[A]

Parallels

Euclid’s Axiom:
	Parallel lines don’t 
             intersect 
      except at infinity.

False False again!
	Soft kisses under  fall
	          foliage
	 remembered today tell 
	
Me, how we met impossibly once.
     Two parallel lines again
                        stretching
	into the blue infinities.
[B]

Unlangauged

I will become unlangauged
	     Like the birds
The insistent fluttering of 
	     those wings
The  high pitch of  raucous
	    Bird love song
In sparse snow armored trees 
	  (You walk under)
And fill up the wintry silences
		Of my grief.
[C]

Black

Black: the color of soot
	ascendant of lights
		extinguished.
 
Black: the night I fight 
	   with puny fires
		raging tears.
 
Black: the color you liked to
	  wear; the antimony in
	       your unloving eyes 

Black: the blankness of this memory
	         I hold to write about
				Black
-----------------------------------------------
2001:12:20 02:30 Atlanta

Wrote these poems, on an Ethanol high.


My Poems

(For Doc + 2 other U3 Stud Madars)

Broken hearted stranger rushing on the road, here there nowhere. shoulders hunched against the wind, feet blue hands blue the scars of his hand where he slapped your face blue cold blue

ooh walking walking walking without a stop towards a final end.

Broken hearted stranger you're remebering his hands passin through your hair streaming in the wind,tears rolling in estacy, his lips roving as he finger fucked you over the roar of his Mustang

ooh crying crying crying black tears in too many unknown beds.

Broken hearted stranger darkness is coming in ridin again across the border and you keep hearin the remebered echos of his feet, each of his false smiles false words.

ooh glowing glowing shining dark eyes sleepless watching endless passin train windows

Broken hearted stranger red sun soon will come raisin over the frozen snow banks of pain, hear your heart pounding no no no don't slice those viens no just wait don't jump down those tracks no not yet

not yet not yet......staccto

feel feel feel growling oooh lovin lovin feel my lovin in the starlight

mmmm B---@ro@--->Ken hearted s-----tra++++ger.. broken hearted stranger feel my lovin
feel my lovin.......broken ooh broken hearted...stranger....yeahhhhh..... in the in the staaarry staarry night.....

fade

2002:01:08 Atlanta

This one came out more raw than I thought it would be, but I wanted to write one that had strong contrasts, raw lyrics ending with soft whispering words...ssssssss.... like grass rustling in the praire wind. The seed came from one of the very first conversations that I had with Doc,found the words coming to me strangely as I was parking my bike and walking to class, not the words just her obvious pain on remebering memories in her head, so the last lines are especially for her.

By dark the world is once again intact, Or so the mirrors, wiped clean, try to reason. . . -James Merrill

This dream of water--what does it harbor? I see Argentina and Paraguay under a curfew of glass, their colors breaking, like oil. The night in Uruguay

is black salt. I'm driving toward Utah, keeping the entire hemisphere in view-- Colombia vermilion, Brazil blue tar, some countries wiped clean of color: Peru

is titanium white. And always oceans that hide in mirrors: when beveled edges arrest tides or this world's destinations forsake ships. There's Sedona, Nogales

far behind. Once I went through a mirror-- from there too the world, so intact, resembled only itself. When I returned I tore the skin off the glass. The sea was unsealed

by dark, and I saw ships sink off the coast of a wounded republic. Now from a blur of tanks in Santiago, a white horse gallops, riderless, chased by drunk soldiers

in a jeep; they're firing into the moon. And as I keep driving in the desert, someone is running to catch the last bus, men hanging on to its sides. And he's missed it.

He is running again; crescents of steel fall from the sky. And here the rocks are under fog, the cedars a temple, Sedona carved by the wind into gods--

each shadow their worshiper. The siren empties Santiago; he watches --from a hush of windows--blindfolded men blurred in gleaming vans. The horse vanishes

into a dream. I'm passing skeletal figures carved in 700 B.C. Whoever deciphers these canyon walls remains forsaken, alone with history,

no harbor for his dream. And what else will this mirror now reason, filled with water? I see Peru without rain, Brazil without forests--and here in Utah a dagger

of sunlight: it's splitting--it's the summer solstice--the quartz center of a spiral. Did the Anasazi know the darker answer also--given now in crystal

by the mirrored continent? The solstice, but of winter? A beam stabs the window, diamonds him, a funeral in his eyes. In the lit stadium of Santiago,

this is the shortest day. He's taken there. Those about to die are looking at him, his eyes the ledger of the disappeared. What will the mirror try now? I'm driving,

still north, always followed by that country, its floors ice, its citizens so lovesick that the ground--sheer glass--of every city is torn up. They demand the republic

give back, jeweled, their every reflection. They dig till dawn but find only corpses. He has returned to this dream for his bones. The waters darken. The continent vanishes.

--from A Nostalgist's Map of America

Second one I am posting here from the same book. Shahid whom I have come to love. He recently passed away ( Dec 8 2001) in Mass from a brain tumor. He was the head of the creative writing program at U of Mass at Amerhest.