Tundras of Tears

Tundras of tears poured
conflagrating inward.
Where outside of my eyes,
a frosted window, a cat’s tail
and marble as my footing.
I have turned the orange
light to blues and in so doing
have turned my eyes
ephemerally to flora.”


Pulling herself from the water,
her stories all dripping from her skin,
plopped upon her every step;
her palm to page is the rock she’s
propped upon as chapters glissade
in collages across her river bank –

The Girl stood firm
against the forest’s shadows,
her hand to visor against the sun
she bends at knees and hips,
surveying the horizon…
“From me all seen
the directionless,
my eddies are burning
the boxes.”

Her palm open and flushed
against the wind, straight backed
drawn against the waters…
“Fuck it,” she says,
“I’m getting wet.”
Across the river
there rests the ceiba trees
cloistered as background
noise and almost gone,
almost swallowed by the garden.
“Down the hatch!” she rustles.
The forest circled.
Zero tightened against her fist, fingers slid
in a grip across his shin, her calf muscles,
his thigh in her teeth, her mouth opening
his lips now moved to a moist parting
and now –

all Zero can do is smile,
You are the only stone I can’t skip!” he spouted.

And she kisses him all ink and letter
lipped dripping with consonants
and the hipbones of phonemes.
Hand held they

arrogantly and leaping
with an uppercut to sucker punch
the tree’s branches smilingly yelling in unison,

Fuck you nature!”

Zero bare footed against
the climbing rocks,
shawled between his sun
and his shoulders.

His chapters
aching against the slow
waves one finds
in these quick forests.

No magic, only geometry!” Zero huffs
only words, syntax.” The Girl spatters
Idioms, expressions!” Bellowed both as

backwards, back lit, against
the sight of boulders
rocked slight against their current;
dense in its distance,
far even off the periphery
a moment opens; the streams
begin to rush, as the rivers rain


The Mutual Arising

“Begin their mutual arising;
as they breathed so too grew the trees;
so too the sun spoke
in exhales of their increscent breaths…”

The Girl floats
and shouts across the water at Zero,

“No matter how deep this gets, ya’know,
it’s just more of the same. Same. Same.”

From cross legged
on the shore,
like the tail
end of inertia,

Zero jumps.

“Just keep looking,”
he jubilates,
“only nothing can stay
the same for very long.”

Zero and The Girl stretched
their methods upon the bank,
within the dust
encrusted over shoreline.

The wake distending
broken upon the mosses;
a provocation of eddies.

Zero watched high
about the trees when red
beaked against the leaves
snapping up bugs, crickets
the size of chimneys, dipping,
driven to beak-dive,  the bird
plummets to pluck polliwogs
and froglets from beyond
just the shoreline
in perspired pockets of pond water
squishing between Zeros toes
the brash bird lands,
and bends in for the nibbling…

Hey!” cried Zero,
try bittin’ your
own toes! See
how it feels!”

Cro nipped a final
peck against Zeros
knuckles and hopped
to toss some
lift across his ankles


and propped himself
from shoulder, to head, to

Across the rocks
The Girl postured
the flattened billow
of her fist
cocked back
suspended above her head she yells,

“Do I strike?!”

But slick like a joke
she’s back underwater.

All fists flailing and kicking currents
now bobbing
just chin deep and she yells,

I got em!

She spins her inevitably
soaking sibilants
and spits,

“That’s what it gets for messing with us!”

The Adventures of Zero and The Girl

“Sonder a moment…

The Wondering Metaphysicist…

The Chrontortionist.

The Changeling.

Your Ignis Fatuus.

They seek a geometry of conjuring spots.
A collision of collapsing corners.

Walls fallen; they paint the air.

Growing now dense and thickly
stitched within the gaseous
dance of the innumerable dead.

They seek the ancestries of eons
lain beneath the consistent constriction
of gravities deepest impressions.

For they found the trees had
grown into rock.
For they found the flora had
compacted into momentary stone.

As they scathe the time between the burials –
between the tribal arisings – they scavenge.

They seek the relevance in distances,
of the times between us.

They seek the metaphor at the yolk
of nature’s virtue –
the collective distillations
of the human expression.”

“The Past is not what it used to be…”


The past is not what it used to be
nor for the matter is the future.
And when I’d found myself a decade
later than your death it was still;
no time, no rung, had passed.
I found that whether today was
my 22nd or my 33rd year
was an otiose tide; for arriving
in the next decade became this
decade, arriving in tomorrow
was always, is allways, today.
Is a moment now if still redolent
of then, of you? I found your picture
was kept either way you existed
and in existing either way I found
something in your smile had changed.
From the moment it was placed
away, lidded, to when this coffer’s
inspiratory gasp had expired your
respiring respite – something
in a still photograph had altered
(adapted maybe). My father had
brought me then to now
on a conduit of pictures and fading
albums where I found that whether
today was 2015 or 2004 it was
still, and yet no longer still,
this, year. Each photo (even
irreversibly through that decay
of time) shone your smile, your beauty
and found I did keep you
around in photographs for since
your suicide – every pareidolia has been you.

The Bearable Lightness of Seeing; My Mother Never Died.

That smile is all I ever needed to inherit from you.
That smile is all I ever needed to inherit from you.


I’m proud of you for finding the eye of the human hurricane; I’m proud of you for putting an end to what hurts; most of us can’t even find a poultice let alone a release. I now know that if I were to look at your suicide vehemently; in sadness; remorse; lack; less than; pain; that I am only saying “you’re suicide made my reality more difficult to accept” and with that understanding I am proud that you took off; I’m proud that you made your reality something that you knew how to accept; mine is fine; I’m doing well; I’m a sign language interpreter now; you’re still my mother because how I knew you was in a way that no other could have which means…


Don’t tell anyone…

You’re still here in my heart and mind; no one can take you away from me; not even you…

I love you more than I love poetry; than I love to learn about the cosmos; than I love to build things; than I love to garden; than I love to interpret; don’t worry, your secret is safe with me; I won’t tell anyone that you were never capable of dying…

Nov. 15, 2002; if your name was Toilet.

Looking through old typewritten papers I keep finding these odd ones typed on the back of really strange photocopied magazine adds; in 2002 I am working in the library at the Univ. of New Orleans filing old magazines; my boss; Hurricane Florence; had me photocopy to archive millions of these strange adds. I would keep a copy and take it home to use as poem paper. This poem paper just happens to be an ode to Eliot.

The smile is of content, of radiance in acomplishing
an open book breeze slicking back your hair
fanning you.

You could see with your glasses if only you had eyes.
and your clothing will never become fresher, never un-mothed,
like mothers tells us, 'stop picking at it'

Let your pocket blow it's own nose
the world lays top sided and languid outside your windows
a slight blue of where 'now' will take you

However, there is falsity to this world,
perhaps it is mirrored without you near
or backwards (I'm sorry, i see xxx only rings on strings)

but still i return to that x madening glare
you seem to me as if you are the breeze, and the book is blown over by you
yet still, somewhere in the darkness you are dreaming, of wasted lands

You arex spotted upon stripes round that neck, 
some striating your collars perpendicularing your apple, & most are hidden
because of your overly properxxxx aproach to looking to much like you.

Smiling, breathing, blind, hearing, smelling, and holding on to life
yet walking, you may not do, never again will you promanade your way
threw my park, nor my chess game,

xxxxxxx i remember someone once told me why you added the S to your name
because backwards,
it would have spelled toilet.

Just Another Zero…


What label has been given to you? I know mine. I know the words; I know the labels; I know the criteria. This is what my PCP calls Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder; the thing that this is trying to describe is something I call; Running From Zero. After 3 years of daily Adderall dosages of 10mg/2x daily I found myself no closer to being able to calm down my hyperactivity and control my attention than I was in the first place; the hyperactivity on Adderall only manifested itself in bruxism and a tightening of my muscles and mood; I could focus; I could zero in on some-thing and that would be the focus for me…

But I was just running from a different Zero.

ADHD is a label to describe something that the animal side of me is doing; it’s panicking; it’s wild; it doesn’t know how to behave as a human; it’s just faking it. ADHD describes that sense; the loss of calm; the loss of self; the loss of control.

Running From Zero is my word for it because it’s how it makes sense to me in a senseless world.

My Zero is a calm; it’s also a sphere; the sphere of everything my senses are feeding me; the present rumble of the AC unit mixed with the chirping of cicadas outside; the sense of the chair touching my ass, legs, elbow, back; I can see what I am typing and I feel the keys beneath my fingers and I can smell the Coumarin Pipe Tobacco I use for my vaporizer pen; I can taste that too. This place here; this is my Zero right now. This moment; living in the Now; this is my Zero.

I am not centered on an axis between attention and a deficiency of it; I am not a 2 dimensional zero on a + and – axis of hyperactive and calm; I am a sphere of my senses that collapse into a specific focus; I have many axis on which I may travel; X, Y, Z.

When I leave my Zero I become anxious; I lose my connection to my calm; I feel lost amongst a vast depth of stars and chaos as cosmos; when I find myself in my Zero; I know the world goes on; I know the universe continues to universe; I know that wars are fought; I know that I love; I know that the Hubble Space Telescope should be funded; I know what is happening in the south; I know who my neighbors are.

With ADHD or when Running From Zero; the calm breaks; severely; I carry with me a nervous energy that feels like I’m inside of a Fisher-Price Brilliant Basics Corn Popper.

When I don’t run from Zero I find my calm; I am within a sphere of my immediate senses and the frightening world that I do my best to be a part of dissolves; I am only me as I carry my Zero with me; nothing is frightening here; nothing is a trigger; there is no anxiety; this is where I can love from.

This video shows (better than I could have hoped) the sensation of having ADHD; not allowing ADHD to have me that is; I have it; by the throat and I’m telling it; your name is Zero.

Taking my PCP’s label and, instead, naming it in the way I understand it gives me the control I require; I don’t have a daily medication doing it for me; I have me; in my Zero; doing it for me.

The art is allways a long process; the process itself though; that’s the art. The image at the end; that’s only the result; this video is me; me; fully enveloped by Zero; fully still in Zero; fully calm in Zero; knowing that if I run from it – it runs with me – so I keep it.

This video itself is one of my Zeroes; all of my poems, each are a Zero; my love; my fiancé; you and I make my favorite Zero.

Welcome to my Zero; I am in love with being where it is calm.

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