[Poem, Colors, Birth]

a poem is coming
red
red as virginity
(is it ever lost?)
red as blood dripping from your feet
red as this coffee mug,
red as the star on your beret,
red as the house behind my chest.
red
red as fire,

a poem is coming
of the belly mothers,
long over due.
of the darkest of the nights,
of the coldest of the nights,
of long hours of labor,
of the first child anxiety,
of the naïvety of youth,
of heavy weight of the responsibility.
a poem is coming
coming to touch your face,
to count your toes,
to smell your head,
to plant flowers on your eyebrows,
to pick lilies from your mouth,
to lick the honey from your eyes,
a poem!
a poem!
a poem is coming,
to be a whistle on your lips,
to be a sigh in your breath,
to be a silk scarf around your neck,
to loosen you from what holds you back,
coming for you,
to say hi to your chest
to touch your belly
to rub your thighs.

ah the burst is near
let the water break,
let the bells ring,
wake the street lights up,
call the drunk poets,
tell the policemen to wear flowers on their hats
and to bury their guns.

a poem is coming,
of endless mothers,
of egg cells worth 40,000 dollars,
of abundance of sperms,
of uselessness of the balls,
of the floating cock in the bath tub.
of dead fathers,
who left either too early or nothing,
or,
both.

A poem is coming
of the sensuality of bodies
(how marvelous are bodies,
and how I crave them)
of yearning in your eyes
laid upon Catalpas
(and how you speak to them).

a poem
of our eyes never catching one another
on the 16th and Columbia.
of never knowing you,
yet always loving you.

a poem is coming
out of songs
and every instrument you lay your hands upon.
of the unfamiliar words and tongues.
of the streets of every city you
have left your soul behind
of tears,
of whistles,
of strolls,
of serenity of a Sunday afternoon,
of the sleepy eyes.

a poem is coming
of Lorca’s tears,
of Neruda’s fatherly chest and big head,
of ugliness of Bukowski,
of Frank’s lunch hours.

a poem is coming
of the manly desires,
of late puberty,
of premature ejaculations,
and anxiety of performance.
of insecurity of your lips,
when kissing someone for the first time.
(Isn’t every kiss the first kiss?
And isn’t every love the last?)

A poem
of my voice echoing on the mountains
of my childhood in vineyards
of the old turquoise fountains
of learning how to bike
of training wheels
of grandma’s allergy and,
Her relentless work on her garden.

a poem
blue like the ballpoint pen.
(What confessions you have written with that pen)
blue like bodies laying around Moscow
in winter nights,
drunk,
dead,
alone.

blue like the ocean,
endless,
deadly,
seductive.

blue like words falling from your eyes,
blue like the hospital room,
blue like the last journey.

A poem
A poem is here
Laying naked on my hands
Drenched in blood And bodily fluids
Wrapped in honey and rose petals.

A poem
With a beginning unknown
With no end.

Washington D.C.
11.26.16

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