Untitled

Love, your eyes empty light,
spare light from heavens
furnaces, warming my
convulsing chest.

It is thy heart thy dove,
gentle as a moth, which
my enamored eyes
doth desire

Eros

The pulp of my heart is plagued,
thy youthful plight is thy disaster.
Love is lethargic, slow to
spin its enticing thread.
While the silk worms
of Eros insidiously weave
together life’s ingredients,
nubile youth await the
dark, cavernous mouth
of bed sheets to swallow
them in a blissful sea.
For thou art beautiful
chastity, but you are
as thin as a cloud, illusive in
your ways. Carrying
tears in your gray hull.

Valentine

if i could have you valentine,
i would drop a golden
apple- those delightful
shimmering spheres of the
illustrious Aphrodite,
whose translucent skin
attracted the harsh
eye of Atalanta,
while in her stupor,
plucked her eyes treat
from a bed of grass
while her beguiling lover
marveled at his newly
won prize- i desire not
to captivate you love, but
know this Valentine,
my heart is an
orchard of
ripening fruit,
awaiting the eager
hand of yours to
reach into my lush
canopies and pluck
my golden heart
from its stem

Bulb

Suspended from the evergreens

amorphous limbs, the glistening

red bulb spins.

As if a tiny spider were

spinning its spittle

tightly round that shiny dome.

With its fishing hook sunk

into the skin of a fissure,

it awaits to be packaged

again. Starring out with comatose

eyes, the bulb hibernates beneath

the creaky wooden stairs

until next year, when it

can be spun in the web

of tradition once again.

news

news is a slipshod
party of whats and was is
and still it stutters
like a daft child
or ruptures like
a spleen,still
this old hag
of rickety slips,
breaks her hips,
and the invisible
voice is lost
yet again behind
the squawking of
broken beaks,
snapping before
they open.

Untitled

Sleep throws off the warm
blanket of darkness,
letting the chill fingers
of dreams slip up
its tidy pajamas

Shadow

I wrote this for my good friend Sarah Blesener

sometimes it creeps up on you like a shadow
or slips in through a crack between
the hard floorboards and door.
As a child you watched as the
tenebrous limbs of shadows
swung high and low across
your golden floor. Straining
your eyes into the night to
stare into the single circular eye
of the moon and be made whole.

Greek

I've been reading alot of Greek literature, which has been influencing my writing // here are some new lines I came up with

"A man's heart is worn thin by the pangs of youthful love, but fattened by the sweetness of pain"


A man that plods in heavy steps is sure to have stronger legs in the future"


A man's heart is worn thin by the pangs of youthful love,
but fattened by the sweetness of pain,
A man that plods in heavy steps is sure to
have stronger legs in the future,
A man’s flux in his god is like the tightening
of a lyre string in the cold,
slowly winding and winding, his
spiritual strings are sure to snap!

------
the poets grave is a lonely plot of earth. the triteness is enough to bury him alive


------
It's in our blood,
the poet knows
of its revelry,
the word
rooted deeply
into frozen soul
of syntax.
the gods
melted their
teeth for
the ancient rhapsodies
to craft their intricate
lines of history.
We are the gods
their voice is our
chorus

-------
"the song of poetry is what feeds our skin into skines, a makeshift melody of the beauty of life"

Work for Haiti Relief

This is my work with my good friend Sarah Blesener who provides the photography

http://sarahblesener.blogspot.com