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“[...]yo escribo porque el druido, / bajo el rumor de sílabas del himno, / encina bien plantada en una página, / me dió el gajo de muérdago, el conjuro / que hace brotar palabras de la peña. / Los nombres acumulan sus imágenes. / Las imágenes acumulan sus gaseosas, / conjeturales confederaciones. / Nubes y nubes, fantasmal galope / de las nubes sobre las crestas / de mi memoria.” -Octavio Paz

April 4/9, 2014


O’ Mexico

Comet O’ Mexico!
A terrifying grace A ruin of blood

The crow from the distance
hunts my thoughts in the trees

The windows reassure me very little
as he charges the air, tumbling by

The hummingbirds are spies
flitting between open hands, colors

given over to sudden torrents
of sound, splashing fitfully and discontent

from the walls enclosing the sidewalks
Here knows I will be away-

ing for a time and pushes me
like a broken shopping cart,

wheels askance and agitated
and creaking over the pavement

When a place agitates so much
as it is left

what is travel but a loving placebo?
what does it accomplish but to bring us back?

1 week ago
1 note

March 25, 2014

Donner Family Diaries

I hung myself
from the tree of life, for you

I guess I didn’t have too
much to complain about-

Yggdrasil smells lovely
in the spring time,

like a kitchen window in Pompeii
The street lights have nothing

kind to share about their
towering cousins over

the baseball field- blow hards,
tellers of tall tales-

and the patio heaters scorn
them all as shallow

It makes sense that people,
stranded in the desert,

turn to eating each other
I barely resist eating myself

for the haughty glory of the pines,
for as much as they may water this pit

it’s damn sure a desert- and you
look good enough to eat

3 weeks ago
5 notes

March 18, 2014

I wrote this on tablet but it refused to let me share it


Fractured   throbbing light walls
Television  money doesn’t ruin the wash
Screens   with sharp model edges, darkly
At least anymore   degraded rubber world ovoid
Set lower than    can any war hound cite avenue
Misappropriation something disobeying disconcerting
Indent.     Indent.      Indentations in my temples
Throbbing, flowering, fracturing

4 weeks ago
7 notes

February 14, 2014

they sell whiskey in grocery stores here


So much of my push dries up
and invades me from the bottom

of a clink- ice left over
from a drink it never had

to melt in to just cool down
These vapors, these desert

sandspout dervishes with grit and
quartz and bone are pure laceration

and leave my splitting tongue
bloody and confused

between sour and bitter
it can’t decide on its age

nor its direction and it straddles
the frontier as tempestuous a whiskey

benediction as any anyone might
at any moment swallow igual a

zopilotes volando alrededor
de la hueca mia en la

cual se contienen los huesos
de un escindimiento al fondo de

lo que yo sé jamás volveré
a ni girar ni tirarme away

2 months ago
2 notes

February 9, 2014

I wrote this a long while ago and just gave it a serious edit. Sorry it’s long

Cornflower Suite

I. Prelude- Maizes

Hands reap stone maizes
from the ground, erecting
entrance and exit
One or many or none
Branching gently, sporadic
interlacing lines Loops
Dead ends
of hardened darkness
Streets of evicted reflection
Shimmering lights, thousands of
faces crowding gravity
Pan’s sea of maize

     We grow maizes of lies
straight through rigid hours
& palaces to lose ourselves in
flowering veriticality We grow
constellations to harvest
into ourselves We grow
our footprints in a pungent loam
Our night sky constant
we grow in the light-
noon springs forth
green and ravenous
into the sun We grow
to fill our fields’ straight lines
To mark the edges of it all
We seed We sprout bear fruit and flower
We decay in the sun to grow
in the stars We grow maizes

II. Rooted Seed

A stone rooted seed, firm
A comet frozen in a cosmos of soil
Shouts, slow, from quiet farms
toward more disparate lands
A leonine fervor to grow

Countless stony seeds, falling
A pride of flaming tails
and ambition Sprouting,
meticulous walls of a pattern
invisibly molded
in soil Noon-less,
unrevealed to our eyes
They break ground
They spread out, endlessly
They bind themselves They root
their upward course

Unequaled passages,
a green maize foreshadowed
beneath us A network of lines
interlacing, pushing
pushing hopeless at the sky

III. Unstemmed

Countless slender soldiers
A tide unstemmed by soil
Marching their labyrinth,
untold echoed shades
Themselves cast from dawn,
they mirror obscure intentions
These stems begin to hem
our land Boundaries
sure as walls of granite
stone and hands

Stoicism, the trap we
had lain ourselves unrecognized
An army two-fold great
stone and soil, shadow and form
A boundary for land and dreams
free now from its earthen jail
Free to wave at the sea of stars
Free to enwrap us-
verdant walls of the maize
we cleft from the land
The somber bloom

IV. Fruition

Appeasements flow freely
and now, now
We are lost hopeless
amid battlefields of autumn gold
Plans grown to fruition Stars, echoes
speckle the walls of maize
where we wander
Hours upon hours
amidst one another
Tangents reflecting yesterday
Intricate substructures
voracious and witless
around our echoes
We mined the grit
to construct this maize

It echoes stellar promises
It feeds us and our ilk Its buds
gleam, a distraction
They hide with their light
escapes from this field
of fractured stars We wade through
protozoa, obscuring our own
intention to trap ourselves
We hunger for the sky

V. Cornflower

Finally burst, long withheld
Eons of suns and a stem
hard in the distant light
Welcome sign of the coming freeze

Orbs of hidden maize
cluster furtively atop our sagging miracle
Its own light leaks finality
from its balustrades
The end is its apex
and our salvation
Its aspiration provides release
to the builders from their endless walls

A lattice work of lost months
The thawed shattered pieces
of what were once the hands that held
this maize’s seeds
We planted a mirror for the sky
that reflected myriad potential
Points clustered together, clusters of clusters
The success of this husky labyrinth
The farmer with his scythe

Aspiration and exit have opened
Through them we may surge,
coldly free

VI. Fallen

Fields we wandered once, lost
fallen fallow as cold creeps
       through our maize

Long since we rushed wild
through hidden doors lit
by cornflower starlight
Having echoed the light of the night
it echoes too its frigidity

A fragile overtaking of what once were
Walls of a maize we grew
That grew themselves That grew around us
That grew impenetrably That grew inexorably
That exploded into cosmos
woven into hard flowers Now seeds
woven into the earth Now bursting forth again
Now the light breaks the clay

Now and until then bound
into the land A promise
fallen, its form forgotten
Cornflowers again stony seeds
waiting to be mined
To be a maize
again To grow

2 months ago
1 note

January 16, 2014

so maybe this is an every other day project? or something


Must we project always
our own death on to things

in our peripheries? Is time
only the perception of our own

passing in the objects
which from us flee

into the distant reaches of
the eggshell dimension of

our environs, cracked more each
day under the pressure of

what awaits us boundless
after our births (?)

I spent days away
and when I returned I, too,

had aged The skin of the kumquat
has begun to pull into

it’s frightful rictus, has begun
to doubt the sturdiness of

its own raft yet has tired of
endlessly grasping at the shore

Our skin has mottled together,
but mine from illness more

than time, perhaps
I should give it more

3 months ago
1 note

January 7, 2014

new poem a day project. Bought this weird giant magnifying glass rig with clips to hold something under the lens without assistance so that I could watch things die. I’m going to write poems-as-notes for as many days as it takes before I want to get rid of the thing in the lens


It’s been one day
since I pinched the kumquat

to hang under my grand lens,
so that I might watch it die

I could barely see the mountains
riding here today and breathing

was suspiciously difficult
Maybe that explains the dark stain

atop the flap of skin
that has already begun to shrivel

and whither, the face of the moon
in winter’s light

Perhaps, indeed, hazy distrust
and congestion blown in

from the shoreline have already
stained what life lingers

in this little citrus bead,
shameless graffiti on the lunar land-

scape daring us to peel away
everything, down to the bitter

heart of it all, saccharine sweetness
blowing away into the airy end

days awaited even in spring’s bloom
and autumn’s hay

3 months ago
6 notes

March 28, 2014

From the desert to your home

Brief flowers

The desert is the only beautiful thing.
Because its ocotillo arms bleed

us dry of feigned sentimentality-
because it burns away what should have

never been. Sun stunned and sore,
we join Algoberto’s ranks- this is no Gonzo

taco; that’s down the road, where they belong-
and quickly back away from this boxe

d in social services shit-show.
The particularities of a new place bleed

brief flowers among spines- I can’t see
the light so much but I can feel it

cutting my ribcage to remove my breath
and make angels of my immediacy.

We barely squeeze by their blockade;
we, bare, squeeze life from the brocade

2 weeks ago
6 notes

March 22, 2014

Writing in a bar- backdating

Peen and quartz

"For a long time now I
haven’t been I.” It seems

and has seemed,
for a terrible span,

a fools errand to seek myself
in my own words Even

in the words of another,
more steeped in this disquiet

than I Bones seep through
the space between them Unavoidably,

these beautiful francophones call
the desert wind that rattles what

there may remain of footprints,
heels, spittle against the dawn

rocks that shatter in to grey
shards of disappointment-

there was contained nothing more
brittle and fleeting than granite

sherds- hard, unsettling and common
Only what you’d always find between

things- peen and quartz, time and
the slow drip of wounds,

the bottom of a glass and quiet
subservience to where you are

I has been lost in desert
stones now for some time

and they go shattering,
disconsolately, seeking me

3 weeks ago
3 notes

March 6/9, 2014

Been so long, been so long

Spring afternoon picnic settings in the desert

Nothing has been written
in so long, an age
of parsley and Cubans

Symphonies of empty, bronzed
chairs toeing the line
between midday dinner parties

and gatherings of screeching
gold-leaf parrots (with the brass
section done by bastions

of fresh green grass, superfluous
oasis kept watered in the desert
that’s slowly drying us all out

of houses and inkwells) No-one
seems comfortable with stopping
next to this neat garden of catering

clusters- we can all tell that
it’s un-natural in its symmetry
When this flock bursts in

front of me and I’m full of words
again, almost aggressively,
and a cacophony flock was hiding

in this well-water picnic
in eighty degree spring
and although now the flock is gone

the cardboard headstones mark
where I must begin
to sow it again

1 month ago
10 notes

February 3 and February 12, 2014

Backdated, backlogged. I’m busy but I’m not? This southern california weather just doesn’t do it for me- it was 90 today and snowbound back where I came from. At least the sun’s there for me

Missteps and broken toes

In a room of fragmented mirrors and
chairs of a broken glass aesthetic

the only bird’s eye view
that can encompass this land

locked park is the crow’s
as it settles slowly on

the breath of a misplaced pine tree
Neither of us belong here, not me

not the pine, and both of us splay
lurching across barriers and cars

What do we call that perching of
the crow atop us?

Any shaking off leaves me
barren, as no evergreen should be

Any ruin carries empty promises
and a sequence of half steps

I know that there is glass
here but I keep sitting

-Desperate for rest, the rest
slides painlessly between my skin

Desperate for longing, missteps and
broken toes don’t phase us

I’ve been living dread now
for quite some time and

I’m dry as the desert,
like we all are here

2 months ago
1 note

January 20, 2014


Out of the sand

On an overly bright afternoon
I watched the world spin
past a plane, hung static

in the sky The bushes weren’t given
pause to see it there nor the bricks
But distance and time are so

slippery in the face of judgment, here,
I can barely recount to you how long
I stood there beaten by the sun

And into our basin of plastered stars
rose the crude moon interrupting a world
of clusters and envious scouts

sent to uncover the secrets of Orion
The stickiness of the fire will never be
removed entirely from the edge of the blade

The salt will never entirely leave
the bed of the lake We will always dance
vainly in the wild, like to awaken

old demiurges and distant lovers
and then settle to sleep kept in the shade
of castles seeping, in reverse, from the sand

2 months ago
7 notes

January 9, 2014

[no comment]


I’ve missed a day already,
as though death strives not

to be seen or the moon
wants only to hide

behind the earth’s face,
constantly dodging the sun

The kumquat has a face now and
a defiant voice and its death

is a roiling laugh
coming in and out of focus

from the middle distant mountains
mired in a three day roast

of all of the new hope
that we burned for warmth

while our year got off
to a jolting start

Skin peeling back,
veins flaking away

and nothing else to say
In the face of a growing stain

the heart still has no give
to me and the only way to know

you’re at a given moment
in the flow of time is

to give it time and so
I suppose I’ll give what I’ve got

3 months ago
2 notes