if we watch the day end together
as the colors of dusk surround
    being attached by the night
     as we walk through town
          we will talk of life
             sit by the lake
           smile as we wait
                   for the
                    dawn

You set me in the sun to grow,
fed my roots with tender rain.
But when your hands reached for me,
I broke—dry petals slipping through your fingers.

I now grieve the flower I almost was,
longing to bloom as you once imagined.
But now your care drifts elsewhere,
and I remain beneath this burning sky,
waiting for my final petal to fall.

Lo que el salvaje que con torpe mano
hace de un tronco a su capricho un dios,
y luego ante su obra se arrodilla,
        eso hicimos tú y yo.   Dimos formas reales a un fantasma,
de la mente ridícula invención,
y hecho el ídolo ya, sacrificamos
        en su altar nuestro amor.

L'anémone et l'ancolie
Ont poussé dans le jardin
Où dort la mélancolie
Entre l'amour et le dédain

Il y vient aussi nos ombres
Que la nuit dissipera
Le soleil qui les rend sombres
Avec elles disparaîtra

Les déités des eaux vives
Laissent couler leurs cheveux
Passe il faut que tu poursuives
Cette belle ombre que tu veux.

Hot flashes of heartfever
Burning through my lungs
And a strong case of never-dry
more-than-pink and puffy eyes

Je suis pédéraste dans l'âme,
Je le dis tout haut et debout.
Assis, je changerais de gamme,
Et, couché sur un lit, Madame,
Je ne le dirais plus du tout.

La pédérastie est un vice :
C'est l'avis de mon médecin.
Je le crois, il n'est pas novice
Quand il soutient que l'exercice
Le plus naturel, le plus sain,

Sain, comme la mer et son hâle,
L'honneur même de la maison,
Qui fait le regard le moins pâle,
Le plus magnifiquement mâle,
Sans aucune comparaison,

Le plus ravissant sur la terre,
C'est de froisser le traversin
D'une femme qu'on... désaltère,
Quand elle serait adultère,
Quand elle n'aurait qu'un seul sein.

C'est là le sentiment intime
De tous les peuples sous le ciel ;
Et je me fous, pour la maxime,
Que l'Exception règne ou rime
Même d'un air spirituel ;

De tous, oui, autant que nous sommes,
Aussi bien du Chinois charmant
Que du Français, peintre de pommes ;
Et c'est l'opinion des hommes
Qui furent des hommes, vraiment,

Plus forts que ceux dont leur église
Met les cercueils an Panthéon ;
Ce sont ceux-là qu'on poétise,
Par exemple... Abraham... Moïse,
Et, si tu veux... Napoléon.

C'est l'opinion du plus sage
Chez les Slaves au regard clair,
Chez les Germains au doux visage,
Chez les Latins au beau langage,
Et chez les Bretons au cœur fier.

C'est la tienne, Aimée, et la nôtre ;
C'est celle de tout bon cerveau,
Qui n'a contre elle qu'un... apôtre,
Un monsieur pourtant comme un autre,
Son nom ?... devra rimer en veau.

- Son nom, voyons ? - Comment, Madame
Son nom ? mais puisqu'il n'est pas pur,
Il souillerait, ce nom infâme,
Tes chastes oreilles de femme ;
Et puis, moi, je n'en suis pas sûr.

Si c'était une calomnie
Qu'une apparence aide à courir,
Je ferais une vilenie ;
Son nom ? Ah ! jamais de la vie !
J'aimerais cent fois mieux mourir !

La jolie école qu'il fonde,
Sans ce nom-là, pourra planer
Dans une obscurité profonde ;
La plus belle fille du monde
Comme l'on dit, ne peut donner...

D'ailleurs, Madame, cette école
Ne fait pas beaucoup d'adhérents :
Il n'ont pas de porte-parole ;
Et c'est comme une offre un peu molle
Qui rit à des indifférents.

Cependant, sa présence agace
Ceux qui la soupçonnent dans l'air ;
Car ce soupçon va, se déplace,
Et finalement vous enlace
Comme la vague dans la mer.

Ces messieurs lisent la gazette,
Dînent en ville assez bien mis ;
Quelquefois courtisent Lisette ;
J'approuve cela, mais, mazette !
Je n'en... gueule pas mes amis.

Oui, ce vilain soupçon nous gêne
Et pourrait submerger un jour,
Près de la niche, avec la chaîne,
L'Amitié, cette belle chienne,
Qui hurle à sa lune d'amour.

Pour moi, vous remarquerez comme
J'ai quelque grâce à protester :
Passant pour la moitié d'un homme,
N'aurais-je pas le droit, en somme,
De chercher à me compléter ?

Bien mieux, tiens ! je ne suis pas large,
Mais le plus raide des paris
Qu'on me le tienne, et je me charge
Sous les yeux du public, en marge,
Du plus vieux mouchard de Paris !

Or, je ne suis pas pédéraste ;
Que serait-ce si je l'étais !
Voyez, Madame, quel contraste !
Ah ! par la perruque d'Éraste !
Et maintenant... si je pétais !

I yearn for the day
That these
Soundproof chambers
Won't scream so
Inescapably loud

Dark and windy night,
gives way to gray untidy dawn,
the storm outside is tired, her anger spent
beating on my door with weakened fists
and barely veiled contempt,
she needs to sleep and does not want to play,
but she will have her way until the very last,
the worst of her is past, the light will soothe her cries,
dispatch her to her cot,
to think about the things that she has done,
and we may have a peaceful day,
until she throws another one

I've never felt the need to be better
For someone else
I've never felt the need to impress
Or to dress the part
Its terrifying
All I want is for you to notice me
I read you, anxiously

It gets too loud sometimes
I'm used to it just being me
But now I'm nauseous
And my heart rate is
One hundred forty

I take a step back
Trying to breath
From the voices
That are flooding me
I wish I could say
All that's unsaid
But I'm worried
It will leave one of us dead

I went to the ocean,
and the waves whispered your name
like a scene from one of your books,
like a player's claim.

They say the sea belongs to poets,
but the sand hurts my feet,
and the sound makes me drift back to you.

I apologize to my future self:
the pain I carry will mature in his heart,
bearing my love for you and my goodbye.

We will never see the children of our love.
They will never have your eyes and my doom.
They will never laugh with your smile and my gloom.

This is my last lament
a wall of verses in my lover’s scent,
poetry for the vanity of our love,
one last song, one last painting, one last poem in your name.

I’m from New York she said.I guarantee that when you are from New York, the world is at your feet , as you know I live on Madisson 5 and sorry to ask you,  i never heard about you, are you a lawyer? I might have a case.It all happened on 5 th avenue , it was last month..Do you want a coffee?

unsure, uncertain,
of the laws invested
in the realms and reams
of poetry ingested,
am i addict,
or supplier,
retail consumer
or
wholesale supplier,
a mom & pop candy store,
or a metastasizing intelligence
that takes any thing, and all,
a solitary letter,
an instance of a sighting,
a gasping palpitation
and reformats it into
a hehe literary madhatter^ piece

you supply, I demand,
I supply, boy oh boy,
do I ever, but you never,
come to me directly asking,
write me a poem, thick or thin,
witty fitty or an overly looooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooong
e~pistle (a/k/a e~pistol)
yet the trade goes on and om,
the marketplace never closes,
except when periodically the
gatewaykeeper is slow to pay his bills,
and the trading centres are global scattered,
young entrepreneurs try to sell a single
piece, as if it was breaking news history,
and tired old men, review their lived,
eager to memorialize, so it's ok to forget,

in retro!spect perspective,
the mirror who cannot lie,
states affirmatively, you are
both ****** and dealer,
a corporation scientific
of ancient biblical origins,
a psalmist, a deacon,
a lyricist, but thankfully
not a singer,
an essayist who writes best
when ****** by tawny port wine,
who snatches inspiration with
equality of equity,
(wait! that's wrong,
the equity of equality,)
where he can
find, ***** city streets, the deaths
of heroes, the sunrise calm miracle
he drinks in daily, by rivers, by seas,
by estuaries brackish, and streams
of watered purity, the riveting bays,
the individualized glisten deflected
into my eyes, that each
contains one pure blessing within….                                                 nml

"Still With You My two little hearts"
I didn’t walk away, my loves —
I was torn from where I stood.
Not by choice, not by will,
But by rules that misunderstood.

Two hearts I held in each strong hand,
Two stars that lit my skies.
Now I trace your names in silence,
With tears the court denies.

I am the observer—
always present,
yet never really there.

Everyone moves,
their stories unfolding
like rivers rushing forward,
while I remain still,
a stone in the current.

I know their struggles,
I see their patterns—
so I give the advice,
offer the comfort,
play the steady hand.

But no one pauses
to read my story.
No one lingers long enough
to see past my smile,
my practiced “I’m okay.”

And so I stay—
a quiet witness
who lives in motion,
a chapter unopened,
a story unread.

The night sings,
through the foggy glow of streetlamps.
The lethargy of emotions floats
in the street’s dark alley.

She came to take away the questions
never spoken,
and now I think of myself,
of the world,
of those who cannot sleep
in this nocturne time.

It would be easier to rise above
and cast soothing words.
Much harder to endure
like a thought shut in a tin
that escapes at last
when water appears.

I meant well,
Yet it slipped away from human logic.
That is why on many nights
I tear out hours, minutes,
to write what I feel.

Autumn is in the air.
Morning light reveals
golden-green shades,
slowly entering red.

In memory glows the smile
of summer landscapes,
of heat,
of promises unfulfilled
that fade with the light.

Today, everything falls into thought
like gossamer on ploughed ground.
So much beauty there is.
How could I live
without metaphors?

To call things by their names,
not to drown in longings,
not to color them,
to make shapes less painful?

Autumn has come.
I float between breaths.
I don’t know what will come.
I only know I write
in the silence of this night,
in search of lost time
more precious than sleep,
than stillness,
than a brief dream.

I feel so stereotyped
I say I like one thing
And that’s all I’m known for
I said I liked
A game
That’s all she saw
A girl
They labeled me lesbian
A genre
They insisted I’m weird
Why is it
People only see
One side of me?
I’m so much more
Than a game
A crush
A book genre
Or some naive
Little kid.

Preface
This is not aimed at a single person, nor written for applause. It is a naming, a mirror, a reminder that truth spoken with accountability carries its own fire. The Witness belongs to anyone willing to bear that flame, even for a moment.


This is not accusation, but naming in clarity:
Projection is the currency.
The herd is the instrument.
Seduction is the method.
Obscurity is the shield.

  And when truth enters,
  it unsettles the herd.

The first defense is always the lullaby..
soft verses sung to calm the trembling,
to cradle the anxious back into sleep.
But the lullaby is no vision;
it is anesthesia, a narcotic of words.
It soothes so that no one questions
the darkness that holds them.

Yet the mantle descends where it will.
A word spoken in accountability burns like flame,
piercing the fog, shattering the spell.

Even for a moment, it breaks the hold
and shows the rulers for what they are:

      unclothed,

  powerless,

             undone.

no matter what I wear
you don’t pay attention
no matter what day
you don’t look my direction
no matter how I stare
no matter what I say
all I want is you to look my way.

For the guidance,
in this interesting
adventure,
you took my hand,
despite the flaws,
and easy corruptions

found this grace,
a special place,
that only you can
give

an awakening towards the invisible,
a sacred rhythm
of infinite
virtue

you've seen the beginning
and will see the end

a father of infinite wisdom,
and giver of good things

why should we be blinded to the good,
and be deceived
into the darkness,
awaken your minds
the third eye,
an old forgotten
Way

The system
Always wins.
It's how
You lose
That counts

I can feel the ridges of your finger tips
And I wish I could rip through the skin
But then we’ll all drown into an abyss
Of crimson slimy liquid

I can feel your collarbones
I wish I could remove all your clothes

For everything get’s in the way
The greatest barrier of love,

The body

the ideal way to read
let each sentence hit
contemplate the idea
admire the architecture
read it again
never finish

i stand in the window
watching blue waters,
aware that the weeks
have been few since
we swam there.

note the change
of morning air, the jacket
taken out and cleaned,
the snap on bare skin,

knowing that the woods
won't warm through day,
and that night, coming early,
will be brittle with star.

i think fire
is a simple answer.
clean the dead brush
stacked and waiting.
kindling for hard
wood fuel.
fire in the belly of our
wood stove
warming the rooms
that we live in.

it's easier
to plan for the winter
now that i've seen
seventy come and go.

i'm softer believing  
that i'm the warmest in
the dark hard hours before
dawn, laying here
listening to you breathe.

I like the smell
Of boot polish
And fresh cut grass

I promised you eternity
Yet
It did not last

I like the taste
Of bananas
But not the texture

You said you
Would leave
And just let you

I like the
Warmth of the stones
In the late evening sun

Not fond of
This ache
Wish we'd never begun

But that's a lie
Cos to grieve
Is to live

I push the 'nana
Through the mesh
And give it a sieve.

when we talk about beauty,
we compare it to
flowers,
oceans,
sunsets
things we call ordinary
because they are always
within reach
i deny this,
for if continued presence
held little importance,
no one would have loved
divinity this much.

Islas del cielo, soplo en un soplo suspendido,
¡con pie ligero, semejante al aire,
pisar sus playas sin dejar más huella
que la sombra del viento sobre el agua!

¡Y como el aire entre las hojas
perderse en el follaje de la bruma
y como el aire ser labios sin cuerpo,
cuerpo sin peso, fuerza sin orillas!