Transmission

Another dreary December day during which 

closed winter windows keep my mind incubated.

Outside, twisted black branches reach across

a cloud covered sky, creating inverted Unknown Pleasures 

artwork.

Mundane spikes of sound interrupt my stasis:

cars, dogs, sirens, planes, trains.

But then a solitary songbird breaks the din 

with a distinct tone: Ian Curtis perched on

melancholy.

In this moment, I realize reincarnation 

is not a rebirth but a transmigration of mood.

I could call out when the going gets tough

Things that we've learnt are no longer enough

No language - just sound - that's all we need know

To synchronize love to the beat of the show

- Ian Curtis

The Loop

I wake in the middle of the night, 

dodging Monday Night Football updates like 

Fox News, tear gas and bullets en route to the Ferguson verdict.

In the distance, I hear a train leaving Penn Station

and I resolve to let my anger travel north on the Acela Express.

But as the train and I toot our horns and 

regurgitate smoke, I realize my ire never truly leaves.

3 AM

We meet again

and you are the lullaby I remember

Whisk me away

upon a shooting star

to where my inner child hibernates

in the heaving hirsute bosom of Ursa Major

Nature

Saturday morning

And my lover is a forest floor:

Hair intertwined with sheets wet from wind wafting

rain through open windows.

I lie naked as countryside hills:

Soft drops stick and glisten over my curvy chest and 

stomach like morning dew or manifested sin.

Love-40

A boy lies in his yard

hitting a tennis ball with a racquet

five minutes before the sun forsook his world 

and took with it sixty-one degrees

Would that the racket never stop

That the ball would never drop

Let not the round greenness of summer 

be banished like the Apple in Eden

Ritual

Autumn rain falls on the roof with a tribal beat

and I speak to the darkness to invoke the dance

one corner

two corner

three corner

four

join hands

same stance

face toward

floor

Ring-a-round the rosie

A pocket full of posies

Ashes ashes ashes ashes

Any Colour You Like

To witness summer's last sunset,

I showed up early like I was waiting for the iPhone 6 

and it seemed like hours passed before the sky began to crack.

The cool, becoming chilly lake-breeze

gradually washed away my thirtieth summer,

putting the filth, the reverie and the wonder behind me.

Slowly, as geese grazing in an aquatic pasture, 

the sun dropped a muted Neapolitan scoop of grey, silver, and gold

into the water.

No reds, violets, or oranges. Just simple, sophisticated, streamlined

shades of wisdom.

It all made sense until the sun gasped for air,

drowned in the horizon, and blew out a colored spectrum of a 

billion bubbles

in its wake - reminding me that wisdom is eminent, evolving, and

thankfully everlasting.