Twilight is seductively meek.

Every day, at day’s end,

it inherits the earth

through valentine quivers

and softcore volitions of symmetry—

the sky, at its supple mercy,

bruises so easily,

pale liminal purple

adoring the tenderest wounds

between lovers merging nightly.

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Tablatures of light

engraved in your palms

by eyeless angels

once upon a time

when yes was yes

and waves were forms

serve as source citation

while hosting vividly the fact

that your hands are the temples

which can be entered any time you’d like

no eye tests

or slow burn required.

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For Melody’s Sake

It is a call, a calling.

Lost voices committing mutiny

to service seasons unknown—

Strange wingless angels

of mercy and memory,

the blue ones,

sounding the call, a calling.

Melody hosts its own discipline,

and we, the fragile disciples of music

and night blooming,

engrave this on the settlements of our bones.

Our bones, our bones seized and trembling,

as if gospel raised from zombies

among the centuries of metaphors roundly sown.

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Like ten thousand fingers

scaling the arpeggios

of lives minted and scattered—

the autobiography of days

demanding their own masks—

and we, the weepless ones,

dry and several worlds removed,

drown in the riptides

of bass and metaphor

within the deserts

of our own distance.

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Days of Mourning

She wasn’t sure how she had become days of mourning.

It began with a pall, a thick viscous scrim

that changed what she saw, sawed herself into

halves and quarters and post-dissection she noticed

days had turned into weeks into months into years

into moths (what was this closet? where had she gone?)

and altogether a knotted bundle

that could not be spent, or misspent,

there was no economy to the quivering mass

of darkening days past, days she had become.

Knowing that escape was both impossible and inevitable,

she returned to the staggered fiction

of nights with no memory,

nights in which days of mourning

factored in little to none

to all.

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Changing Room

Advertisements for astronauts

in fish-net stockings,

and you, tobacco-stained fingertips,

a scholar of whistling,

salacious in the way

you used to spit brown juice

into the wind, expecting to not get hit—

those were the days,

I sighed to my red suitcase

with the stubborn zipper,

as I packed away my bones

and thought about which cinema,

in which universe,

I should go and visit

before the postcard in my pocket

dried gravely at the edges

and lost all sense of meaning.

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Altar Piece

We are the stunning brides of tomorrow,

dressing up for ritual matrimony

in an airless church

where children laugh

and hurl gulls of rice,

and the candles, matching light to symmetry,

never go out.

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Eye Test

Within the eye

of the volatility of metamorphosis,

a shuttering, and sacral budding,

that speaks in tongues to the fragile wonder

of age-new revelations, respiring.

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Something Twisted This Way Comes

I was asked to create a customized review list for, whose goal is to “create an experience like wandering around your favorite bookstore but reimagined fot the online world.”

The following is my list: The best books in which mystery is given an existential makeover.
List includes: The Natashas (Yelena Moskovich), Kafka on the Shore (Hauriki Murakami), New York Trilogy (Paul Auster), Her Body and Other Parties (Carmen Maria Machado), and Room to Dream (David Lynch and Kristine McKenna). 
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Monkeys and Barrels

None of it was going anywhere. It had been a while. Both things were true. Both could be beginnings. So let’s go with both: None of it was going anywhere. It had been a while. I felt like a dehydrated man wandering aimlessly in a wasteland of publishing. To clarify: the publishing industry being the wasteland. Then, a chance. A dehydrated man wandering aimlessly in a desert lives for chances. Which is why the tease of mirages prove to be the death of many. Anyway, a chance: I had an appointment with the V.P. of the big publisher C.C. Burton. My friend, Lana, a fellow writer, who always backed and supported my work, had wrangled the appointment with Elaine, the V.P., who was an old friend of hers. Elaine, like myself, was of Italian-American heritage. Elaine, like myself, was from Brooklyn. And because my novel was a crooked valentine to the Brooklyn of my youth, Lana thought that it might be a perfect fit for Elaine’s sensibility. It sounded promising. Most mirages do. They glitter in the daytime and disappear in the twilight. Of course, it’s always twilight when you arrive at the mirage. I’m sure Einstein could explain it. Anyway, the meeting. I stepped into Elaine’s posh office. I saw a smallish woman dressed in a pale lavender suit seated behind a massive desk. Her hair was sculpted high. I wondered if she had sculpted it with Aqua Net. Was there still Aqua Net? Had it been banned by the Ozone Commission? My grandmother had petrified her hair on a daily basis with Aqua Net. My grandmother was long dead. Not because of the Aqua Net, mind you. Elaine appeared to be in her late fifties, early sixties. Definitely of the Aqua Net generation. Mister Fillameno, Elaine said, please sit down. I sat down in a wooden chair, facing her. I felt as if I were at the principal’s office, and was about to be reprimanded for something I had done wrong in class. Which was often how I felt. Especially when seated across from vice presidents with sculpted hair and lavender suits. Which was not often. Elaine and I chatted. About Brooklyn. About no longer living in Brooklyn (I had expatriated to Nine Peaks, a small town in New Mexico, twenty years ago). We chatted about this and that, a casual volley, which led to my novel. And why she was passing on it. You’re obviously a very talented writer, she said, and then highlighted what she loved about the book—the characters were incredibly nuanced and layered, particularly Anya in her tragic sadness. Yet, and it was a big yet—YET—the novel is too short to publish, especially by an unknown author. She needed a novel with more meat on its bones, more heft and bulk, if she were going to peddle it. I don’t remember if she actually used the word peddle but that’s what I heard—peddle. Which made me think of hot dogs peddled by vendors at Yankee Stadium. Or a BMX racer with a glow in the dark pedals. Elaine went on about pacing, character development, length, which then tied in to prevailing marketing trends, and that’s when I cut her off. I don’t write for the market. I write for the angels. And for God. Where had that come from? I had never thought of myself as writing for the angels. And God. But it felt true when I said it. I could tell Elaine didn’t like being cut off, especially right in the middle of her dissertation on prevailing marketing trends. She pursed her lips tightly. They grew ashen, then pallid. Mortuary. I thought a touch of lipstick could revive them. Lipstickless, Elaine sniped—That is all well and noble, Mister Fillameno, but I can assure you that God isn’t running the market. And he isn’t the one who will publish your books. I didn’t know what to say. Elaine had me over a barrel. Was that the right saying? Had me over a barrel? Why a barrel? And wasn’t there something about monkeys and barrels? Good luck to you, Elaine clipped, letting me know that our meeting was officially over and I should exit her office. I stood up to leave, disoriented. I was still thinking about God and the angels. And monkeys and barrels. I hadn’t yet caught up to the present moment, to what was happening. I was leaving. Was meant to be leaving. Good day, sir, Elaine said, as a sort of nudge to get me moving. I left Elaine’s office. Walked the length of the carpeted hallway. To the elevator. Took it down to the lobby. Walked the marble floor to the glass revolving doors. And stepped out onto the teeming daytime sidewalk. I felt as if I had just vacated one dream, and entered another. It felt good to be back in New York. It had been a while. And none of it was going anywhere. I started walking. I thought of previous rejections of my work, filing through the internalized catalog. Too short. Too long. Too obscure. Too much this, not enough that. It’s always something, as the late great Gilda Radner would gripe. Yes, sir, back in New York. Just another pinballing speck in the shadow of anonymity. In the shadow of monolithic buildings. This made me happy and sad. I wasn’t a young man anymore. Expect I was. Einstein could explain it. You’ve got plenty left in the tank, kid. I often referred to myself, in the third person, as kid. It was a Babe Ruth thing. He called everyone kid, no matter wat their age. Apparently because he could never remember anyone’s name. Babe Ruth. There was a man who defied the odds. A cigar-smoking, hot dog-gobbling, beer-swilling giant who announced himself to the world as legend. Who cares about age, I told myself. There’s no such thing as time anyway. Live as if you’re already dead. Then, and only then, will you come to fully embrace life and experience truer freedom. What had happened to me? Somewhere along the way I had lost my nerve. My moxie and chutzpah. Parts of me, perhaps a bit punch-drunk, had gone into hiding. They didn’t want to get hit anymore. I understood. I sympathized with those parts. I had become a dormouse on a ledge. Or a vagrant Buddha standing on the street corner in the rain. Parts of me had. Yet today, today something in me, something that had been walled up and dammed, had broken open. I owed it to Elaine. Her passive-aggressive assault on God and the angels. Her faith in prevailing marketing trends. Her use of the word peddle. I walked the streets of New York that afternoon, feeling pissed off. Feisty. Ready to take on all comers. I felt completely ready to let all my monkeys out of their barrels. Just to see them dance.

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