Boomp-boomp!

   bellows northwest

      southeast

      A pleasant giant

      or caballo acero

      but a jolt

      all the same

Dorothy, child,

this ain't Kansas

no moh'

or maybe Oz

   was predicated

on cat calls

   and low riders.

Sprite-sized vistas loom

above each sea scented wavelet, 

I smile, imagine

sand specks are lush caravans, 

as a seashell palace looms.

A better child

didn't emerge

from Gerda's 

highland idyll

--just kurious Lola, mother's 

naughty, over-imaginative

progeny, Queen Royale,

Senior Tattler, undulating

vivaciously when Xpecting

your zecrets

(Oh Lordy, that was lame, haha)

We find 

little fault

with the mouth

that bit 

the apple

when the lips

bowed and juicy

rival the yield

Does it cease 

to matter

the message

candy-coated

in a poison

so sweet

you can

no longer

tell the difference?

Beauty has

beguiled the eye

longer than 

our tongue

has tasted

the forsaken truth

its a miracle

at all 

that we 

even set foot

beyond Paradise

when her

ripe fruits

keep us 

infatuated with

the wretched tree.

I call your name

the wind

rattles the glass panes

in unison with each

my words

I do hear you

most of the time

whisper back

above the din of rancor

that’s become my skin

my eyes

my voice

I am momentarily

off balance

and sweetened

to the tender violet

of the budding night

to each star

brazen to show

its knowing face

I stood near the tree

its exposed roots enough toehold 

A precarious perch for our rosy child

and me, on the bank to the river

While you cast your line

dreams of hooking plump salmon for dinner

in a stream starved for slender silver fish

You thought car rides were police chases,

and stunning, statuesque men in dresses

were women. You staunchly defended

mother first, child and wife last

Rice must be smooth, flat and oiled,

never sticky, and gold chains upon my son's

sweet-smelling wrist and neck were removed

when you were not looking. Twice a month

perfunctory tumble and always missionary 

culminating fifteen to twenty minutes later

with a sandbox grunt

Christmas time we milled around, the obnoxious

tree, a six foot monstrosity squat and uneasy, in the middle

of a South San Francisco living room, while we made stilted

conversation, and tried to focus on blurred cream walls

Looking anywhere but where your mother sat

cradled reverently, like St. Nick's long-awaited

present on your lap. This was our clockwork

but only for two more years

Time is vigilant in its observation

duly noting a rewind, a screw loose, a need to tune.

Quinceñeara in the forefront

it was the theme of 1997's stifling heat

A trip to Los Angeles, a drunken rant and Sweet

Honesty powder dusting the air and the motel floor. 

Disneyland both surreal and nostalgic.

Two months after, the humidity a wall to

the persuasion of autumn, you let us go

My rosy child and I

we swam in cooler pools

aimless and naive and relieved 

Imaginary fish and imperious mother-lovers

in our wake

all this

 smuck-a luck-

                 a-luck-a

  going on 

about 

   bedding brains

      and the hidden

   music

     found by

fondling

 the perfect word

   just enough

                                and      masks off

         you go 

          and pluck

            the poorest

             most besotted

              sap-in-the-bushel

Where Summer begins to cradle Spring

                   is where I relinquished you

                      into pallid, anise-scented arms

          you and your gaiety

           you and your greedy, spilling love  

there will be no cinnamon and honey 

to sweeten your foolish mouth

and you will not care while the days

are warm

as fate dictates 

in every affection gone to rot

you will only be starved 

for my flavour come Winter

-for  M

audio: https://drive.google.com/open?id=0B0GF8mxm0ZJRYWN4UVhhY2JTcHc

Do you think 

of the pavement with each

graceful prance, each careless

step a mocking pressure 

upon its squalid face?

If it paused 

in its hopelessness

and anguish 

to take stock of 

infatuation and take

offense at your naive

snub

(note: sidewalks, to my knowledge

do not, as a rule

love, think, or bear grudges, still)

it would rear

up 

and skin your

damn-lovely

porcelain knees

even as it daydreams

fondly of that night two

months ago when you, inebriated,

besotted, clung to it 

for dear life 

and whispered 

your numerous sorrows

as it caressed and soothed

your flushed cheek.

at first I constantly awoke

underwater.

I, who cannot swim.

reliving

the horror of your passing

flickering in my mind

endless replay

                  mourning,

                  coping

                  and letting go

                  are a messy affair no one is ever prepared for.

                  much like

                  every

                  monumental upheaval

                  in our short lives,

                  one receives no guidance.

good and horrific memories are entwined

                 pain is a daily companion, a loathsome one,

                 but also an unexpected friend. I've learned

                 to allow it in. It has become

                 part of me like sinew and blood.

there are good days, and on those days,

I feel you in the rumble of your sibling's footfalls,

I hear you sigh and rustle through the leaves,

I see you in each face that smiles

kindly, vaguely, in my direction.

                                      watch over me.

                                      I never thought myself a strong person,

                                      but I was stronger when you were here with me.

                                                                   and now?

                                                                          I am adrift.

                                      you wouldn't want me alone and frightened.

                                      you would want me to go on.

I am not angry that you left me behind, but maybe I am more than a little angry that I let you go so easily.

seeing people

who didn't yet know you were gone,

but who loved you very much, is so very hard

seeing people

who don't know you,

and those who knew you well,

but who are indifferent at best, is harder still--

      it fills me with spite and rage.

                                        you wouldn't want me bitter and filled with hate.

                                        you would want me to live on.

                                                                many things had gone unsaid,

                                                                   undone,

                                                                but give me a solitary chance to utter

                                                                just one more long breath

                                                                before you are one

                                                                with the stars saying good night:

                                            I loved you the brightest.

                                            I loved you completely.