A Purple Bikeshed

is like gunshots out my window
shoulders to my ears
my eyes fool me more
so dominant the arrow

From this perception swells
the constant hum in everything
a drone enclosed in every tone
infrequent blap pop boom goes
echoing in the night
like thunder claps to sparring mits
or chalk erasers slap slap dust
like seabirds scatter whistling
like locusts far away
I’m gauging miles now where a body lay

What color is the bikeshed
at night it is maroon
and in morning when the light appears
we stand foolish to the moon
and so a mind will empty and fill
gradual in such cycles
when wane and waxing back we kindle candle fire
Fearing that the stars ignite

And if their brilliance is too loud for me
I plug my ears with my knees even though papa said,
“You shouldn’t stick anything in your ear that’s bigger than an elbow.”

Sharp corners and zig zags of different shades make illusions
when the contrast moves from bold to fade
whether breath or truth it’s sound that is the life of proof

Why wonder about the bikeshed color
when it only matters that it has a roof
and so we converse our comments and opinions in predictable cycles
perceiving what we please and dismiss all else as trivial
forgetting what to do with a house full of bicycles

I’m wondering if you’ll ever solve that rubix cube

There are places in the lattice above
ripped to let a little more light in

& the more we fragment heaven,
the closer it comes to crashing into salt.
ink evaporates, fingerprints dissolve,
& keystones dislodge

a displaced disco ball sky am I
something celestial at which we wonder
under a microscope

Now we’re only concerned with dissecting galaxies
to capture the concept of size
or coin a strand of course black hair
to copyright a copper iris trapped in a cell
so far we know a prisoner can ponder osmosis
for most of her solid state

& right now this meal reminds me of swimming pools,
but mostly I’m wondering if you’ll ever solve
that rubix cube.

With whom do you only have summer memories?

Lolo played the piano and I would dance one day
Tango and classical
I wanted to dig those songs
Introduce myself

With whom do you only have summer memories
Hearing only melodies of struck precision
Light when necessary
Rich
Contiguous

The afternoon is saturated in early sunlight
Filtered through the bands of inoffensive dust
And palatable bright envelopes the scene
Extracted from a timeless frame of space

The carpet is aerial-shot earth and ocean shag
Where my toes surrender under bent knees
of stepping legs lifted by arms floating out
with nothing to do but be arms
and no idea what a ballerina would do
but twirl on one axis
like the little white wind-up figure
in my jewelry box

She has no face
Just red lips
A compartment dream
Did not belong to me
Pink and white roses
Velvet interior
A mirror

The box was always
Empty and outside was more open

Lolo whistled like his teeth were ivory or coconut meat
Meant he was shoveling or having coffee with acidophilus milk
He made Filipino profanity and mahjong shuffle

In the morning basement he hacked up yesterday’s phlegm into a toilet cough
In the bathroom where his dentures slept
Where we split his Salem cigarettes and flushed them
Like a love we could reciprocate

Who's In Charge?

Can you differentiate droplets in a downpour
Like fanatics’ vocals in the final quarter
Like the electric flashes charging your form
Reflecting effort—
shining

Outside sweats this
Air so sweet and thick as
Rain hits the
Fire

Escape with a hollow
Kiss in the belly
Of an empty cloth drum
Catching released condensation—
Accumulated heat
Positive-negative clusters

Your face is the manifestation
Of shifting from future to fossilized
Serpentine and spiraling
Sounds intertwine with sight

What song crackles spider-like
Across the sky as something howls
Inside a bottle drowning

A Relapsed Arsonist's Remorse

I know what breaks a Greek plate
And the intent of a ceramic artist
The uncertainty of a kiln
And variables of responsibility
Within accidents going places
To happen and the ones we preserve
In jars for an occasion to spill
And break and slip like the coaxing sparkle
Of a drying marble floor

Masters of Circumstance never test fire
Clip yellow-leafed plants cradled legs in hands
Examining dead the skin mix with sand.

The intellect grows a peach a bit
Brain and dripping sweet a chin mimicking
The edge of what a human can face
A volcano inverted as ash
Before lava or blood before basalt

We suspend our bodies in burlap decisions
And dangle ripe in the trees burning
To bust open our guts to become spectral
Activity and savorily spent

I could have left a couple chipped
Dishes or a few finger dents
In the frosting or one yellowing plant
But at the pavers’ discretion
Without the courtesy of cones
We let the jackhammers fraction
Our tameless terrain

I know the remorse of an arsonist
And the quiet after the crackle
The twisted fate of a toaster taken up in steely flames
I know the accident of throwing unextinguishable matches
Of lovers and time and accidents
Like tricky birthday candles jinxing a wish