Epiphany

You were my Ithaca
but alas, my love,
I was never your Odysseus.

Note to Self (circa 2011)

Forget the sinuousness
of this odyssey of life,
just remember this,

this moment
you were twenty six,
in love,
and in Paris.

All else shall fade.

Origin

Eyes like dark, deep forests.
Fingers like furious rivers.
Tongues like roving doves.
Lips like spinning echoes.

In chorus
they float, flame and flounder
through the mad night

arriving,
again, again and again,
at the tangled pathways of passion

at the ravenous hunger
that is the origin
of all origins.

Dreaming of Rainy Barcelona

"Estoy aquí, dije, con los perros románticos 

y aquí me voy a quedar."

"I'm here, I said, with the romantic dogs
and here I'm going to stay."

- Roberto Bolaño

The sun has disappeared 

down his carafe of daily forgetfulness

and I wander

like a vagrant in a lost myth.

Barcelona,
that womb of boundless freedom,
embraces me whole
like an ancient oath.

The dreamer becomes the dream
in the music of her unrepeatable geometry
as strings of pearls leap from the skies

rain drops,

the unfinished verses of poets.

Rapture descending,
each drop a revolution,
the beginning of a childhood.

The Curiosity of Strangers

An evening
talking to a morning,
adrift between the tenses.

Words ferried across silences
by the curiosity of the other.

The library of memory
ajar
to knowing, unknowing
and all the trifles in between.

Vulnerable mazes and bitter seas
from the restricted sections of adulthood.

Pointless passages no one ever read
in the storied clay of childhood.

Delirious earth and symmetric roses
from the periodicals of dreams.

Each dusty page a discovery
in the echoing intimacy of chance.

Now and then, a loud chuckle.
The sound of the universe
indulging itself.