The monastery dared gravity leaning off the cliff.
The building itself
was an act of faith,
tree-limb triangles
supporting floors and walls
floor pallets, pots and pans,
manuscripts, relics, and
some men,accessible only
by a miserable, many-mile
trek up a never-ending incline
in the unblind, blazing sun;
or god forbid the ropes
hanging like woven tears
down the crags to the rocky
coast a mile below. Having
opted for the former, I stood
breathless and sweating
in the entry way for
what seemed like
forever before a figure finally
descended the stairs,
seemed to float
with ghost grace,
a black robe broken
only by gauzy whisps
of beard. He smiled
for too long, then observed,
“You are American. I lived in America many, many
years in the past. Tell me, how did things work out for that Richard Nixon guy?”

I see you’re wearing Kiss makeup
and that you’ve made a cello from a skeleton.

It’s amazing what it takes to stand out
in music these days, well sit;
that is what you do

with a cello, right? Nice how the pickup you’re running
distortion through is

mounted at the pelvis, the real source
of rock and roll.

Remember Elvis?

I remember the first utterance. Handing back
your favorite book,
Lafcadio: The Lion Who Shot Back, I said — you know,
this is basically Invisible Man.
You shrugged — I don’t know what that is,
and stared
at me wide-eyed, wolf-eared and waited,
ready. It was that moment,
looking up at your face
from my spot criss-cross applesauce
on your bedroom floor,
when I said —
It’s my favorite book
but meant —
I love you. Of course,
like with many things between us,
something was lost
in the translation.

When Carolinian stars gave us a reason to look up,
And sand stung skin and grit between teeth
To remind us we were at world’s edge,
And sweat clung to your bourbon glass
And I sipped salty rum,
And we sat alone, together,
on that balcony for four hours,

I can’t even remember what we talked about.

Except that we know
the sun grows more luminous each day,
And one day it will destroy the earth,
and everyone will
die.

I already miss your poems, various
and trustworthy, or uneven, fragments
to a whole. You’ve buoyed me when
I couldn’t stop chasing symptoms, causes,
blame, or when I couldn’t frame my words
with appetite, for hunger. Empty, I have
stared, trying to grasp the flight of images,
fireflies that disappear, emerging somewhere
close. Once in a while, you triumphed:
sometimes Triple Crowned.  I remember
how you danced. I’m grateful that you let me
follow you, stumbling—didn’t we leap?
The colors we sang! The shape we gave
to hunger, anger, sadness, pain. I gained
solace, just by listening. Thank you for praise
recognized and marked, silence when we miss.
I’ll be watching, writing to you, best of readers,
those who answer, those who ring. We have
other work to do, but God! I will miss you.

Forgets that hell

is other people

with a fervent haste

Shoots  blank

messages

to imperfect strangers

with “Go to the gun

range” listed as their ideal

date

Refreshes inbox

with unforeseen agony

every other

split second

Wonders why

anyone would use

pick-up lines

when they’re trying

to get laid

Seems like a contradiction

Brief bio:

-Five foot

nothing

-Only has one

working eye

but likes what he sees

-Enjoys a nice pipe

-Rejected the Nobel prize

-Has needs like you

fucking people

Sorry not so good

at bios

any questions

just ask

West, was warm and beautiful,

radiant from the inside,

especially when dreaming

of the swarming bees and

the blushing comfortable silence

of exotic words that press on the stones

and feathers of disappearing legends.

The air was worn-out with a bitter

temperament. A dark bruised night

aged knowledge to the crinkled cusp

of the fearing and drowning dawn.

Waking would be a wonder,

a wonder of necessary invention,

a gateway of false intention,

a loosening of crippled blunders,

a place where scorpions seize

violet ember eyes and hips

made out of bony loneliness

and one last missed kiss

landing on violence.

Abandoning Lawton, Oklahoma in

117 degree weather felt like a

certain kind of suicide.  The stink

of dead armadillos on the road,

their about-to-burst bodies

glowing with black flies

inviting poetry to descend upon the scene,

was more than any broken heart could house.

The heart was Artic, the port was blue,

the lights of Aurora Borealis untouched

by stale prayers asking to be removed.

The breaking away for legroom

was filled with miles of flat tears,

intervals of openings where mountains

fell into the sea and scars were traced over

endlessly. A beginning to nowhere is

a promise to somewhere, eventually.

Separation is easy; it’s the degrees that burn.

© Poetessa Leixyl Kaye Emmerson

A slow drizzle
drips softly
on the
windowsill.

My cats yawn and
their wondering tails
wrap all the way around
the Christmas Cactus.

I take a sip of
Chamomile Tea
and lay down on the couch,
full-on-relax-mode.

A full day of
mental gymnastics,
from one tongue to the next,
can really wear you out.

Just 5 minutes
for forced meditative attempts
at Zazen-style mental blankness
can save your life.  

I don’t feel like making dinner,
so I walk to Maria’s Taco Stand
for the 2nd time this week,
and it is Tuesday.

We do not need
Spanish or English
because she knows:
2 bean and cheese burritos with jalapeno and avocado.

My cats are still yawning
when I get home,
belly-sides-up.
I mimic their lifestyle.

Burritos in my belly,
Earth replenished from rain; good situation.
No need to water your gardens today, my friends,
spend that time taking care of yourself.

-Chuck Clenney

Four feet above my chair on the front porch,
though furious, the finch cannot be shrill.
While scolding, her bright song retains its lilt.
Her scarlet-headed nest-mate joins along
and both, perched on my ferns, glare down at me

I know their fear: their trembling, warbling chicks–
gray, downy heads, like tiny, aged men.
They huddle, shiver when my creaking door
unnerves the parents, spooks them from their nest.

But mama, can’t you see this drooping fern?
I scarcely water it for fear I’ll drown
your silly children, chirping in the leaves.

And surely, gawking at me, you can see
no threat. Just turning pages, sloshing ice,
and sipping bourbon. Settle in your roost
and mind your children. Twilight’s settling in.