Poems of Earth, Fire and Water

peanuts

on the cupboard:

a half-full bottle of peanuts

together with an empty can

of mushroom soup

above the stove:

a boiling pot

on the coffee table:

a framed picture of Mother

burnt on the edges

(faded but otherwise okay)

on the trash:

an empty can of mushroom soup

above the stove:

what more of it but a boiling pot and

hot water reaching for the top

on the chair:

a white rose

the stove:

the knob is pointing on some little print

and the fire rages like wildfire

(feral but otherwise okay)

on the cupboard:

what cupboard-

(ah, the new one, the unburnt one)

same half-bottle of peanuts

above the stove:

the water had spilled over

and i have nothing but quenched fire

and water quickly cooling.

.

why the planets do not fall to the sun

as the rubber on your shoes bend

on the persistent granite

from the speed of your dash

to an undetermined finish line

you recognize

the truth of your existence:

you run to escape the allure

of a nameless burning rose

.

hollow earth theory

beneath these stones

roaring

shaking

breathing

is a huge green dragon

.

the last of its kind

Poems of Love and Innocence Lost

telepathy

the magic of poetry

begins with this:

you are with me

in a small house on the

middle of a thick forest

while you reach for the bag of flour

above the mantelpiece where i placed

our picture together, smiling with

hands draped on each other’s shoulder

ignorant of the consequences

of a broken chair

and a bag of flour

to the almost seven years

we walked together

on our way home

.

primroses

i scaled the wall

and waited with the primroses

when i saw your sky blue dress

waving by the metal brazen gates

and on your hand was

a mass of papers printed with the

smiling, happy face of a yellow plane

i muttered under my breath all of the

familiar things: the crook of your nose

the depth of your breath

the strand of hair by your right ear

and all you did was look at the primroses

and remember how many petals

the red one had

Three Poems of War and Hopelessness

metropolis

the streets were filled with sorrow

when a young child, aged seven,

lost his beloved toy

at one of the intersections

of tall skyscrapers and

blazing neon lights

only to finally realize

that the skyscrapers were

really mischievous giants

stealing little firetruck toys

.

when evening fell

when evening fell on MSS Lusca:

.

a thousand arms

reached from the ocean

destroying the hull, the mast

into small planks of wood and cloth

.

(on the radar: a massive beeping dot)

.

from the horizon

a rain of metal and fire

.

the arms subsided

the captain rejoiced

.

when the sea split apart

and St. Augustine emerged

fully naked and fire raging

.

did we mine the last hydrogen?

when we exhausted all possibilities

we hauled the sun from the heavens

(what is it that you call those things again?

ah, yes, the Leviathan, wonderful how it sounds

than Large-Scale Extraction Satellites)

and created machines of wonder

.

ask yourself:

did your lovely iRobot protect you

when the big ball of fire

exploded into endless space?


those i will lose this windy afternoon

standing here,

on the balcony of neon lights and rusty cables,

overlooking the colony of ants below,

reminds of the time when I took you

here for a quick cup of coffee

you never liked milk with your coffee

my momma never did, too

she always take me on this big train

and pull my hair when I take a look

at her big firm breasts waiting only

to be tapped by a hydraulic engineer

which was my father’s job

back when he still had the time to play with Rocky

my teddy bear from the Himalayas

where I took my winter trip

and had to bring a lot of coats and scarfs

but I still got sick

and my bestfriend Johnny had to bring me

in this dark hotel where I am now

overlooking the colony of ants below

thinking how many centimeters

from the ledge

separate me and those i will lose

this windy afternoon

—————

I wrote this poem back in college. I’m aware that the image of the man on the balcony is a cliche, but there’s something about memories that are both endearing and terrifying, you know? They can bring tears or laughter (or even both) at the blink of an eye. It’s almost like magic.