Tag Archives: poetry

Bucket List

Published / by Gabriel / Leave a Comment

You asked me once
if there was a list of things
I wanted to accomplish before
I died.

My list is so long.

I want to wander it all:
Arashiyama, Giant’s Causeway,
the glowworm caves of Waitomo.
Even the old coal mines
of Bibb County, Alabama,
even the cracked streets
of backwater towns no one
visits anymore but coyotes
and weeds.

I want to explore all the secrets
this world tucks into her rocky deserts,
into her wild grasslands, into the valleys
and caverns slung beneath her blue sea belly
like stretchmarks three days after
a new mother gives birth.

I want to write a thousand books
about all the beauty I’ve discovered,
about all the raw ugly beauty of us,
and buy with them a place
among my idols,

and if I can’t,
I want to subvert them:

to scrawl 10,000 poems
like graffiti into the walls of buildings
on every continent on this planet,
even goddamn Antarctica.

I want to hack the airwaves
and interrupt these
regularly scheduled programs,
to interject poem
after wild guerilla poem
between the nightly pundits
and the shitty sitcoms
and the car insurance commercials.

I want to experience weightlessness,
to slip the chains of orbit
and see the world the way asteroids do,
to fling my poems down from satellites
and watch them burn up like cinders
in the atmosphere or crash into cities
leaving craters so smoking and wide
they can never be forgotten.

I want schoolchildren to know my name;
I don’t give a damn if it’s for greatness
or for infamy.

All these grandiose things
are never going to happen.
But truth is, I don’t need
any of them to be content:

Let me hold your hand every night
for the rest of my life, even if
my fingers grow arthritic and gnarled.

Let me kiss you every morning
for the rest of my life,
even if, in my old age,
I forget the sound of your name.

Let me write for you
one little poem every day:
a haiku, a cherita, a rhyming couplet,
if that’s the only thing I can muster out.
I just want a poem for you
as the last words
to breathe past my lips.

That’s all I need.

Raptured

Published / by Gabriel / Leave a Comment

You taste like cherry frost,
bedroom sunlight raptured,
captured by subtle sepia crush,
a rush of blood to the lips
and tongue, lungs full of the
steam peeling off your flushed
and shuddering flesh;

We are threshed
together, separated and laid out
against sheet canvas cocoons,
writhed and tithed and tied
together because I cannot keep my lips
from scouring the valley between
your shoulders, cannot keep strips
of my skin from trying to interweave
with yours; lattice-like, enwebbed,
ebbed and seeping out of myself
and into you; shrike me on your
lancets, only kiss my pores again,
pour kisses on me again, take these poor kisses
and illuminate your lips again,
conjugate our mouths ten
times, twenty times, as many times
as it takes to swallow all the rhymes
I am seeping out of myself
and into you.

You kiss like
a thistle switch, like God’s sunlight
glitched and wavered,
flutter shrike, I am struck,
I am plucked and strummed
and humming for you;
I am sung and strung for you,
draw my tongue into you once more,
crack your kisses against my throat
like soap bubble lightning eggs,
til our legs shudder in time
to the twinkle of a hundred thousand
jealous white-hot stars.