We’re so evolved kids

I crawled cradled into a hole,
a little one next to Mrs. Ples.
There I laid my head down
on our grandmother’s breast.
There it was I cried
the where’s, the what’s, the who’s, the why’s.
Do we hurt each other so
like siblings do, me and you?
You pull each other’s hair, she said
To bash the other on the concrete,
the street, to claim the game’s victory.
But the game’s gone
too far, much much too far.
You’ve forgotten what a cop, what a robber is.
To hide (away) and to seek (refuge)
playing on the streets.
She’d hit us, she said
if she had had the strength.
You hate too much and care too little
So the game my dear
isn’t worth its prize.
It isn’t fun anymore,
it hasn’t been
since even before my time.


I strip inconsequentially,
hiding myself in insomnia midnight.
Your eyes aren’t here to see me.
My body’s outline
isn’t traced by your fingers,
it’s met by a queen sized bed
and cheap linens that drape
like disappointment.

Dreams of you.
Perhaps the consequence
of your disappearance,
fleeting and wonderful,
the morning light
will open my eyes
only for disoriented dust motes
and silence.

City nights, guiding lights, false prophets

I saw god in a stranger,
pouring petrol.
I heard god in mouths
in the many churches
lining the street
where the hookers stand,
angels of the night
illuminated in headlights.
I lost my voice
shouting at the universe
from the car window
at fast-lane speed,
to get closer to light
we ride our breath away
and stick hands
into icy air
to break the numb.
I thought I saw a sign
of insight
but the sight to see
was an adult store neon.


Every beauty spot,
like glorious gods
scattered over the heavens,
explored by my lips.
They let me hear
the sound of universal mantra
in the Delphic steam
of your ejaculated breath,
I find in your exhalations
the exaltation of oracles.
My hands read your body
like sacred scripture
inscribed in braille
and find there my truth.
I will count my prayers
on the beads of sweat
strung along your spine,
to find you and myself
bound together
like leather binding
the holiest doctrine.
oh oh so holy
oh the glory to glimpse
in writhing delirium
momentary transcendence.


Somewhere inside me
is the past-tense
of an empty tea cup
and a novel with a broken spine.
Ants circle the rim,
crawl across the pages
in a search for nourishment
different from my own.
Words arranged like music
are a tome of silence
that smells sweetly
of years on a sunned shelf
where the dust,
from the big bang
nestles itself
on its own creation.
And I find
the ants and I
aren’t so different after all