September 5, 2008  :: 0 comments

Among our fevered expectations
there is no time for interruption,
when the meetings of strangers
breaks forth into praises.
City, your men who tread grit-streets
are fugitives from combustible places,
trapped in summer climes, with unthawed faces
that no longer seek the dawn’s arising,
who dwell in awkward hesitations,
by the measures of distance
from sheltered places
abandoned in the wasted siege
that shore no longer seen.


September 4, 2008  :: 0 comments

The buildings rise in angry bruises,
beaten by night’s thin skin.
The city’s desperate cry for help
is throttled by TV antennas.
The air dribbles old men stuff
that stains and smears our visions.
The siren of forgiveness sounds
the last attention to tomorrow.


September 3, 2008  :: 0 comments

This evening she will come,
the dark-haired girl I adore.
She promised.
I sit a Baron of power
dreaming her perfect,
but the drabness of my office day
smashes my vision
and leaves me at my desk,
a victim of my pencils.


September 2, 2008  :: 0 comments

Sitting at my desk, my eyes begin to close,
I doze a fantasy.
The music makes me forest groves.
Two hundred years ago
the wild gypsy whirled
in swot, salacious dance.
Carried by a jaded serpent
so fast I overtake my soul,
I build bigger heavens for monks.
Undeath ready
I curse, I cry,
with ineluctable magic power
cull the gods,
who reborn me.
The straw hat
of too much shade
never lets the little prince grow up.
The dream of three men in a tub
who talk Oedipus.
Two had mothers,
one was prissy,
sipping tea in a tempest of libido.
Armless, legless swirl of gypsy,
sphere of torporous rotation,
your earth supine,
your death forever falling.
The men who watch
lust your limbless body.
Sunlight opens my pyrotic eyes.
Saboteurs creep by
armed with bombs and axes.
I am frightened and return to work.


September 1, 2008  :: 0 comments

Often in the boredom of my office
I think about the ancient Chinese poets,
remote, delicate and serene.
As I wait,
impatient to make my poems,
I see parchment men of long-lost graces
sipping wine, in discourse,
reaching for pen and ink,
making incredible songs.
I do not yearn for T’ang.
Li Po, Po Chu I, Tu Fu
are sleeping sentiments to never come again,
but sometimes I cry for the beauty
absent from this life.