Larval in Waiting

arcs of palms donate
imperceptible asseverations
                  desert nightfall
                 we are destined
                             to resort
with the habitual coolness of a snake’s tongue
that brings to attendance an enigmatic path
like nakedness caught by the call of insects

silently turning         on a door’s eye         opposite walls
in absence of a friend’s brown skin       lighting a candle
printing on sand   she walks the way   sandpipers curve the beach
clam colony        the silence of prisoners        at low tide
owl-eyed oak        in a mouth-round hole         the moon
barefoot          sleeping under a tree         bare roots

the size of this morning     the warmth of this hair
noon         circling on the face of its dreamer
two wishes    not yet permanently    meeting

luck of a flatter-kick     the breath bereft of its length
released from talking     a liquid consonant    adjustable
weeping      marble-framed assemblages     barely lit
charmers      with no attitude     coming alongside
the youngest pair of scissors    her quibbler    lost
a neck-exposing talisman makes the street shadow ring
stone and ointment     the call at the present

spare bedroom guest   the one jogging   depending on headphones

beside his letter
an astrological chart
filed on a DVD
carries adamantine bits
          inside the dark voice
reading in reverse
up the spine my mother’s
frail connections
       white appears
                    bone-folded

some sound sent
        as we speak
does not arrive
over a migrating whisper
scrupulous        inflamed
                at which speed
                             aiming
                               ailing
    she circumnavigates it
                not unwillingly
curling
a black cat‘s tail
the air around attentive
forward         backward
                            a flag

response on curtains when they open
one side to the dark    their woven ears

tight touch along a collapsed bath rope
the weaver left     her accusations

elastic beyond sleep    a swan of this
wind’s white tracks changes

the creek    as we go by so tender
trout-lovers        aware of joining

spangled spawn       light embodies
suspended bubbles on side-streams

children squeeze the juice of black berries
sudden entry     sliding finger tips

checking   into a slow motion’s affection
when the gate leans undecided on its bell

Swim of a Narrative

I

the gurgle    the r before the g

one drop’s tongue into the path
not passing the one so far ahead

drop    the repetition    loaned
to softness for a while.

my pillow of wolf-haired yellow
undated         at dawn        the fur

the earliest riddle.
Is there a plan of compressed mixed

motion? From the breath of a fang
one feels the premonition is here

its blouse unbuttoned
as if a shift has meaning

in an age of  corridors
sleeping in the self’s long view

II

In a dense net of a player’s toy
lured in with a swarm of guests
the spider at a museum
in the frame work of a picture by Vermeer

above the unexpected baby   
diagonally cutting the format
the girl holds her lover’s letter folded.
Dutch light gives the season a doorway
of defense   the doorstep showing  
a catalogue of planned journeys

Off quicksand, the footprints periodically
one interior, one depreciation. Aladdin, his rusted lamp
needs sanding, needs a quick shine
on its silhouette’s internal face.

Equivalences before priorities. Such an effort to serve up
personified transgression, the cuckoo’s foreign egg
colors the nest; an eulogy of neglect, hinted? Can one
demand that such a collage becomes the invitation for a swim
dominated by salty strategies? Is Sunday Saturday’s warm grave
simply a parallel, a view seemingly differently parted?

One may express it mathematically as the rule of three,
but one can also figure it out emotionally as a warmer
more wet device: the dowser arrives smoothed,
a  green switch preparing infrastructure, meanwhile
the confused wishes talk to each other.

The liberation of literary tools wrecking resources.
Bricks, before they get fired red, like a rose in a far away
lover’s dream.
 
Scorpion          the entire neighborhood grows apart
by this earth or orb sign of the Zodiac.

Trade winds. Shall I be going to send Diana arrowheads?
With a dart of her tongue she seizes the comrade-in-arms.
One arrow points to a web site
advertising pig-skin slips      click        wrong page   
keeping land mines abysmally active.

The left breast tattooed, the ink to follow her blue vein.
A vowel mutates to the map of purification.
River spawn
just as two people finish in puce laying side by side

stung       
a bee’s lust fleeing hive-wards      
                             virgin honey

III

It doesn’t support choosing. A former event passes the computer
the formatting seems evenly distracted, followed by a tail of light.

The night comes with the charm of financial arrangements.
I pay and you wear a petticoat for an alternating route.

Later we wish to place ourselves under a skylight
something not yet articulated holds up pressure.

Against glass it occurs clear, touchable by leaning
forward against a larger eye, the telescope.

Seldom one feels so very close and separated
like on the last day of December. Suppertime

                                  on our plate
                                             a painted swan takes off
                                                 the white of porcelain

IV

The line an artist draws refers to a dialogue. A lifelong
impatience is kept in a hand’s movement. Francis Bacon’s colors
are shaped through dialogues, resting finally in painfully winding
bodies of his friends. In fact, the pieces of dialogues are owned
by us, the visitors. Masterpieces fall in love with each other
later stay with collectors. Often, well balanced dialogues happen
between objects before men interfere.

Today, only a handful of American Indians would try to exchange
the softness of a daughter for a new bow.
The hunter’s tendon is tuned to D major before the arrow makes
contact with a deer. Then, a new dialogue occurs, the downer’s
mind travels     contemplates

oh think how brown-skinned will be our tribe

V

A snake’s belly
up my ankle
say, Miss Tsí’gonĕ
do those teeth bite
if I wish for    again?

question marks ascend
         red above the point
         the sailboat’s lanterns   
as they sink
to a dive under the horizon

enrapture of intrusion
the private sphere a membrane
                  through the cellular
a man she had not seen
only the sound of a beggar

insistent        indulgent
collaborative linking
the paper      the pencil
epidemiological rouge
depending on the eraser

we speculate in the kitchen
why those two faucets
for different reasons 
drop simultaneously
but unequally strong

VI

she / he
(the empty space reserved
for the unknown
mind
moving in)

The size of this morning     the root of that hair

circling in the face of its dreamer

two wishes for one incident     deep but not yet permanently

stone and ointmentthe call at the present

located        at dawn       at a barn owl’s beak

Luck of a flutter-kick, the breath bereft of its length
released from talking. The liquid consonant a fool’s choice,
adjustable. A weep for marble-framed assemblages
barely lit. Charmers’ reconciliation about masculine attitudes.
The youngest pair of scissors, her quibbler lost.
A tale-bearing talisman makes her shadow ring at the corner

spare bedroom guest  
                       the one jogging at Half Moon Bay
                                                    depending on headphones

VII

Distortion, dissuasiveness? Since men can enjoy the fits
surfacing a sub why not women, too? Distress after fun?
In a stainless-steel-age crime burst in like Lautréamont’s
flooded stories. Energy, if so charming in disorder, what
would it be arranged?

Possession of an ocean that deep? In case Pandora would be
hanging around, let’s say unemployed by mortals, she could
be the Priestess in Command on board, her swaying altar
black with the smoke of sacrifices close to nuclear devices.
Morning glow, bells. An E oracle from Delphi arrives:

Look, this crew’s behavior can be thought through without an end.

A well pointed nuc moves freely by magnetic powers. Neither
spring is longer in the path of summer nor will
autumn stop winter from circling by the law of pull and push
over the gloss of an eggplant.

Breakfast. Machi Tawara in the process combining her knowledge 
about koans with the message of a Greek sister’s oracle. 
She keeps sucking on an angled straw dipped in warmed
spinach water. Longing for the conditioner, and after a delicate
make-up painting her eye brows as high as the waves roar.
She lets herself into one more meditation.
Her guided prayers and the cobalt box can spend time to fuse
until they become one at the target

incense 
    the smoke not to see through 
                incontrovertible sleep

(Swim of a Narrative, consisted of seven chapters of inter-genre poetry,
containing ghazal, free verse, one-liners, combinations of 3-liners and 5-liners,
prose, dialogue, stage-like scenes, riddle / koan, and symbiotic poetry)

Ocean City    

the shore granted    to shell games’
                                               shine
                                               on coupons
the wit in falsehood  soldiers by invented actions
                                                   fastened to a belt     
                                                           ammunition
                                                   on both  partners  
                                          first choice last choice

math with no number   an osprey’s cry   my own

come catarrh  
from a galaxy of krill
a whale leaps
through its nocturnal desire
into light above the sea

the shape of a landing
to whom to give in
as a composer       antedating        white and black
                                                        keys of a piano
                                                      adjusting the air
                                                   through refutation
                                                      of sound texture

night with a egg-white and yolk before parted

awakened by an iPod
peep & show
it offers some vibrations
transforming the way you text
a pocket-weapon camouflaged 

combat inside      at home    soon overseas
a song in my palm pivoting the delta beyond smooth

In Search

       Traveling in sound-territories. Each parcel wears a mask to find new contacts.
It can happen behind a subway window or under the cathedral's blue rosette in Chartres. We may imagine that such waves or particles of a journey unequivocally return their service

night - light         the sea has a weaver        moon-moved

      Advice not settled can mean exchange. The more separation, the more will be invested for understanding. As long as the code of meaning is kept unknown, the partner / reader enjoys confusion deeply. Out of this demanding, tickling depth nervousness begins to trace areas begging for explanation.

      Negligently, for a map showing a path to get away from here, we would like to bend a finger, start
all over, call it the joy, the concentrated effort in search for a new game, its purpose purblind persuaded

black eyes side by side      one sleeps  one is awake       dominos

It Passes

A shade occurs
  the cross marks its door
                   it passes over
                              Friday
it may later move a stone

Saturday that warm    dresses will be losers

I am not home on Easter Sunday, think of hiding
eggs as an arrangement referring to rose water sweets

They come powdered

communicants   their questions   dipterous and tizzy

wish I too could go with marbles’ faster rolling
to switch to chalk’s white growing

overflow
                  flux     oozing
this amount of  April rain

Copper on a Minaret

her dusty dress
              soft obliterating
              yellow (if not orange

probably) in its own entourage
                   split
English tongues     they realize
imploding breath by
                        Shock and Awe

              ultra sound
              widening a crater
     black of burned bushes

spiraled prayer         
home of a mosque
                        underneath
the oil floating        the oil
the woods of ancient roots