through the pews

my poems slink back to haunt me,
sour truth trickles down my throat,
her skin , an April evening that she shall never see,
smells of rose water and embalming fluid,
her laughter echoes through the pews

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Marrow and Memoirs

You don’t know who you are until
everyone leaves you.

Staring for hours at a wall of sand,
deciding what is light and what is
shadow, brings everything into focus
and who you were before you donned
the masks that have made your life,
emerges between the hours of restiveness
and reason.

Hunger will shape one’s days in ways
that can humble even the most jaded
and faded of homo sapiens; eyes that
fumbled only for tomorrow begin to
hunt thirstily for that which will sustain
marrow and memoirs for ages to come.

You don’t know who you are until
everyone leaves you.

Christmas Gift (Ships in the Night)

The return flight to San Diego is delayed by at least an hour.

Staring into the vast expanse of JFK, brown eyes size up
passengers sitting in Gate 35’s midnight pleather seats.

An elderly couple decked out in matching snowman sweaters next
to a very white college student sporting dreadlocks pulled into a
ponytail, typing away at his macbook next to a gal with straight
platinum golden blond hair.  Her eyes are closed, yet she is awake.

Eyes wander on.
Eyes wander back.

The shape of that head…that glossy hair,
etched into his memory from nights long ago,
when his fingers had run through such lovely locks.

Content to play voyeur, he snaps a secret cell phone photo,
knowing that he shall never see her again.

metamorphosis

Slipping off the costume once again,
you become a sweet creature of dreams.

The common body, buried beneath
a flimsy gauze of naught, is shared with
no one save the Devil.

Slipping off the costume once again,
you become a hellion of horrors.

What is revealed?
The darkest parts that have no shame.
What is concealed?
The golden parts that have no aim.

shedding skin

Hawk eyes survey a cobbled square, teeming with tamed shadows.
Café noir in manicured hands, harsh rays from a cumbersome sun
fall upon her cobra-skinned boots.  She shields indigo eyelids with
bejeweled twigs, blocking out  far-off orchards with all her might.
Expectant limbs howl out her name; their sickly offspring are her
birthmark.  Invisible to the passing eye, they have marked her for
life.