faces in wood grain


Stubborn orifices of steel block my vision.
I am tapped;
though malignantly, not dripping.
Cosmic joke.
Clots of core being
surge out of my system,
lumping my cauliflower veins with yesterday
and liquefying said obstructions tomorrow.
In this fashion,
my core self has been leaving me
alone, hardly breathing
in a mire of self-pity.
My soul, I fear, now clumps,
petrified by judgment
and withering into tumors of former ambition.
It remains imprisoned by my frenzied ego
who’s encrusted by the fear that simmers with
the rite of internal suicide.

“all the rage” (a proposition)

from The Master Circadian Clock Cycle 1-8


like a cat
wandering along sill,
eyeing the moon
with wide yellows
and long jowls;
you bleed.

Perch perch.
The Ninth Symphony
crawls into crashing sycophancy-
but only inside your head,
and in the flap flap
of domestic curtain ropes,
golden for you.

Die die.
Snowy Brooklyn hood
the peninsula’s lusty line
with wind bustling through porches.
Lady Manhattan, stoically xenophobic,
lies still beneath her cloak.

Prospect Park sleeps, as good as dead
hides the sleeping life
in her pillowy bed-
the hipster’s last
premature domestication.

I had a dream once,
this night in fact,
of sitting still
with pomegranate juice
rolling down my chin,
and of little bliss roller coasters
climbing up my brain.

in waiting (patience)

from The Master Circadian Clock Cycle 1-8

Patience is a woman who walks far ahead,
knowing too well what drives us,
connives us into
the brothels-of-mind.

We stew in her solace,
unable to forage meals without toll.
She shows us, six feet ahead,
how dawdlers get themselves
every time
for their troubles.

Clinging to sycophantic trance,
we’ll be our own pallbearers before
wisdom conjures up
the next sculptor’s hand.

“…patience is a woman,”
we wait for her.

Tom Clark Photography

meditation on a brazil nut

The starkness of a chestnut glazed table
willing to stare back at me with a dare.
It challenges with a static potential,
that which only a table can muster.
I cannot be envious of that.
But I do envy that on it sits a brazil nut
contoured by shadow.
A brazil nut that
too may desire purpose.
If it could,
if it were not
just a legume.
Though it too has grown out of itself.

I being more than a nut,
or at the very least
greater than or equal to,
do percolate with such desire.
But lying here, wrapped in chenille and scarves
find the realization of my purpose
much further off than the arm’s length
fulfillment of our artless brazil nut’s fate.
If I do extend my non-hungry palm
I will eat the nut, for the sake of Brazil.
I might.
But instead, as accustomed to,
I will not force purpose into my palm.

Thus, I continue to sit.
Encloaked less by blanket
than by denial.

by Fabian Perez

foster girl (the medium)

from The Master Circadian Clock Cycle 1-8

Chasing on coattails of sex,
the animalistic bride
into the ring cycles
of her own spiraling sanity.

Erda warned her,
               “continue to believe,
               breed courage… ”
Smiling, she continued her gibber
into the wayward funnel of inner ear syndromes.

Mysterious gurl leftover from childhood,
gleeful peace spreads legs of mind as
electric blue heels
cobblestone streets
in neat click-clack patterns,
click-clocking to other less attuned orbs,
along international side streets,
               the earfuls
               of what they want to hear.

Executing perfect stares,
she refuses to fan or giggle,
nor will she release
her spent maidens of yesteryears.
               They’re in restoration.

The Norns already crawl her city-
too Madrid, Lisbon, Vienna, Seville-
in shattered bridal gowns,
floating gossamers
               soaked with red,
laced with brown.

               Barstooling alongside rectors of drink,
               her cross strands erect,
               legs of maidenhood.

Eyes pricked,
she eats at their sex holes,
scooping out fingerfuls,
and sniffing up the rest-
               addict that she is,
through laden conversation
and neat tricks.

But no one knows,
no man or woman could tell.

Their repressed chunks of sexual dough
yet unformed,
congest her filter
               with apathy
and funnel through, unchanged.
Left as dribble for the masses,
vomit on a bar-room floor.

She reverses her stride,
revert, retort, restore,
chiding all the way out the door.
               “Chill your feathers
               in ice water please… ”
Brunnhilde growls.

And her divine palindromes
did not release
               their exhaustive streak.
It was 2002.

(references to Richard Wagner’s epic musical drama
Der Ring des Nibelungen, a.k.a. “Ring Cycle”)

Painting “Saba with Red Wine”
by Fabian Perez

Shadows Meet in India


We have lived and loved
from the privacy of our reserve,
               that reactive space
               just above the surface.
We inhabit the physical place
but abide by the passions
that govern ancient spirits

In the playground of the knowers,
the lovers, the givers;
we are creators,
the authors of life,
               monkey-barred minds
               and sea-sawed hearts
               with sandy-floored souls.

Fueled by sensation,
we are those to whom
fear is only a myth,
               a story told by
               the Others.


December 2003

Photograph taken in Vindhyachal, India

by Anderson J. Gonzalez

soul fluid

I wake up to you, my everymorning brew,
the image of your heated arms.
I tumble into sleep for you, my eternalnight pacifier.
I thirst for you, my essential soul fluid.

I eat only enough to glide back into your safekeeping
so I have room to devour your love
each and every precious moment I am granted,
for your presence to enlighten,
handfeed my creative pony.

My mane obscures your process,
keeping it behind stained glass
and just distanced enough
to satiate my always illusion of not knowing.
You substantiate my essential mythology,
giving of your ashes as fuel
with your purpose.

I meditate upon you
that is, to God, to the surrender of the universe
and all that is my truth beauty, that is ours,
and which is sought for by all,
and naught to be attained.
It cannot be, in living or dying;
the oneness of us it not to be understood,
but to be cherished, by all that is good.

It is in simplicity that I love you.
The only way that I can.
More and more through every molecule.

Feign acquiesce
for you, my essential soul fluid.
I eat only enough to glide back into your safekeeping
so I have room to devour.


October 2003

Photograph by Anderson J. Gonzalez


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