Nite rote

The sound of the ocean is relentless, this is the nite rote

The Jackal

she argues, that she is a jackal when she laughs

a liquid spiral downward

where the trauma of everyday life pools

so we lap it up under the new moon, but no sooner

lest the illumination makes us care about the tigers of my blood

I would argue I’m a book of sand that tells of tigers

she is my domain, my expanse, my generation, my prey

I want her

she scorches my chest

I am swallowed by her

beholding the other without fear

the sound of rain tempts lighting to summon thunder

who is bound

who creates

who flies

who anchors

love implants

and philosophical leisure

why is it so hard to say where earth ends and space begins

yet so easy to draw a line between us

thus that we are bound by intention of the sky

it is morning when

as little light falls

into the valleys of your form

you shut your eyes a little bit longer

as if to plead for the curiosity of your dreams

I softly narrate

a tale of the light

it goes trembling

from us to distant vantage of the moon

we become terribly temporarily infinite

everything is so ripe

ants trek across the blueberry moon

ten thousand bites

I go down to the shore

to skip stones

though they tend to sink



a seaworthy man

watches the tides from a pyramid

by holding the moon



the wake of summer

looks as spring when we hold our heads

chin up chin up

the hawk portrays

an empire without fear

upon destiny of wind

he walks the city

in the rain with a hammer

to fix all the hearts

finally perfect bombs
wander down from the sky
tell us about fear

finally perfect bombs

wander down from the sky

tell us about fear

I am as roots

the rain whispers about birds

birds yell about wings



the eyes of moss

mistake a stack of rocks for a person

in new moon’s light



how many mermaids

take me across the river

all the facets of Terpsichore

clouds weight the sky

not some Cassandra syndrome

it already rains



in seven new moons

so many berries eaten

I can taste the moon

soft she bruises

under the thunder moon

of the hard lightning



as islands appear

I hold the pure color

of the pacific ocean

by twenty forty eight

the caregivers of war

will be Arab

I imagine your imagination is rapid

can I give you this bite of love

before you turn into a bird?

consider the unconsidered

those that have not yet disintegrated

friends inside the chrysalis:

  the alpine butterflys

  the hunched

  the inverted

  the irrevocables

  the storied

  the olds

  the battled

  the catholiced

  the taught

  the caffeinated

  the illuminated

  the obscured

  the satiated

  the insufferables

  the weighted

  the removed

if love in not the only answer

it is probably also disintegration

the magpie’s urges

to tie string on the wind

or bundle the waves