Palm Reading

There is a certain gravity to burnt hands

a weight in motionless skin literature

grooves leading to sky

some to sea

some to stay puddled 

in frozen epithelial sleep

destined side by side

with amalgamated fleshy web

When the soot is gone

and the debris bury themselves in linings

blackened fingertips

can once again trace palms in braille

can cup faces

in a smoothness of stretched silk

without leaving traces of anything

but a lingering feeling of weight

of something fashioned by force

that can only come alone from fire

10.25 PM 

01.29.15

Between Punctuations

Longing is a book sealed in plastic

waiting to breathe between fingertips

its pages aching to stretch

to be flipped, to be folded

to be fanned near eager faces

to be heard

to be inhaled deeply

chapters needed to be arched, 

and soundless groaning

wait with every lines the spine take

side glances are wisps of verbal scents

that escape

that taunts the resurrection of 

yellowing scotch tapes to find

new graves under the table

but until I hear

myself tell stories before my bedtime

and finish my sentences before

I get distracted with my next meal

Before written words are drowned

with the ones that are spoken

It will remain in transparent paralysis

and so Wanting is a stack of stories

perfectly lined, properly spaced between paginations

perpetually hungry between punctuations 

beside each others smooth covers

and unwrinkled paper bellies.

12.16 AM

Jan. 12, 2015