Mustard-patched sweat on skin
damp and oily, suddenly licked
wide & clear
with a salty breeze.
The rose blooms tonight.
For my part, I shall bear witness;
there is nothing quite like
the blooming of a rose.
Mahalo, my love
for your blue eyes.
For the soul eyes impressed
on my own when I rest
let shoulders lie easy.
Let all the palm trees
be breezy. Let
on sand shores
I am the mountain against the shattered panes of glass;
dynamic quests for focus leaving
a viewer head-tilted
more confused than ever.
lit amber saffron, sweeping
streaming willowing between
As still as possible.
against the moonlight shadows;
the dust will take you deeper–
digging down to shaded levels of
tasting like dental floss.
upon the meadow tresses;
the sunbeam spotlights like
braided rope. Fading
numbness from the fingers out
and suffice to say–
the world takes hold.
I’ve been told before the color of the sea
but the knowledge has never served me.
For I plunge
my soul dark beneath satin waters
& out gushes
Candor! I think,
that’s the color.
You appeared at the perfect time.
Whilst break dancing
through religious break-throughs, breakfasting
on white light hues, she saw you and the life-guard
got off the chair for her turn in the waves.
A little bit of moonlight here-I-am
as breath surpasses finger count.
That which is positive
that which is negative
In attempts to remain level,
we remain level;
my mind is a maze of serpentine
storylines, bending and swirling
with the Kabul River, cuddling, carving
belting the Hindu Kush;
Hindu Kush to the Tian Shan;
Tengri Tagh or Tengir-Too, anything at all
to breathe in Mountains of Heaven.
Sharp, cascading inhales of the ice gods, the grins
I see in the snow lines, the dusk-shades cast by sunlight—
Two final footsteps echoed against the scratched glass door
& off we were—
murmuring swampy lives away,
lobbing for ourselves the God-given champagne
against the bobbing she-queen, Queen of the Nile.
Life was in bubbles, great wads
of the stuff, tacky & sweet and still
criss-crossed in hot-blooded pen—
the deeper we burrowed in our footstep murmurs,
the deeper we saw;
until the hole grew so lightless
we found refuge.
The shadowy evening cast itself long against the sign pole. Stirling Point, the “southern-most point of New Zealand”–not even the southern-most point of Bluff–hung there, suspended, like some glorious trophy I would have given back for more time.
My body ached.
Electricity was zip-lining through me, pulsing in the backs of my knees, the creases of my elbows, the temple vein. Max, Arwed, Drew and I had been walking since 4 a.m., a steady thump of feet against compact sand, the New Zealand south coast as mystical and unraveled as we’d imagined. We had hiked 70km today to be here; my legs, strong now from seven weeks of hiking, were sore.
My palm closed around the metal pole.
I felt everything descend.
Do you have the time?
time to bend
hairy fiddlehead ferns and ask her secrets;
“unfold yourself,” you speak, the echoes
rich against the Manoa waterfall.