Rolling in bed as the LED screams in red
my stunted dreams bled.
Jolted from sleep to wake, but sleep I choose instead.
My casket–tempting–two pillows, those warm embraces
a black tarp of forlorn faces morning erases
this eternal tryst with death replaces.

And then chapter two. You.
Words tumbling over breasts and thighs
fumbling “rest of our lives”
faking “goodbyes”
Your eyes, Nirvana
idyllic wandering around infinite shades of blue
lull me into comatose longing for you.
and suddenly, I’ve put sleep on hold.
It’s you I’ve chosen instead.


shards of broken glass my hand clutched onto
the wobbling table
and you danced your feet they moved
my finger it bled
like paint struggling to find its path from the can.
the melody bristly in the darkness
our bodies like shadow puppet animals
and we danced our feet they moved
for a few rhythmic patterns
my arms flailed eyes rolled back feet swelled throat parched
sweat mixing sweat but not water
my hand clutched onto
you, a wobbling table but for now the music plays
and we dance.

your hand in prayer
with the small of my back
my eyes like mornings you said
but you were never looking

ready/not ready
the coffee cup tumbles and
brown stream black sludge surrounds me by and by
you’re holding my elbow again
tugging the “you-know-what” –strings
but my eyes open to mornings of an empty cup
only mine

That time, between me and you
was a screen door.

(dedicated to a few special people who are experiencing tough goodbyes)


Losing love; and then fearing falling
into a painful abyss of being forgotten
into the void
of where handholding once held fast
and not one but two as one
fill the empty seat
my nest craves for you.

Showing up, and then fearing dying
Insides crumpled up like paper disposed
into scribble-hell
where our story, written, and climatic
ends in wastebasket-bound
I shouldn’t have come.

Learning love; and learning to truncate
heartbeats and messy mornings
of bedsheet togas
and head-to-shoulder umbilical cords.
And those dewy eyes–
hurt you hurt me sucked.
Time to let go.

Tempering wounds; by enjoying those things
that used to be ours (like that one song)
as mine now (like those tears)
like tomorrow and thereafter


Winter is the inspiration behind melancholic ballads and heavyhearted lyrics. I’m a sucker for wintery emo songs sung by crooning sensitive white boys. As much as I love Caetano Veloso, Rufus Thomas, and the Dream, I have to give a little internet high five to my fair-skinned brothas.

White Flight – Augustine
Rolling Stones – Wild Horses
Jeremy Jay – Winter Wonder
Japan – Ghosts

and by the biggest white boy crooner of all time: my fave, poet Mr. Richard Howard


Manners of this time this place
moderate me.
Weather grows accustomed, space
more or less free
To take whatever shape you left
in the soft air,
Memories of the eyeball fixed
but not forced there.

It is an anyhow world
I wander, run
Now to such days, corroding, cold
for the season
But never too white for spring.




The Hardest thing!

Who knew that saying goodbye
would be easier than saying hello.
Carbon copies of wet paper dolls
we wave, elbows touching slight
-the alembic of former we to now me
and possibly you. That was the easy part.

I was ok with burying our
haphazardly-directed silent films with
mime-like precision.
Burying the “I love you”s
until I become deaf-mute
and the heart
becomes an empty shell
a killing joke.
I’m cool with that.

A little bit happenstance
mostly like clockwork
I fumble my way through a crowded room and
See your lines
(you used to dizzy me with your circles)
You’re holding
a drink but not me. Here comes the hard part.

Hello, you are real again
unfamiliar but alive, smiling,
tugging my sleeve–
it’s so cruel. The nonchalance is
so brutal
and this 30-second earthquake
debilitates but it
passes. And then you pass.

I go on my way.

By poet Richard Howard, whose reading at the Hammer last night I missed. So sad. He’s one of my favorites.

For S.

Music is one means of telling time
That forces memory
To conjugate the tenses of the mind
In terms of moving sound:
When I hear music, all I was I am.

Love, I think, has something of the same
Effect, the other way
Around, permitting what has not yet been
To come into its own:
With you, my love, what I will be I am.

Saturday Morning

Beds are made close to a wall
Against the blank places.
This is so that most faces
Can turn away from all

If I turn, the time swarms.
Of mouth carries the message
Up and down the soft passage
From a hive that hums

I am not lonely here:
Dissolves in mirrors, some
Dangers melt like sweet salve
On a wound. You must have