By Midday Monday

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I put you out of my mind,
pretend you do not exist,

sit in the hallway hiding
from your light and from the rays

suggestions that highlit dust
on the carpet, became shapes

where babies might’ve stayed warm
or could be where a cat sat

if we brought ourselves to bring
home such temperamental guests.

For now small mounds of clothing,
a remote, last night’s dishes,

the unclean and forgotten
weekends we waste in darkness.

Whatever Lonely Stalks

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The sun, whom some
have come to admire,
whom some credit
for whatever light come
into their vacant lives,
and to whom too many
worship and offer praise,
credit for all the trees
with their thin turning leaves,
and for whatever lonely stalks
blossom and lovely stems bloom.

But the sun, whom, in truth,
was an experiment
gone wrong, an accident,
confluence of concept
and biological process,
where at the core
the elements of our bodies,
these slaveships, combine,
with great energy the offshot
fusion of our lives,
each pre-cancerous strand.

The waste filters its way
down to us, to this cowardice
and jaundice, bent yellow river
of our madness. Its Saturday,
we see the eons grow,
threaten to consume us,
watch the little black spots
on the sun turn,
the stretching magnetic arms tug
on us, trying to consume us.

Only running
in a straight line from this
can save us. This lasso,
this job, these ten minutes
before bed when the sun has set,
and we, too exhausted
to imagine,
two who have seen the sun,
and its many lives
only in passing,
only as a brief wish.

Is the poet hiding (Rant in Freestyle)

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Guitar Foolin’ ep.2

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me singing my favorite villancico (off-key i might add)

The Pain of Your Room

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The son, if one existed,
would show at my feet and push
back the shadow behind me.

He’d look toward the sky to see
me shading a blinding light,
beg me move, so he may see

the rounded curve of the earth,
the reality of space,
so his retina could adjust

to the brassy face of God.

I, father in my own right,
would protect as best I know,
the son, and say to him, No.

I will not shift, will not move,
any communion you wish
to have with your handsome God

or the world, will come through me,
will bend around me, sift through
the window and the screen hung

inside the pane of your room.

In Relation to the Sun

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He moves not,
unless you count
the spinning of this great ball
on its axis,

its hurtling
through space, never
occupying the same space,
movement being

the maker
of time.

He moves not,
in relation
to the son, always shunted
under his arm

or huddled
beneath his coat
and kept warm. The son, stealing
all the covers

all the night,
peeking

through the blinds
in the morning,
who can’t keep his head bent down
though he’s been told

and been told.
Son, who can be
held liable for none of it,
sunbathing

on a roof,
brooding.