November 18, 2015

frijoles negros y arroz de cilantro

frijoles negros y arroz de cilantro

(he dances to himself 
listening for music 
right now Nina Simone 
is on the radio)

I am
a poet 
I hope 
to grow wit 
and older yet... 
I will cook for visitors 
but I'm shy, hard to get 
if do you want to know though 
you'll suspect it's some sort of anxiety 
in the quiet afterward(s) 
there is lacking, you muse 
some propriety of reason 
you wonder this 
and what might be 
the forms of his bliss, as...

I look off into the distance, sitting sipping 
my soul standing, it seems with the trees 
they are mostly deciduous 
you hear me say...

(the pines tend the rain 
and the maples, oaks and ash 
explain ritual by way of treason 
and loyalty, fear of flying 
and falling crash landing 
seems a pleasant enough way 
of saying he's hit his head 
on a rock 
at the bottom 
of a well)

                      third person 
                      firstly, is second 
                      in line, here 
                      soup and stone

the water waits 
will you
have wine 
tine desires 
twine yourself 
to a story 
in paused gravity
float amble spawn 
lore and lure 
so go and enjoy 
these culinary preparations, 
while I take to a drink
please mind, when you finish, 
I will be on the back deck, 
come and tell me what you think 

and by the way
there are fabric stains embedded 
inside the table cloth 
it was something bleeding 
from the imagination 
of the loom's thread greedy seeds 
there were petal wounds our chorus pursued 
the song of subdued, you mostly had become

"who are you wind when at the window crying 
what have you to give to overcome what you're eyeing,
is it more of something you cannot explain..."


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