My blood

My blood is hoofbeats in the Sahara
My blood is the tolling of church bells in Novgorod
My blood is the latching of a prison door
My blood is Venus rising above the moon
My blood is your tears falling on my sunburnt skin
My blood is each snow flake scurrying past the window
Into the probability of its own destiny
My blood is the truth of the rose when
It drops its petals, petulant and wise to
Its persistent immortality
My blood is life even when I forget the
Pure uncontained turbulence of its flow
Cutting a path through timelessness and disbelief
On its way to a sigh


Skin hunger

It starts in the small of the back
Travels to the pit of the stomach
Then the shoulders join the dance
Once there, I know what’s next —
Tips of my fingers and toes
(The breath is another hint)
The only way out is in
Skin into skin full grind
A pestle into a mortar until
I drip curry warm and smooth
Begging sweet hunger to come again


Sometimes my eyes are
An ant colony
A cohort following
Yellow road stripes
Toward the sun
Sometimes they are blind
To the pink elephant slurping
Its slop from a bucket in
The middle of my room
To a gorilla bouncing
Between basketball players
Impervious to my concentration
To you until tears
Clear away the fog of my
Blithe existence

Blood and ashes

Blood and ashes — what is the difference?
We are blind to grey on brown
But red on white is in the visible spectrum
Ashes are fleeting — they love the wind
You say blood stains permanently
An optical illusion determines the outrage
Either suffocates
Blood to snow, ashes to dust
— In our proud acalculia
Could two thousand brown bodies ever equal
A dozen Parisian intellectuals?

The eternity of my soul

Bach harvests mathematics of the spheres
And launches them in their tympanic glory
In my heart they explode the stores of
My polyphonic tears
A counterpoint to what I am told
Day in and day out
And the blurred answer
This is creation
This is the I in everything
And everything in the I
A well-tempered exchange in the
Eternity of my soul