"... and cutting words trip into sword dance ..."

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Miguel Lamiel

The Stone Cutters

the morning of incredible happenings
lovers brush under the most admired icon
in a marble-laced temple
where columns are kissed down to powder

a saintly sweat covers glossy oil
and skin-like incense blanket
in oak pores
stained light plunges into watery eyes
senses folded and unfolded by delicate tide
generous beyond the votive flames
every altar colored to shade sacred hearts
organ pipes air against the silence
all sermons lit to torch the background

focus blurs, woodwork burns, they swirl
luminous battle leading to prayer
pulsing adjectives overdose in mouths
so wet they drown
pleasure loosens strong-held spines

again the cherubs freeze when steam subsides,
as if sky-over-spire could only cry
ice and snow too soon

confessionals are replete, silk spun
steps shed on love a purple dressing

so tight they are, so one they krishna more
and orange blossoms stay on carved neckline
for a languid thought on pew relaxing

Wandering

i walk and travel with no particular goal

their sound i silence
as they cling to me with significant look

the sidewalk artistry i chalk down
is just reflection of passing dreams
they sigh at my intentional mistakes
enriching spent diction with poetic disdain
unless i draw their hollow faces
through filters of permanent neutrality
they don't pay out in hardened steel
and cutting words trip into sword dance
to then tan my hide
true colors must thump in my chest
or else like rat i seek escape
from maelstrom splashing on city floor

i hang around the troubled edge
and there are people there
more than you can count
on peninsulas of skin
constantly disenchanted
with fangs going into their necks
a disputable display of dissension
so new in this dovetail reality
exporting media attention
when all I need is one person
exposing self to the sun




Breathless

threaded pearls rest on velvet cushion
as a traced willow stretches
beneath incarnate clouds
you know what I mean
wood keeps turning on pebble beach
tightening my fluid mist
veins gorged by lunar pull
you look so different as waves repeat
tremors of light filling countless vessels
in disembogued stream
instinct is our secret expression
of how things should be

if you take a last look
at this bedside memory
dusty with unfiltered Camel smoke
retain the moist sentiments
dispersed in some inner city
where I roamed my palms
on damp silk road
breath spent on suffused skin