COYOTE BLOOD
poetry, art, mistakes, music, love, visions and everything...
"our job on this Earth is to leave artifacts."
Keep My Heart, He Exclaimed!
Dancing About Architecture
Riffing on Cleanthes
I am poetry.
as a lover of literature.
I am poetry.
as a metaphor for life.
I am poetry.
as a trumpet focuses our breath into a brilliant sound.
I am poetry.
the “fettering rules” allow our words to be hope.
hopefully.
for people like me.
poetry people.
ordinary people.
always welcome, never invited
Umberto Eco nailed it, but...
depends on what our fathers teach us at odd moments,
when they aren't trying to teach us."
But what if I didn't have a father?
What then?
What will I become?
Will I gather lessons from the wind,
in the way it bends the trees but never breaks them?
Will I learn from the silence,
how absence can echo louder than words?
Perhaps I will build myself from stories,
from the ghosts of men I’ve never met,
from kindnesses offered by strangers,
from wisdom hidden in the cracks of the world.
I believe that what we become
depends on what we choose to carry—
even when no hands were there
to pass it down.
these tears taste like mormon licorice
List
Sight: Beach
Sound: Music
Taste: Pecans and passionfruit
Touch: Being the little spoon
Smell: Laundry and grass in autumn
what is the best knife to fight with?
This past year, I thought I was broken
You look so nice in a tank top
We should go to Montreal more often.
I never wanna miss you this bad
I never meant to scare you like that
Sometimes I feel just like my dad,
I never saw the garden in that.
Why work so hard if you can't fall back?
Then I remember, I rely too much upon
My heavy heart.
I never wanna miss you like that.
I really had to run out my bag.
My hand on the small of your back.
I really watched God in that
Watching how I braced for impact.
Then I remember, I rely too much upon
My heavy heart.
PLUR
I just want to bop around Brooklyn
Story Ave.
Robert Johnson Done Come Outta The Graveyard
anemoia
Photographs faded, a world overgrown.
The scent of a past that was never mine,
Haunts my heart like a ghostly sign.
I ache for echoes, for days unseen,
Dreaming of places I’ve never been.
Anemoia stirs where nostalgia can't tread,
Longing for life in stories long dead.
Beneath the surface, where memories sleep,
I trace the stories I’ll never keep.
A life in the spaces between time’s fold,
Chasing the warmth of a future untold.
open to many potential futures
– Zadie Smith
a father,
and a hopeful man.
I will be a creator
for as long as I live.
I believe in miracles,
and my favorite color lately is green.
Having a scarcity of time,
I want every kitchen to have an old, cheap, radio
to be used as often as possible.
entelechy
The neuropathy scares me,
especially when my hands don’t work in the morning.
Fingers curled like forgotten vines,
stiff with silence,
aching for the warmth of movement.
I wait. I will them to wake,
to remember the soft press of skin,
the steady weight of a coffee cup,
the simple grace of holding on.
Some days, they listen.
Some days, they don’t.
But even in the numbness,
even in the fear,
I remind myself—I am still here.
Vignes #406
is a long battle
of figuring out
what it is you really
want to do.
And it can change...
One miraculous minute
you are painting poems,
and the next knee-jerk moment
you are doing comedy
at an open mic.