Abstract Sky in #8f3d4b

The shell of light unfastens
from the wavering end
of the day’s chaos,
the colors of dusk
burning on the rooftops,
on things not said
and things broken by repetition,
bruised from the lynching
of opinions,
smothered by digital noise

clothed in red, the sky
and everything under it
painted in defiance for the way
we are expected to end,
to fold into nightfall
restless and covered
in judgement and debris
of the fast emptying vessel
of light

The Physics of Shadows

It arrived
the way sunshine breaks
through lace curtains:
not as a testament
to the strength of one
or a critique of the assumed
infallibility of the other,
but as a moment
when the walls became less
symbols of imposition
and seemed to acquire
some soulful transliteration.
Discernment takes more
than the recognition of patterns,
although it needs it.
It’s separating distance
from intensity,
knowing that each can
exist without the other, and
that both are subject to faults.
Sometimes the light falters,
the heart trips on the threshold.
Self-forgiveness, then,
is part of the larger image,
of the method of the faltering,
if you will.
Tracing circles,
mandalas of interrupted light,
with petals made of teardrops
and edges that try
to mimic perfection.
And the house receives it,
because the inside welcomes
all sources of illumination.
The windows are covered,
not as an argument against
that need, but because it goes
with the rest of the things,
besides the light,
that it had accepted.

A room filling with imperfect
the rest of me, arriving.
The lace paraphrasing the sun.
The moment putting up no
resistance to the blur
of coming hours that are
designed to contradict it.

Everyday Iridescence

The afternoon light,
orange and brooding,
fell across the virgin snow
the way words fall
on raw heartbreak.

Blasts of silence
and metaphors for
the frailty of time:

lattice of shadows

sundial that isn’t
intimate with the hour
but knows its truth
is more than a trick
of the light

thoughts stranded
in an hourglass

heavy and shatterproof

grains of sand at sub-zero

blanket of white made soft
by each moment of pain
having its own
distinct snowflake
for a soul

skeleton of tears and pauses

six-sided empty spaces

sparkling in the muted sun
even as it collapses
and drowns into the vast
ordinariness of winter
laying its verses down
indifferent and unclothed

over the city
and its belated consent
to the pervasive cold.

Art Installation, Steel and Natural Light

With my side
pressed against the painfully
blissful soft gold of its sunrise,
I hum.
A sinuous tone
in lithe pursuit of messages
left for my soul to find
on corners of these Bay Area streets
by generations of California dreamers.
They knew someone like me
would come along. I become
a sieve for moments, for the letters
summer writes for the sea,
for the music made by headlights
splintering into vectors and vices
as they pierce the rolling fog.
The city stood silhouetted against
the blank canvas of
my open invitation to love.
Before I set foot on it,
it was only an imaginary place
in my mind, its name
a hallowed shrine to an aesthetic,
a shape-shifting ideal that paralleled
the evolution of my desires.
It turned out to be nothing like
my doll house Instagram visions.
This is a performance piece,
asymmetrical, hungry and gloriously
incomplete, reverberating
to a pounding heartbeat
reminiscent of the day when
I felt longing for the first time,
or when that same longing
let loose all my words
on the day it decided for me
that holding my peace
would never be enough.

PS. Now Look at the Stars

You will see ten thousand sunsets
different renditions of the same song
and on some random day
you will witness one whose dance
of colors will feel like the entire
landscape of your soul has been
cartographed and retold across the sky.
And even then, the masterpiece
will still fade and night will still fall.
But you will understand a little better
that it was never about the parts
that remain unchanged.

Verses for the Early Sunset

I have lied to the beginning of summer
about my intentions
I have become what the solstice sky
had warned me never to love
but to merely observe with an open heart
and now pieces of me are turning
blue around the edges
from the cold,
from the missed opportunity of
throwing my soul through the narrow gap
between the ephemeral light and
its immortal calling
because I was busy drawing blueprints
for a magnificence that might
encompass a season that is
both effervescent and untamed
and a passion
that can easily climb over walls.

Southbound on the I-90 at Day’s End

doing 65 with the sun breaking
into pieces through the trees
and landing on gold patches along
my arm and shoulder as I sing
along half-heartedly to the radio

and turn in my fingers a mess
of sequestered emotions,
some worn out like tired shoes
and some so young
they borrow their names from
the unfortunate things that
happen to paper and glass.

There is an elegance
to their heavy-set silence,
like pressure on coal.
Like the heart going under
an academic experiment.
For science. For truth.
All pain and discomfort
painstakingly recorded:
on a scale of 1 to 10,
pinching, throbbing,
one-sided, burning,
bearing down.

And my hands that held them
never looked so old.
The afternoon sky so derogatory,
the hour making a somber ceremony
of second chances closing shop
for the day and tomorrow
being eons away.

The highway so endless
and monotonous and un-urgent
and lost.
The narrative not even
venturing outside the lines.

Signal light.
Switch lanes.
Metra Train brushing past with
both reminders and ultimatums of life.

And then the car turns right
towards the horizon on fire
and everything is blinding light
and hardened eyes
and elongated shadows