these days i feel like water. like an ocean cusping on the marked line of a horizon. like a droplet riveting and rolling, making its way down to pool onto a ledge.

the slightest nudge, a gentle push
and i'd spill over.

sitting dangerously on the lip of the cup
teetering in and out of balance-

it is a game of give or take

i bend myself backwards into a crescent
just to make room for their full mooned selves

i wonder how Neil Armstrong felt
when he took his first step onto the dusty crater ridden plain
and found himself

all
alone

i am

                                                   alone

destined to listlessly twirl around my own axis dreamlike
but not like a dream at all
floating miles away from the person i have yet to unearth
but yet not far enough to fly among the stars

i am held by the centre of my own gravity

is that why sometimes i can hear my bones creak under the weight of the person i was supposed to be?

A pocketful of doom is flourishing
ceiling to wall in my cranium,

and though I tend to the tantrum of it
with fatherly, nurturing discipline

it acts as a nebulous cumulonimbus
fog seething with diffusion of void,
breaking through every window of warm

out to the inside I tend to become

an accidental abuser, flailing teeth
into over-ripened words, knocking
unripened fruit from the bough between us.

With nerves like coiled snakes in an apple,
prismatic minds are dulled to a fractal
of their former spectral rainbow
when expunged into the shadow.

Thorough rage—event horizon
clawing sides of deep depressions,
cusping manic at the fervor—

when the cliff becomes the shackle
of the neurosis-fed darkness jackal

open demise toward the mouth of the sun
and perhaps tongue at infinite light.

Pulse after Pulse,
Wave after wave,
Ethereal Blue-- silver and misty, violently real yet entrancingly True-- collides, creates, reverberates, spreads like warfare as it envigorates the endless Sea of Diamond Comets that refract, reflect and beautifully protect a, delicately cradled and elegantly undone, Celestial Symphony-- whose conductor is a wise Blue Sun.

Volcanic moons spew molten streams of pure gold on to their eternally glittering surfaces-- mountains topped with Emeralds of green and Rubies of red-- existence is their only purpose.

Suddenly, a wisp of lightning from Under the Blue Sun, makes its way into Life just for a little fun.

Coiled up like a spring-- its journey cusping to begin-- it spontaneously releases, gracefully whole not in pieces, from its creator and its captor with a wiggle, push and squeeze. And with this dance it now does sing, every burst crescendoing faster in tempo not in speed. Becoming rainbows, becoming glass. Becoming kinetic energy with every passing moon, every passing meteor, every asteroid and comet-- beyond the gold, beyond the shine, beyond space and all time--

A wisp of Lightning, under a Blue Sun, leaves its home to create Life where there is none.

Indoors the ornamental grass  
within an oblong planter,
stares out dejectedly from its base.
My eyes convey cusping thoughts,
willing the blades to whither  -
singeing sideways,
forming yet another nexus
reminding me of Cerrice.

In the whispers of earliest morning
and the scurrying tones of nightfall
my mind lies open, vulnerable
like dark flowers cusping spring

With probing eyes, full and brown
I see that which I can realize
yet not realizing what must be seen
that which lies beyond my ocular reach

And with utmost effort, sinking innards
I toil with feelings buried inwards
dissected and magnified
preserved and studied under the light

The lips of night are delicate,
cusping our ears gently.
Provoking thoughts madly.

As she allows you to stay,
her touch; looms and sways.
Like the coming of the sun,
her emptiness evokes warmth.

Decades, it feels.
As you roll up your sleeve,
her addictive gaze strikes eagerly.
Irritated are the eyes that follow.
Seemingly, filled with a ghastly hollowness.  

A whimper suggested,
as you condemned faith itself.
Yearning a simple sleep,
victory arise between stars.

Stuck in a different plane,
night calls out like a siren.
Echoing shrieks,
she hints of Orion.

As ink touches skin,
you become dreary.
Stuck in shambles,
a sense of catastrophe.

In these ugly times, my words reflect the nature.
Beauty is to be found, but it will be found later.
Like the hard-headed flower at the cusping of the spring,
My petals will soon open and sweet nectar it will bring.

to have a human stir, letting awake
flood in, putting unasked long blonde
tresses leavings on your shoulder,
resting head upon the empty crevice
where your shoulder and arm dip,
requiring
filling,

to have a child read you to sleep, a partnership, and awake hours later
his hand cusping your chin, and that
sensation makes an old man go
knee weak
even forty five years
later

despite that the woman left you, claiming
a lack of fufillment?

and that child now a forty five year old man,
has excised you from his life, and doesn’t plan or attending a future funeral,

it is still your **best privilege

I stand in the shower with lavender fields in my chest

how do I scrape off the muck, scoop out the loathing
and take off the gloves to pick up the patches of fear
that periodically gather at the base of my shower drain  

how do I heal each limb so that with majesty
I awaken knowing
full and bright that I am a child with wings
and elevation is the right song that pours out when I dream
an inheritance marbled into my being’s skin
                              …
how does a child beget forgetting
how does an adult continue such forgetting

what is the suchness of wholeness
whose scent of remembrance seems mythically far
but its verity present within our plot

                              …
our hands reaching for the bunches of lavender
that can be gathered from a bountiful field
a calm whiff of what we truly are
that can send us back into an infinite space of fruitful life
cusping possibility
                            ...
portable pastures inside our homestead
running water
and a chance to be cleansed
what suchness of being over my body  
how ecstatic
how simple to stand under the showerhead 
on the toes of today
with a meadow in my chest

Wings hidden well
and never spread with
surprise,
you wait till eye shut
and then run loud in cloud,
you complete,
cusping and converging,
fresh, new,
how like you.
Then descend without a hint of flight,
knowing light.

A sad visage — is it that leaves cannot hold snow
only roughened needle may cradle it's cold crystalline,
a fresh-blossomed love as lost as the calypso.
God's chiseled sculptures cast out, serpentine.

The somber minuet, glistening à pas menus upon her face.
Dizzyingly fluttered through cusping sapphire lens
each tuft, each dune of wind-sculped embrace.
Do you know even your warmth harkens her ends?

How could you? Lovingly, lost under peaks of heaven.
Heat of helios as your reflective love soon parts —
no fault of your own, nor allowance of concession.
It was too bright of a burn, your blazing hearts.

Alabaster draped darling, you hold on so tight.
I promise, I swear, birds will sing of your light.

Her whispers:
Puts my mind at ease,
Cusping my shoulders,
With Her gentle breeze,
Removing a boulder.

O, Wind,
Come again,
In need of reprieve, sweep me.
Come again,
O, Wind,
I need relief.

1.

The wind blows and I am nervous over a hill,
where the grass is low
but lower is the water flowing

Keep in mind,quiet costs
the dry branches motion in the gust of time
slowly churning thoughts
over the eve of our crowing destiny
2.
From that hilltop
I see them

The smell of Franciscan Manzanitas and bees
surrounds them

I thought they’d lost their way,
down the path where the ferns grow high
and the forest deepen enough to make most forget

But I saw them egress the woodland’s mouth
an abetment of hands cusping future

they giggled and where light
on their feet
enthroned to this field
they walked over the sharp blades of grass
3.
there is no such thing now
as optional, ornamental pruning
trimming is to occur
and its necessity makes itself known
coils its body like a serpent
4.
our consciousness burrowed for too long
in the ground

5.
When I turn my head I see you, too
Do you see them ?

the crowned that have come
blinking their love for all things

it seems like we must begin again or the fates will cut their strings

Curled, a cradle, cusping
silky supple soft,
aloft rustling skin
prickling static afterthought.
Nose in, mouth out,
internal furnace burning hot,
bitter winter giving way
to flame that’d dim for naught.

our bodies stand side by side, fingers intertwined as the sun comes turning dawn into morning. Here earth's mouth exhales
forming cold dewdrops over the pastures of past migrations

our hands cusping wild cosmos stretch past the western highlands
to touch the grammar of coastal basins where central avenue runs down the middle back of Los Angeles

there, too we lift our palms to feed the hummingbirds with our sweet nectars of wild cosmos


Translation to Spanish:

Sueños de tu y yo

Nuestros cuerpos parados de lado a lado
nuestros dedos entrelazados mientras el sol convierte el atardecer en mañana

Aquí la boca de la tierra exhala formando gotas de roció sobre el pasto de migraciones passadas

nuestras manos son flores cúspides
que se extiende más allá de las tierras altas occidentales a tocar gramática de las cuencas costeras donde la avenida Central recorre la parte media de la espalda de Los Ángeles.

Desde allí crecemos flores de cosmos para alimentar a los colibríes
con nuestros dulces néctares
y los colibríes viene y nosotras sonreímos

the love flows like water today,
can you feel it ?
i'm leaking into the wind.
the car windows are down.
it's flowing new;
cusping of old.

a motorbike turbo.
an anthem of courage.
resonant dynamos.
canted sliding streets.

how much can i stand
to lie down alone
cusping and gripping distractions
to hopefully randomly fall into sleep
instead of stay awoke to the gnawing sense of one heartbeat?

like liquid seeping into the well of my soul. the stagnant bayou waters that wish to deny my will to go on. infesting pathogens familiarizing itself with me only in own weakness in a muddy stench. how does one find again their love when its lost?
the impression on my chest need be filled with some one.
else my arms tatter in under-use and famine.

Mother nature in budding years fell insatiable with what the gods had gifted us .....
She layed at our feet ..
Upon a golden fleece.......
An overly filled cornicopia
Brimmed with anything we wanted....the magnitude of which inexperience
Simply could  not comprehend.
We laughed like fat young kings ...... ..
Shook the pillars ......walked like
GIANTS.



Twas the crestpucular rays
Cusping the dawning of sweet savory days as we ****** knuckled our way into the  arena of adulthood
which did
Glint our eyes ablaze.....
Shedding light upon phantasms of delusional grandeure!
Insatiable .....
A pack of wolf to be sure.....
An almost overbearing musky Aroma of overconfidence lurked ..
And ohhhhhh..
Stiffining the hackle was the ever present danger of spontaneous fight .....
The unpredictability incredibly
Intoxicating.

What a plush
Den  ........
I remember the air back then seemed ....I  guess warm and thick.......
Like it had some meat and............
Still had some game to it .......
Awe yessssss!
peach would pair well with it.
And such a
Flavor hung from each lush
Syllable spun .
Closing in n
Drooling like dogs teeth fully displayed, Eyes transfixed
ears pricked ...
Rotating .........
Searching the silence...
As they  clung to the regaling of some past violence and not wanting to miss a single nuance
Anti-)nay sayers paradise