the night lamp

i will call you bernadine and the night lamp. the german apostrophe from brooklyn heights. your punctuation marks. and alphabetic consonants. and loving doves. have frisked a charm of fevered alchemy. you stripped my clothes by the shallow banks. every motion of your finger tips made my nipples tremble. oh what resistance there was. playing hide and seek on the shallow lakes where we bathed in moon clouds and rain. that smell. of soil and seeds. and carousels. still makes me dizzy.

and spin like the moon. the lustrous beast of harmony and quartets. my manhood, like a garland of dreaming sapphires. bending over the arch of delicate flash lights. they signal a sense of capitalist promiscuity. this is my power. the sanctity of my sexuality gives me strength to learn about the vagaries of your austere politics. you flaming misogynist. you raging bigot. your fierce tendrils of thorn and crystallized sweat. makes me so angry. makes me sad. you know. sometimes, when you want to tell yourself there are rose gardens in chelsea. and the storm came. and one by one, you tied bracelets to the macabre wind chimes. and you howled on a saturday dusk. your stomach carved with a million ribbons. candied with hope and organic desires. this valentine's night. you cut your soul, and with the red. you hemmed memories on pine cones. and those cones, now. are on the museum behind the lake. where mankind goes in shame. walks away. walks across portraits of a Dali. and a surrealism and shrouded the politics of your liberty. your hands are tied. and you bleed. convulse in a violent epilepsy. this violence is the trilogy of your interrupted birth.

on the carousel. we talked. evolution. and the fittest. you. on the throes of nature and demons. have survived a test among the millions

one night

a light breeze in the air. illuminated palm. trees and trills. there is a crisp in my hotel room. a twenty-seventh floor suite in a city hotel. the lobby smells of excitement. a sky lounge to my left overlooking the ripples at the horizon. and an enticing view. curls and furls the rhythmic caricature of my heart beats. there is a sway. a gentle lilt of leaves and sweat. the auburn paisleys on the carpets. accented with gilt shame and crimson modesty. bear a kaleidoscopic morph of patchwork art.

first night. san diego.

in opposition

how long and hard does one need to try. to reverse fate?

this life. in opposition. think of diagonals. and the quadrangle of symmetry. coned into a brick of sand. malleable and inert. like a wisp of talcum. how long does the orgasm of sweat. bead on a monograph of mustard rain? how long does this longing for love preside. and decide. this envelope of purple corn. there is a monogamy of smiles. so familiar on your skin. each in a discourse of cold winter cobblestones. by the craters, and sand dunes in the desert of chokes. you cringe at the misery of this cold compassion. this life in opposition is at the pinnacle of design.

who designed your garland. and the vocalist of your chimes? who gave you the wisdom. to enter. to penetrate. to perverse. your bastardy. your cold cruel intentionality. your physiognomy of intellect. and demeanor of midnight. black and pale. this white of wombs. this cushion of strange, caramel sexuality. take pepper and pride. burning. flags of your virgin snarl. your plastic indolence. your translucent opacity. your opacity of monologues and dialogues. inscribed in the interior of your wet, somber vagina. jiggling epiphanies from the agnostic philosopher seeded on the interior of your sobriety. you drunken bastard -you cheat me. on this balance of rust flakes and pegs. of nails and the violence of a crown. power. and shame. and the dignity of the pauper. you have stolen, in your grip. the chasm of night lust. your duty as a cyclist of dancing statuettes. rest in love. and desire. this bizarre allegory of words. lay down and dream.

in a rustle.

mind play

it keeps going back. my mind-play. city of boston.

you bring me joy. the waters. the rhymes. your cushion of tongues. glorious. even in the rain, that washed my saliva away. i felt your skin. the beauty of your breath. the warm embrace in our nudist role-playing. so sexual, you say. oh so sexual, you make me squirm. but your nipples. the shape of your navel. and the touch of your skin. so amorous, it makes me swoon. and tie my finger nails to your skin... when i leave. i feel a pain. difficult at first. harder with times. it never fades away. for the men and women, of the deeds of noble endeavor. the sweat and blood on your scalpel edge address a weakness. a disease, of sorts. man wanted to go. to wrap up in a blanket of gold and shimmer in a pastry box across from the hotel window. puppetry and doll-like. facades and brick tables. leave me alone. take me with you. you know who you are. i have loved you.

day to day

lick. smack. kiss. feel.

this world. this globe of children and feather patios. of silk pantaloons and patchwork peppermint. i want to embrace your breast.

i have missed you. and now that i'm back. i realize how deep this love is. white marble lion manes. day to day. this craving is bone-deep.

fold

sometimes when you break. you are in so many pieces that rebuilding seems like an impossibility. it does not even seem like a hopeful endeavor. it seems pointless. it seems childish and child-like. and you lose your soul. you lose so much. the tears are only a small part, i promise. you set aside all the endeared memorabilia that you collected over the years. little pebbles you stored in a jar. thinking, one day, you and i will go back to the storm and paint a rhyme with those.

sometimes it takes a loss. sometimes, a gain. and sometimes, a rejection. many rejections. it takes a while to crawl back into the home that you called home. your sisters, brothers, cousins and uncles are so seethed in their own, that they forgot you were lost. but you never went home. you went out to the world instead. and you played the guitar in subway stops and chai bars. you wanted to cure those children who were born with hearts that would kill. take a flurry of streamers and decorate a face. saying to yourself, let me start again. one by one. let us build a bridge.

and sometimes, in life, you learn to re-believe. is that realism? you ask. is that realistic? i ask. what of the jealous bastards? those stones you wore around your waist, where are they now? you have an outlet, to scream. to cry. to vandalize a wall of hopes. you learn to re-believe. you pull out your cups and pans. your old memorabilia from the lonely dresser.

and walk to the mirror. drop a tear ball. and start from zero.

the day that came

sometime in your youth. you used to sit by the summer lake. the reflection of leaves on the curve of your lashes. so beautiful. crisp. like petals. an array of bougainvillea baskets perched. on the calcium of your shoulder blades. so shapely. poised. crudely elegant. you unfurled your veins. every time. we breathed a breath. a purple hush. it was time for the viola strings.

those viola strings were at least a dozen. or ten million. molecules and atoms in collision. at the heat of every second. and nano strings. cadenzas on the gentleman's tote bags. and women's top hats. they have learned. with the turn of the century. that two is three. and three is two. and man is a womb. let us decorate. with the pastel of lust. this chimera of love. doomed to the premises of logical logic. and philosophy of deviance. for if the he is a she, and she is a he. the binary is lost. a third equivalence. the whorehouse at the corner. is a drizzle of dew. mystified. the smoke of sugar rain. and the craftsmanship. of the homo and the hetero-. retroactive and jargon-ed. oh look, nimble pea-coat. your green of illusion. is a palette of surrealism. for what you see. what you hear. is what you wish to see. and hear.

it has pained my breast. what if there was love? one day. our tongues collapsed. into an illusion of stars. fire drops on a broach, you wore on the cemetery of vaginas. so sexual. you squirm at the thought of saliva and manhood. your race. wrapped in an ice-pick of coquetry. you charmer of souls. this photograph of black. and caressing argentum. pricks like a trillion falsehoods. the falsehood of poets. of life. is deception, you ask, a limit on your will? is your God of ashes, a deceiver of smiles? then, you ask, give me a cello tune. and let me talk to you, Holiness of spirits. look at my brows and the symmetry of heart rings. and you, apparently. told my blood. you particle of wool. this water you breathe is music to the poor. the indolence of doves is amok on the ocean crests. this white paradox. your white is black. my black is white. what are we? who are we? show me.

the river of tulips. oh mustard wheels. this chariot of blonde violin strings is ablaze in the negritude of destiny. ablaze is man. and woman. you and i. are left with geometry.

metropolitan art

walking through the art. you can almost taste. the strokes of brush. the smell of paint. it is almost real.

pictures: Met Art

twin blind

the lady beside me. her fingers are numb. she is blind. like her son. fiddling with a spoon.

after a pause. she held my hand. and whispered in my ear. feeling my face. can you tell my little boy how the world looks? i pass a gulp. a silent twitch. okay, she says. feeling herself.

can you tell me what my son looks like? he is beautiful, i say. just like you, lady love. he looks just like you.

he left me when the child was born. who can deal with the twin blind, my boy?

she gasps. hold my hand, i say. my name is T. your love for love. is real Mrs. J. let us give purpose. to this race. one by one. the leaves. the shreds. i will give you the lens of truth. those eyes of mine. but how will i see, the beauty of your face?

them old times

the temple of love is white today. it has snowed all night all day. i am not a snow lover. by any means. but there is endearment in this home. and it makes me smile. even though i love novelty. i love walking down new streets. i love my familiar sites. the restaurant where i used to eat. the espresso bar where i cried. the book store where i thought of marriage. and sex. and vile addenda. and i love visiting them each time i visit the city. i skip a heart beat, but it is totally worth it!

take two

leaf upon love. this time. the garden of crowns is afloat on the sea. little lovers on the bay. they tear their souls. their finger nails. like poppy seeds. are painted with oil. dripping, like blood. there was a carnage. that november dusk. that broke my heart. that stabbed your smile. what tears we shed. over electricity and rhyme. the cradles on the farm were ablaze with sapphire. a cold deep whirling blue. spinning like a top. swirling and twirling. round and square. the gown of shapes. and pantaloons of scent. the whiff of dawn. a new tomorrow. those lights have dimmed. that synchrony. the lineage of time. we talked about. is frozen. re-thaw. reuse. recycle.

with the re...there is a pain. an anxiousness. like dolls in a doll house. the artifice of symmetry. resultant. superlative. where did you compare, till you took to the shrine? and shaved your womb. and ripped away the caricature of your nipple-tops. the hair on your skin. is awash in the floods. as you patiently wait. on the turn of the re. the magnificent re. chance two. the re of repeat. one. two. three. one. two. three. those tears have no meaning. dry. dead. rolled into a scoop of indolence. and disability. dis- ability. a-bility. what? you question. where did my pulse fade away that morn. that morn when we drove to the rainbow of necks. grazing past a gelatinous arch. with faces of doom. wake up. wake up. wake up my little pearl. you have lost your sheen. wake up little dove. let us fly with your wings. take two in your home. in your menagerie of lust. in your brasserie of thorns.

take two.

bean town

sometimes. you just smile. you just stand in one corner. and remember. the times you cried. you laughed. the moon you saw. every night. when you walked back home. thinking of life, and love and cold whims.

it feels like you are breathing again. it feels like home. and you embrace the walls. and breathe even more. faster each time. you want to feel this air. so smooth in your nose. you want to hold the breath. and break the vacuum that built for months. and you break down. overwhelmed with memories of home. you smile. collect your tears. and keep walking.

and the gentleman in his suit looks at you. a beautiful black neck tie greets your presence. questionable belongingness. but you shake hands. talk about life, about the footsteps in the city. the legacy of dreams and dominos. the bridge of hope and the children of fate are asleep tonight. in the city of angels. ringing. trilling. muttering like we used to before.

there is a home. this is a home. which makes you smile. and makes you believe. those lyrics are awake. it's time to play.

divide

i have come to the conclusion that i am the most socially inept human being there is on planet earth. i go to a bar to meet all my sister's friends. while they watch the basketball game on the tv sets sprawled across the walls, i am thinking about activism. i take a napkin and start scribbling ideas about the united nations' role in alleviating poverty --part of it probably triggered by the book i'm reading right now. it's called A Generation Divided. it captures the elements of activism in the 1960's United States. what stirred our people --the young boys and girls, men and women to fight against racism, communism and big governments.

i will talk to someone, look at someone. smile. toast. drink a glass of wine. constantly thinking about foreign aid. how can we make amends to foreign policy. are slums inherently bad? what is the solution to this haggard infrastructure. who creates change? how do we legitimize change?

why can i just not be a normal human being and enjoy that basketball game in a bar, drinking beer and having a good time with friends? essentially socializing and not thinking about activism. i may have a disorder. i don't know. it's possible --i may have to hunt down my DSM from somewhere. yes, i'm pathologizing myself. story of my life!

yuletide

coming back to new york city makes me so very happy. every time. it never fails. never. seeing the sister, friends and family. when i walk around, it's as if i feel every step. there is a firm grip. and there is a certain confidence.

one by one, the lights turn on. jingling and sparkling. and there is a silent cheer. in every thing. and everyone. boy, it's beautiful.

i will keep this short and say, a lot has happened this year. lots of downs, some ups. a blend of emotions. never forgetting, yet moving forward. i say a little prayer for all the loved ones who are no more. little angels, today. they sing hymns to man. their voices, volatile.

there is a certain beauty in asymmetry. and i love it. art, for example. or scarves with tassels. bumping to an arrhythmic gait. and on the streets. i will sit and watch. peoples eyebrows. and the asymmetry and asynchrony of movements. so bizarre. so spectacular.

merry christmas.

all pictures by MDL