Mourning Dew

the carvings in the stone had been covered
by the green of dew, the green of nature
trying to soften the blows
of injustice, insecurity, insurrection,
there
was more peace when the dates were hidden.
you couldn't see how young,
how green they had been
barely in the summer of their lives,
barely past the April showers
sitting squarely in May flowers -
staying awake through the longest day of the year
swirling through the solstice in clouds of laughter


only to lose in a second


what they had fought for centuries to find.


the bystanders hold their breath, as if their own cessation of inhalation can give those who are breathless one more exhale to say
to their mothers and their lovers and their friends and their brothers -


something. anything.


the bystanders let go of their breath
nothing has changed except the concrete
stained
red.


shouting replaces silence

morning court

There's an art to waking mindfully,
respecting the quiet dark,
kissing good morning to the dawn
to herald the morning lark.


You have learned to question nothing
of your lonely nighttime wanderings
through the deepest caverns of your mind,
your innocent, soft ponderings.

But you brush your sleeping visage,
love your moments all alone
wherein you've built your house for fantasies
the likes of which you call your home.


Magic on your morning breath
and dirt upon your feet
caught from running through your
private world of wonder, wisdom, heat.


You recount it over coffee -
voice waking up in time
as the mazes of your inner peace
begin to dull their shine.


Breaking bread in shadows
thrown by sunshine in the east
gives poetic referendums
to the scattered early feast.


Breath is shallow as you sit there
perturbed by the rising day,
and the beauty of your nighttime world
slips silently away


until your dreams are wispy threads of thought,
hazy, silent, black and white,
gone like the fragile feeling
of the middle of the night.

acquaintanceship

they herald him and hang on him - unblemished, 20/20
standing close like she used to
touching sheepishly the forearm he extends
to steady their nerves.


in a sense, in a way, he will always love them more
their opinions - unblemished, 20/20
their kisses so foreign
their legs so light.


                     he untwists her metaphors to mean
'never would'
                     when she always was saying         
 'never could'

Airport Wine

The elevation was patient
                       and persuasive --
like the humming she makes when she sleeps
and the rashes she makes on my skin.


Leaning against my suitcase
sipping airport wine,
staining my lips on six dollar
cabernet with legs as long as hers,
                       just as thin too,


wrapping around the rim of my glass.
wines like this
girls like that
                     leave them blue and begging
                     every time.

marlboro light

just after dawn, he started a war
with the shadows already retreating
under the cover of darkness,
waiting for the angles of the light to
align with their own shades.

everything made more sense
when he was chasing his sweet
sweet coffee with
vodka and orange juice.

when we threw the Marlboro light
at the curtains and waited, wishing,
for their damp cotton to catch
he drummed his fingers on my sternum
and I counted backward from 99

like they tell you to do
breathing in anesthesia.

I remember it all though and
the cigarette fizzed out.