Dan Totilca





The Day You Left

A Lost Trail of Manhood

The Stainless Eye

Through Reeds

Walking the Eclipse (Sequel)

The Still of the White

The Silverado Highway





Formless blisters out of my tongue protrude

as if glass words are confessed.

My off-plumb stare shutters

the frontal mirror with glances dipped in mind-silence

(a philharmonic reflection of thoughts)

like weapons of mass-delusion

landing, time warped into circular waves,

as if the earth was barren

and the crepuscule crawled its face.



A picture’s worth a thousand words,

a gesture’s worth a thousand pictures

gently, a poem’s play in pantomime conflicts.



I motion: a feather’s ink on a goat’s skin

“Let there be light,” premeditated mind

 scaffolding of thoughts accelerate…

 The accident puzzles out from shivers.






Days play like piano keys:

One high, another ⅜ black

3 pitches redder in tone,

8 in the shake of a jug of wine

Held by the renegade hands

Stretched to pound bones by day

Laying bricks by night

Folding the plastic Penguin notes

With tiny glove kisses

As if chopping red onions

Classy sounds soothing the Sun-Days

Deaf sounds approaching the D-Day

Days that her hands can chord no more

Days of the piano keys that no ear

Is soft enough to hear,

Lips breathing heavenly…




The Day You Left


The day you left

Oblique silhouettes slipped by

Unavailingly into the void―

Floral graffiti on the bare walls

Odors of ink stepped aimlessly

Onto words...


Out of place

Dull shadows swallowed paper

―two letter ghosts

Under the fingers that I long longed for:

Lone statements of the wintry sun


The day you left

―small steps on the snow path―

Absent handprints caressed deaf doors

The air―

Softened smells

Like dust in lighted tears

Lifted deep stripes of our unflawed sorrow

Angular rhythms of sunlight beams


A narrow smile

Your caged garments mumbled with no fear:

“Well, after all, what’s Love if not

A joint plot of soiled beggars

Searching for their soul...”


The day you left

A clown consumed by pigments and fake laughs

All melted off...


So far

Your lips again―

Submerged like cloudy flowers in

Clear water-diamonds

Black sterile waves reflecting

The fruitless tree bereft of bark




An ashen seraphim seen drown in ashes

you circle near

To rescue our love with bow and arrows...


A needle

Dipped in glands of salty venom

Amid concern―

That listening to heart

A new life form could come.



A Lost Trail of Manhood


In forested hills bordering reed-rotten lakes

Where swamps and marshes dry up in squares

One’s life begins to wonder,

            One’s life begins to wonder

What’s left to live in a world that dies?


Birds embracing

            A hole-ridden floating log

                        Wings kept down like in

A courteous dance,

            Small rats running in a slime line

                        Terrified by the incense, 


Though in an absolute dependence of bodily pleasures

            And self-interests.


Life in need of impervious rational-analysis

Here opened to thrilling vice,

            Impotent virtues

Snakes following their sinuous, shining needs―

            Devalued of life when fulfilled.


A little lower than the angels

A little higher than the beasts

            The sway of time 

                        In the mills of slaughter

            Beheld in the eternal gloom

                        Of flesh and blood

And born from its voracious aim

Within and beyond all things and all ideas,

Though neither a thing nor an idea.



The Stainless Eye


He lets his eye

through the mountains

            of hooded rocks

                        down the valley

through the twin doors:

            crescent moons,

                        shinning warm

through intoxicating L-shaped tunnels

            holding methane―

                        faint bombs

through rubbing worms, unknown colonnades


                        Cyclop screens

he lets his eye

scoping blind polyps.




Through Reeds


The essential flesh is peeled mandarins―

Viscous rivers burst in their skin

with enamored rinds

Boomerang as if hurled into a paradise dam.



I see through reeds―the lioness’ mane―mad

Febrile claws leap graciously

like a saguaro’s smile:

Upward-curving, funnel-shaped roar and edible



Raphaelite. Raw-lungs entangles raw-hair―

Volcanic gaze illuminates my laden swamp, her

well of urge and lust.

The essential flesh, Light from her lips folder.




Walking the Eclipse (Sequel)


In balanced steps―bellow the sky and the water

the moonlight’s fingers long walk

calls back the long gone song:

where are you?


Beyond the tease

the roaming portrait:

summer clothed, disappearing through reed,

your bare footed shriek

skin―wood-cut―like in a red sculpt, yet glowing


“I sense an angel's halo, halcyon!”


Day in, day out... Besides what was you

eye & begging eyes touching

my virtual clock, tick-tock...


The wait lessens hope as it lasts


scattered memoirs that I missed...


My solitary arms are longing for

the looming breast, the tall wings

that caressed your surrealistic neck.


We are / we're not... Hear the bells?

You might have said that I forgot...


Apart, together―the trickling sand

day in, day out

the sun falls like a spear.


I am a jailbird in my own time

my virtual plane―owning the idle emptiness

in which I breathe.


Her spirit nonetheless

was lost

like a flicker in a forgotten forest...


As I knee in the stream at dawn

I can reach the infinity of that foggy May

when heavens lost appeal

and nightmares like

monstrous butterflies struggling in the mist of

poisonous pollen

touched her lips

tasting the unseen departure.




The Still of the White



plastered over cannons,

angels broadcasting their curly heads

over nebulous shafts,

conjuring far-off

sketches of Heaven peaks

mutilated by the dark beam of the last

dwelling star.


Celestial snowballs dance

on ice,


the bitterly blurred

chaos at dawn.


Listen! Listen to

this daybreak of silence

where nothing is nearer

though nothing is seen afar

where everything is as is―

where the eyes of mud

slumber deep in the mouth’s valley

leaving their tears glistening

through the fog of words

that will soon freeze up

at their last wintry breath

―the lost song of the elapsed dust.


Listening to

―through the flaky cellophane―

the white heron…


A ghostly mirage

clothed in crystal plumage


pristine and voiceless

in the pounding whiteness

widen by the approaching dawn.




The Silverado Highway


The prairies’ saltgrass in the morning sun fall

and rise higher, to perihelion blue

where the tongues of the Highway

fuse into the redemption line,

one orison stretch from the Lone Star vortex

higher to Home.


The three sides of the divide sun-bathe,

symmetrically flattened, freckled with:

white dots,

alternating water towers,

cement towers;

cunning weed

camouflaged in hay

passing like fuzz in inequity;

electric power lines

harmonic sinus waveforms

a rhythm fading into the quiet,

with each pole.


Lonesome longhorn horseshoe invisible crickets

serenading atomic stripes of flies.


Out of the blue,

discerning sibilant calls, I hear:

lowly bowed orisons duly paid

on the three sides of the divide.







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