Drifting Dreams of Oceans

Drifting Dreams of Oceans

Float breathe.
Float sip. Float glass.
Float breathing sip glass.
Float breathing sip glass.
Float to breathe. Sip glass. ah.

Float to breathe. Sip glass ah. I float, fluid, smooth, rolling like water (on a dreamer’s breath). Yesterday I inhaled grey and yelped out mountains. Today, it is ah. Float to breathe. Sip glass. ah.

Float boat.
Float coat. Float note. Float gloat.
Float on boat to gloat. Note cote is haute (couture).
Float to breathe. Sip glass. ah.

She floats on green in a Dior coat (a capitalistic kind of float) each evening watching Murder She Wrote with leisure time for Joyce Carol Oates unaware of how she gloats on a million dollar boat in an obscure island off the Mexican coast to the fisherman nearby who to the government wrote with the hope of even just one peso note. Float to breathe. Sip glass. ah.

Float tree.
Float bombarding. Float oranges. Float words. Float yelp. Float words.
Float in oranges. Float in tree above yelp. Float in tree of oranges above words. Float away from bombarding words into oranges.
Float to breathe. Sip glass. ah.

Up here he floats above the words. They think he does not know sneaker or journal. Not even cereal or couch. He just nods. Up and down. Side to side. Dumb they say. Slow. Sl-oOo-www he thinks. He nods but yelps in silence. He looks at the su-un hitting the fruit on the treeee and he thinks orange. Orange. Orange. OrraANnngeee. Silence leaves his lipppss. Nothing. He floats away from words into his trEEee of (oranges). Float to breathe. Sip glass. ah.

the art of finding things

the art of finding things

each morning i unfold
to find my beautiful sight
sun dripping in
shaping the contours and
watery love
next to me, still finding in his dreams.

all days are made of
losing and finding
and losing again.

i lose my taste for sweet
french pressed coffee,
find alert, awake, aware
footsteps, doorsteps
in my breath.

i find that too.
my sips of air smooth gasps
rolling rivers
kissing my lungs
that bow with gratitude.

if i leave this
breath behind
the bowing devotees
rise and cross their arms.
they want to be found,
loved.

today i lost my keys
and found moments
found pauses
and tapping fingers
found re-runs of memories
in the recent days.

every day we lose
only to find those clock ticks
and mothball smelling laughs
and new lips to kiss
new inhales
and exhales.

every moment
we are finding
those slivers of details
sweet glimpses of the whole.

leaving

leaving

sometimes i leave
three days
four hours
and five minutes
before my actual flight out.

i pack the memories
into my lungs and
squeeze the smiles
hugs and your smell
into the corners of my heart.

i zip it all in tight and wait
three days
four hours
and five minutes
to leave.

drops of breath

drops of breath

the redwood out of my window
this morning
reminds me of my shared roots,
our family tree so huge it
could cross the beltline
twenty times with species to spare.

at night she rests her eyes,
humming a foggy lullaby
to her limbs and leaves.
in the morning she blossoms
each day a new set of presents
and deaths and unpredictable
periods of sun.

her squirrels run in circles
in cycles
tapping her temples to keep her ready
incase too many
hummingbirds and bluebirds
and green birds and blackbirds
try to hear her secrets.

i too am this way each sunrise
soaking in the silence whistling through me
as i welcome the spinning cycles
of the stars in my palm
holding just tight enough
to brush the ripples of
an any mornings dusty possibilities.

some drops of rain
drops of breath
drops of sun
fall into my smiling mouth.

a lesson in cosmology

a lesson in cosmology

she was born into this world
when red was dipped
in a firey tango
with purple.
red had smoothly
curved her back
and out of her throat popped
earth mixed with laughter.

her green curves
vibrating with blue
went unnoticed
by red and purple,
too busy twirling and dipping.

it was only later
when they heard from
yellow she had made it
to the sun
that they stopped
to listen for red’s laughter
echoing from earth’s
dancing crust.

dropping keys

writing sketches my set of keys...

dropping keys
the small man
builds cages for everyone.
he
knows.
while the sage,
who has to duck his head
when the moon is low,
keeps dropping keys all night long
for the
beautiful
rowdy prisoners.
- hafiz