...

::Perhaps I'll Come Together::
*Flick* The spark set loose
by a thin stick of birch
between your fingers,
I watch it arc out of the pit,
a passing glow on the lens
of your eye.

We both laugh softly
as the soot melds
against our clothes.

When the embers begin to die,
I thumb a sprig of water
from the hose onto the fire.
I light your way inside,
with the flashlight cutting
through curling plumes of smoke.

Roxanne darts back and forth
at the door, watching
us approach, raising her ears.

I sit on a pillow, and you have
the electric blanket around
your toes. I can't stop playing
with my hair and being funny
just to see you smile. This is
the point where you change.

Your head leans back and your hair
falls over the couch, your skin glows,
your eyes dance a way I'll never forget.

Я держал бы вас навсегда.

::Steps to the River::

Her young body is like an island
Her beauty the waves that continually break upon it
There is a hidden place
a hut of tendrils and vines
in whose moist shade even now
the drowsy god of love
begins to stir

*

Everyone in the village asleep
except us
all night hearing
the blue-sapphire flowers
tearing loose from branches
falling all night
as the two of us
listen

*

Lover of pollen, you are trapped
The struggling bee makes the petals
close around him

*

She lifted her arms to undo her hair
and glanced at me with shining eyes
I swear, friend, even the blossoms of water lillies
catch fire


::Fragments during the first cigarette of the day::
It seems as though my mind is a blank today, only a few words
bubbling up, words like "no," or "glum," but there must
be thousands of others down there, rattling their cages, clamoring
to get out, all kinds of words, big ones, scrawny ones, heroic and
muscular ones, coy, loony words, words tasting of cloves and
licorice, cross-dressed words wearing feathery boas, quantum
words, kaons and koans, singularities, black hole words sucking up
light, love and loss, exploding words, supernovas, words like
wormholes into other worlds, ancient words, Neanderthal words
rubbing together to make fire, Cro-Magnon words rubbing
together to make magic, spells, incantations to sail the dead off to
the underworld, words that make the blind see, that make the lame
walk, words queuing in iambs, vers libre words playing tennis without a net, and yes, I must admit it, bad words
like Jean Paul Sartre dripping ennui.

::It’s all in the approach::
Take one step towards me
and I’ll take one towards you.
Take one step away,
and I’ll take two towards you.
Take two steps away,
and I’ll write a poem about it.

::The Eventual Fire::
"I've never been able
to manage debts well,"
Gabrielle said,
"especially since Kevin
died."
"Yeah, I'm not faring
so well myself."
"Well, you didn't die, Travis."
"Touche."
Now what do I do?
My fork becomes heavy.
The air is leaden.
She cries. Silently.
She stills eats.
I manage one more
minute mouthful of
kamut, and excuse
myself. I walk to the bathroom
at the back of a
seemingly endless hall,
my footfalls are weighted, yet
they make no noise.
I lift the seat and piss,
flush, put the seat down,
wash my hands and stare myself
in the face. Gunmetal blue,
my eyes are. Rimmed and
puffy. I splash some
water on my face, break
a Klonopin in half
and dry swallow it.
I move as a whisper past
the candle-lit dining
room and onto the
railed landing. My eyes
could be seen blocks away
as I stared down my
cigarette into
the Zippo's flame.
A full minute passes
before I light my smoke.
Exhaling through my nose,
I remember why I
smoke the cigarettes that
cost $7.00 a pack.
The smoke is sweet,
perfumey. Not unlike the
cavendish I smoked
when I had a pipe
and considered myself
an intellectual.
Lord, to be 21 forever.
The door behind me
slides open on a bumpy
track. Gabrielle joins me,
leaning against the railing,
her white panties
climbing up her back
out of her pants.
She lights a joint.
"Hmm," she mumbles.
"What?" I say. She begins to
talk about the state the
house is in. Rusted
pipes jutting out
the sides, crying
downward stains
the color
of dying iron
on the city-ordinance
beige that every
home in Seaside seems
to be colored.
Floorboards in the kitchen
are loose and creaky.
The hot water heater
knocks violently.
"Kevin would've
fixed all that shit. Now
I have to pay someone
money I don't have
to work on it. Fucking
world, man."
I spit over the railing
onto a red BMW
in the alley, and return my
gaze across the bay
to the power plant.
She paused for a second,
"Great."
Then snapped her head
at me, glared at me
like I was rubbernecking
her train wreck.
"Well? Aren't you going
to say something sage
and wise?"
I blink, exhale.
"Well? What of it?"
I throw my lit cigarette
into a paper-filled
dumpster below,
"Maybe your house
will catch fire,
then you can collect
the insurance,"
spit again,
then walk back inside
and start doing
her dishes.

One month later,
she died in a house fire.

[bŭk’ē-bôl’] or (C60-Ih)[5,6]fullerene)

::Stitched in Indigo::
It was as though, like your blue
dress, I was born far from home:
a place where no language
matched my country.

Forgetting both how to add
and subtract, and reaching
in to your eyes for something,
however tentative to gather kisses from.

There's something electric
in your hair. Something in the way
you keep analysing my face.
Eyes sculpting so many thoughts.

Strike of five, and I kneel.
I'm already sending trails
after you, trails of ones and zeros.
Begging you back to my side.

I had watched your car
leave the road, until it was
too hard to see. Then
you vanished and became the distance.

::Tetrahedron::
I always recognise you
when you wave,
even across a large room,
where, at spirited angles,
our glances cross,
and are done connecting
at the moment they are taken.

::Terra Cotta::
Grass was growing on the wall that year
and there was a patch of a red-ridged succulent,
announcing it's rocket of blossoms
that, every two years,
unfurl in the whispers of winter sun,
begging and licking the air
for the kiss of
the plant next door.

It's strange when I walk along
the ridge over the rocks
and there's no sign of you.
There, where you sat down,
and made forever a place
in the stone, perfectly
sculpted to you.
Our veteran faces making
walls to the north and
to the west.

Our shadows speaking
of us to early evening,
with all those parts of us
that said why not?

I know the world is beyond our
comprehension, a gaze I cannot steady
in groundless country,
with summer rich in mind.

The glass tamed the edges
of the canals, and we felt like
we were on another planet
and the world was as obedient
as any stretched place could reach,
answering sunken patterns
with blank applause.

First entry? Repeat poems from my old page. KA-CHING.

::Spirits of Salt, Mutus Liber and the Huguenots ::
How can war feel this good?
Like superheated gold,
my gut is alight with acid.

A burgeon, alchemical,
a spine made of carmot,
my blood is aqua regia.

From Saint Bartholomew's Day
until the Edict of Nantes,
I was the stone that caused men to stumble 
and a rock that made them fall.

::dance alone::
i
can dance
like
i'm not white
i 
can dance
like
no one 
else is there
even when
every one i love
is sweating
around me 
i 
can move
in ways
that please
you
and me
i 
can hold
you closer
and closer
until 
we no
longer care 
how the
sweat beads on 
both 
our foreheads
pooling in 
the smalls
of our backs
evaporating
not quite
fast enough

::Catatonia::
I've done it again.
I've taken a medicine
that smears me.
Pulling my face across
other portions of this realm,
and, laying in place,
I'm tumbling through
my pillow
into places most will 
never know.
The 2-hour cycle
of politics on the radio
just furthers
my loop
deeper into the
innerspace
I would rather not 
explore now.

::Prestidigitation::
It is so hard to not
jump out instead of
being involved in some art,
waiting to be found. 
It's hard to be the 
exchange between
man and metal,
alone so long,
then hearing 
someone break chains
where they blended.
Like skin developed
in the air, I had to
be extracted
and be torn 
rather than tear.
The hardest part is always
breaking back
into the same
Houdini.

::Stuck::
There is the point where anything can 
become molten,
but, like asking fairies for favors,
certain people cling to 
their shrinking shrifts
like rafts,
like a bone getting caught in
their throats,
it isn't rude to cough,
after all, our life is at risk,
but there is so much
we refuse to release,
our choke becoming like that
of pâté ducks,
our repeated meals 
ground and fed
direct into our center,
where we have more to give
than what we take,
and everything becomes
like melting ice
on shelves of paper.

::حجب الجمال:: (Withholding Beauty)

Here, I was bent
while walking
looking around about the
cobbled patio.
I pushed my fingers out
and ran them
along mortar,
along mosses,
sucking in the beginning
of the morning's dew,
and you stopped
standing back,
hands trying to open
now to hold
me up, so I
have no chance
of falling
again.

::غير قابل للقياس الجمال:: (Immeasurable Beauty)

A grain of sand
landed in my eye today.
I teared up not as reflex,
but for the pure joy
of feeling.
Again,
here I tread for purchase
on foreign soil.

::لم يكتمل الجمال المستمر:: (Uncompleted Beauty Continuing) 

I am sweating over a tagine,
the turmeric and anise contrasting
the crisp fire of the woodstove.
I made coffee and looked out the window
to frosted trees and silence.
A Stellar's Jay comes to the railing,
squawking his impatient songs,
throat casting moonstones onto
my morning employ.
I think about the bitch of a time
the Forest Service must have
climbing these roads.
But the view.
The view.
The orchards.
The meadows.
The fences falling into 
charming disrepair.
A country, bathed in light,
unfolding, away from it all,
with no bells and no markets,
no passports
and live snakes,
Sabrina raising a beer,
the fibres of woodlands,
the explosion of spelunking,
the glory
and the glamours,
the comfort of granite,
the crib of some unknown Nativity.

The push of hip to hip
that took years to occur.

End-Troduction.

Although this is the first entry, this will be at the end of my blog.

So for newcomers, welcome. Repeat offenders: you should know better. If you've actually read this to the end: Congratulations, it either hasn't been very long or you don't really yet realise what you may have just gotten yourself in to. 

I have no idea what will come after this, so have a good sense of perspective. This could get strange.

Love and light,

Reverend Travis