Tuesday, May 17, 2016


poppy hooded how rain hit you then like a feeling you could not
get out of, but how could you know this was the last time you would
be together and so every thing you tell each other in this moment
will be so unbearable in retrospect, but time is inside of itself
and you are not invited to its machinations only your own voice
testing its faith faintly, balloons draw your eyes away and wide, if you only knew how much I love the idea you inhabit, without skin, you are
a story, with skin, you are a song, and the words are 
musical so only a qualified magician could play the right notes 
in the right way and from out of my ear pull rabbits and the coat you 
wore and your brown hair against my cheek "I'll send you post cards from the road" this is how you hold the memory afterwards but the 
impression which had you then was that you were both something
for each other, even though neither of you knew exactly what that 'something' was.


Monty X

One day you will
return the favor
the flavor of hip skin
and eye shadow-less
loops of enduring
through the brokenness
your teeth
like Greek sculptures
smuggled from
the wild land
between your breasts
setting fire & burning down
the meadows
along the spine of your back
& place me
underneath your tongue
cracking, face to face
along the edges of you
into water you drew
from out of the earth
with a spell, a heavy sigh, a shrug
of your shoulders, smoldering sultry
and 'how do I look
under this light?'
like sunken treasure
wrapped in rainbow paper,
like a shadows edge
punctuated by car headlights
on the side of the road
in a storm that will not end
like get-away-from-me
I can't be this close
to open doors
to paradise,
'oh please, I'm just your idea
of paradise, your voodoo doll,
your comfort
blanket, your safety break,
I'm as much of a mess
as anyone else'
& I know this, I know,
but still,
aren't ideas born this way
in the first,
the second place?

Can we reach the second place
barefooted, messy,
smelly creatures
walking the great unknown?
Unknowing greatly- small bone
to small bone

sedimented Autumn
laid open
on tarmac

wild in our skins

fifty different Japanese words for rain

how when I say
each one
I mean
I love you

when I say
I love you
I mean I don't know
what to do with myself

paradise shuddering
beneath our eye lids

daylight closing
our bodies up
like thick walls
kissed with ivy

I'd finger your poison
until my heart explodes

but that's not love

it is obsession.


Monty XI

You are barnyard
covered in early morning mist
you are things to do
places to be
tongue that cracks open
peanut shells at 2 am
and leaves the casings
like empty bullets scattered
on the bed
and when my hand reaches
for you I come up with only air
& there are two versions
of this poem
one that I've written
and the one that I wish
I wrote, with a single
word, like glass or aspen
leaves that tremble
from the most inconsequential
brush of air
against its veins
when I think of you
the words get stuck in my mouth
and I don't know
sometimes if I'll ever
be able to say them
to you in this way
without you laughing
mossy eyed & barely skin
underneath skin the heat of sun
airing its origins out
on your fingertips
like porcelain falling from a shelf
in a family home
I run to catch you
but come up with only air.


Monty XII

If I could only write of mountains
& orange groves in June
mealybugs that dig into the pulp
juice at the bottom of the crate
despite the pesticide flowering
death knells with each bite
each tug the unfortunate
famished specks of only-doing-our-part
make, a taste like tang & welcome
to your death aphid number forty two
and counting, Pedro & Manuel
carrying out wooden barrells
full of ruined fruit and kicking
their boots along the side of it
as if to say 'ah fuck it, only gringo's
buy these oranges anyway'

but no, I am compelled to write
something about you, Monty, who
I know so little about really,
besides the basics, how your facial
expressions actually match the enthusiasm
in your voice & how your eyes thread all of this
together like trinitarian transubstantiation
hello and goodbye
each breath-muscle you exercise
like salvific wine
externalized into outer shells
of pinwheel blue
the carnival lights you swallow
until your belly glows
and you become like a beacon
in the night,
a light house for lost souls

or wonder filled
and I-don't-know-what-the-fuck-I'm-saying
so upturned
under the smoky wood

this keepsake of flame

and I imagine we sit along different sides
of the same compass
one hand touching the other's location
letting go, coming undone
it's not so bad really.


Monty XIII 

light on or off
you are still roving
river beds
up my spine
let's settle this
you are spotty dream dripping
in my palm
& when I close my hand
I'm a complete fist
waving at the sun
as if to say: you did this to me,
didn't you?

If my eyes were green
we could twin our moss beds
you and I
shaking wet
& removing our skins
in front of each other
our fingers so electric
when we touch
we light the room

& the glow
mutually swallowed
why can't I feel my arms
when they're wrapped around you
(that's called a hug you don't want to end)
addling – fucking up
the heart

dug clean until I can sleep
all dirt deep and not remember
your smell- smiling
slipping into dusk
ash can of howl
& yelping sideways
you can't be kept
can't be held
in my arms
long enough
deep enough
to undo this damage.


 Monty XVI 

This peeling behind the mortar
left wandering
across three thousand islands of sleep

how close you aren't
in this dream I had

can't tell you how long I've waited
to spell my own name
without imploding at the last letter

without pulling the wool over my own eyes

it's this way when you breathe & I stand right next to you
counting each one
you ask “what number are we on?”
& I tell you “number one, still number one”

another way of saying “this life has not been so kind to me”
hold the hour (my body)
against your skin
I will count us down
to the beginning

that irreclaimable moment
your first throaty question on the orange bench
outside of eternity

how do I get back to that... who am I going
to turn to in the night
with empty arms
holding shadow

sister to the trees in winter

any wind could break me now.

James Diaz

one true sucker   it seems that most women i fall madly in love with at some point decide they would rather be with another ...