon the fall of night, the feeling gnaws
at the heart, the mind, and the midsection.
Together they would come to know the cause.

He cries “calamity” when winter thaws
receding ice shapes their indiscretion
to be a love greater than any laws.

How has this union made them outlaws?
Banished from God and Nature’s intersection
Together they would come to know the cause
to be a love greater than any laws.

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Evaporation

She has become
the benefactor
of bad advertisement.
Willfully hidden
though not reclusive.
The sweet nectar that
entices and drowns.

Fecund and frail green
filled and surrounded
by dead flies. You know
not to touch her, so you
admire instead.
The momentum of nature
comes from this tension.

A school boy
runs his hand up her leg –
the leg of a girl. 9th grade
is hard for everyone.
Such courage he has never felt
thriving and pumping
in his head and heart.
To fly, or a fly.

Dioanea, the teacher
of Socrates
the Virgin Mary
of Ancient Greece.
The mother,
who sits and waits
as devious as she is
pristine. Her ancestry
bringing a ruler down
on the boys desk.
To save, or to savor.

The sheepish hand withdraws.

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Is

When I was an adolescent
my body became me.
Its heavy awkwardness was
constant and undeniable.
Everything bad was caused
but my cumbersome material.
The bodies outside of me barely
existed as the reflection of a candle
is of no concern to the flame.

I lost that body.
In Italy. Rome particular.
Where the ancient heroes
still battle Medieval saints.
I lost my body
on the plains
under Michelangelo’s sky.
My mind ascended to the
space, no matter how tiny,
between fingertips.
Nothing is still nothing.
No matter how close you are.

I spent that Manichean spring
held aloft in a herculean bear hug.
Under Atlas’ feet, after all, was nothing
and on his back everything rested.
I read the lives of saints
and discoursed about transcendence.
Despite such lofty ideals,
I was pinned under nothing
rather than elevated above everything.
Turning to my studies,
I never counted on a kiss to put
the pieces together so clearly.
Your nose was cold. You were real.

You were so real it frustrated me.
A hand cannot at once disregard
material while feeling you breathe.
The vices of man through history
cannot taint the curved artistry
of your profile embossed on this
adolescent world. Right as I am ready
to doubt again from the infinite void
my face stands against,
a cold nose emerges – and a kiss.

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