I wrote a brief memoir for The Brooklyn Art Library. You can check it out here:
to kiss them,
pour wine in them
lap from them,
a harmless dog,
those sea eyes,
thumb to brush hair from them,
cradle the wide world gently,
her celestial conglomerate,
green-blue or neither,
some new shade
nature never thought
that musical ghost,
spring through chest,
carry her through time.
the bone pearl
glowing no sheen
rabbit-ed with fossil-scapes
starring on Earth
thirsty & surrounded
faces shed lunatic
cast insane still
passing Sun shielded
in Gaia’s shadow
her waiting cold
shines for us.
“Que le ciel sombre nuit sans étoiles mitrailler
vos yeux rougeoyants de chambre.
Comme en remuant maelström cosmique
ceux perles de sable va briller.
Autoriser les yeux d’ébène flagrantes, de la grâce
confinés si sombre et si sage,
leer capturé incandescence;
cet univers meurt aujourd’hui.”
Ses sécrète regard d’ornement,
remplissages noirci océans comme elle pleure,
et congelés, une sorte retraites cardiaques
trop froid, trop noir pour nourrir les mouches.
“Let starless dark night skies strafe
your glowing chambered eyes.
As stirring maelstrom cosmos
those sable pearls will shine.
Grant ebon glaring eyes, grace
confined so dark and wise,
leer captured incandescence;
this universe now dies.”
Her ornamental gaze secretes,
fills blackened oceans as it weeps,
and frozen so, a heart retreats
too cold, too black to nourish flies.
Darkness mirrors the blackness of these eyes
and they smolder two terrible fires.
Fracturing all gloomy cast with their light,
each one reflects the colourless cold skies,
map marking the route to lost desires.
Each one offset by whitened cheeks of frost
contrasting the finite furnace of night.
Rocking atop her blackened sea, her waves,
her eyes, immortal triumphs of the womb,
foreseeing in themselves both of their graves,
both cursed to know their folly and their cost
for peering far enough to see their tomb.
What foolishness drained black pools into tomb?
Whose treason bars in crypt her sooty eyes?
They bring who leers at them the warmth of womb,
without supplication and without cost,
set soft beneath the heft of darkened skies.
Who shuns and hides away their brilliant night?
Who’d snuff barely stoked forgotten fires,
meet heavy smoky flames with icy waves,
saturate and sap their bright warming light,
robbing the simple splendor of those graves,
sealed in the pale unhealthy sheen of frost,
and ravaging them of their desires?
Their safety belongs in all desires,
and a heart within that regretful tomb
lies dark, encased in a frigid glass frost.
It remains hidden from all summer skies,
shaded in the constant winter of night,
envisioning two empty winter eyes,
their pulsating obsidian fires
radiating-hot invisible light.
Shining from out the confines of their graves,
and nourishing thoughts as if in the womb
with no remonstrance, or thought of the cost,
all caution simply sinks below the waves.
Those cultured pearls engulfed in maddened waves
are somber-ed silent by their desires.
Drowning under infinities of night,
freezing into eternities of frost,
from icy-maelstrom crying, wept from skies.
Those frozen flakes find deep ocean as tomb,
en masse flurries swim in salt-frothy graves,
snuffing frozen, snowy, achromic fires.
That symphonic silvery truth, their light,
now swatted with a wetted hand, and cost
the world those subtle, lucid blackened eyes,
and cast them to a time before the womb.
“Approach life-waking moment in the womb!
Ebb-wash your cacophonous, unsure, waves.
Impend them as a masquerading frost,
shelter them from the threat of many graves.”
This hymn creates a soul behind two eyes,
steals about them as slurping tongue fires,
burns rays of Sun in shadow creviced night,
blazing sable across malfeasant skies;
they lay waste world in purities of light,
turning planet to devitalized tomb,
celestially quelling vast desires;
voiding universal value of cost.
Piceous onyx eyes know not the cost
they pay upon leaving protector womb,
pushed forth into bleak skirmishes of frost,
life’s debt dug out in front of them as graves.
Glib pits that frame a wilderness of skies,
tourbillion lace above brackish fires.
Earth rains on them in grim showers of night,
covering all but those stygian eyes.
Each specter sings from out their haunted tomb,
and reaching those framed spider webs in waves,
stains a fatal red on my desires;
their pyres birth a sanctity of light.
Aerial eyes on their flyways of light,
never cognizant of their precious cost,
doomed to be enclosed in the house of night,
striped from all directions by its waves.
The night then, it is their immanent tomb,
a sepulcher trapping her drusy eyes,
smothering their microcosmic fires,
suffocating those most beautiful graves.
Freeing them from hell would melt desires
made manacles by punishing frost;
that feeling that returns us to the womb,
stifling us under flesh magenta skies.
Remnant longing under her blush skies
fountain-ing with warm splashes of her light
turn universe to food within her womb,
removing phantasmal cold from the frost.
I place my own bouquet of desires
forever on her startled still-beat graves,
for endless worlds contained within her eyes
mix smooth sun-paint day & coarse sackcloth night.
And so to liberate them from their tomb,
un-phased by the gravity of that cost,
I comb massive landscapes of ocean waves,
to seek shelter in malachite fires.
Archaic method started her fires,
piled them up to oblivion skies,
and so challenged my own true desires
to nurture back those carefree loving eyes.
Let heart bathe long in that exquisite light,
let longing-love cascade down in brisk waves,
protecting from the prehistoric night,
that buried glowing sent from somber graves.
Make their bright earth resend me to the womb.
For this need there could be no obscene cost;
I’d still myself within that shadowed tomb,
I’ll shroud myself in rags of bitter frost.
But those black stars unlock me from my frost
with inferno dressing world in fires,
they’ll place me in the fragile of their womb,
soak me deep in the knowledge of their light.
I’ll swim in their feathery plush of waves,
quaff till drunk the pleasant wine of those eyes,
drink flames from breathless coals of night,
imbibing their dead ember desires.
And steeping in the shadow of her graves
I’ll cloak myself from vicious wintry skies.
And for this gem there cannot be a cost
keeping me from the solace of that tomb.
To spend forever in receptive tomb,
shielded safe from the unforgiving frost,
a thought that laps my shores with gentle waves.
To throw the chains off battened slaver skies
and dance free from the bondage of their light
does not contest with other desires.
Compare not beauty to that resting womb,
her ardent knowing sent from out those graves,
sustaining on the glow of those fires,
the world would disappear but for those eyes.
To try and find the sum of that bright cost
will just puzzle in multitudes of night.
The capacity of colourless night
a most brilliant, empty, familial tomb,
rendered helpless from its defensive frost
by doubled wall of invincible light,
a new born stare from out the dulcet womb.
Negligent of life’s magnificent cost
and virgin to all the Earth’s desires,
a calming sea of softly tossing waves,
under orange blanketed morning skies,
cradles her marvelous sailing fires.
Those pyres glisten as ritual graves
and burn forever; those furious eyes.
From out the tomb, from out the shallow graves,
in waves resonating from out the womb
in streaming white beams across the night skies,
light frisks and melts the frozen skin of frost,
and fires from the loveliest of eyes
repay the cost of all my desires.
falling out a window
and landing wrong jumping
out of your jump-off’s house.
hitting your head
above the pit in the Leopard Lounge
at the Leftover Crack show.
creeping us out with delirious laughter;
Silvana, –driving home,
trying to keep you awake.
sharing four bottles of bourbon,
going to Beau 1,
purposely flipping a champagne magnum onto their glass table,
stealing a giant stuffed boardwalk banana, someone’s bike.
eating shit under-shooting a freshly poured Rowan curb.
pouring bourbon on the scrapes.
the non metaphor:
ordering too many vodka tonics
and cake shots,
and lemon drops,
then, not realizing
your fresh mouth
with the bride’s family.