Sunday, December 30, 2012

123. Derelict

in an impossible metallic oblong
trapped sounds

pens scribbling or
twirling around,

eternities could not
sort through these

they are static
at rest,

is never truly

Listening down the
empty line
of a half-
phone –
podcasts, sitcoms,
pop songs
in the

There are sounds we will
never hear and
sounds we
always hear

static interferes

Wednesday, December 26, 2012

122. Vestibule

A moment is
a glance is

Smiling, we
recognize each

to think that you
love my company as I
love yours, that
the stranger I once
observed discreetly
across the room
is somehow here

is a strange miracle I
do not understand!

you seem to
digest my tedious words
ravenously as I do

as if each one
would be the last
we ever

121. Śliczny chłopiec

In the flurry, we
went our
separate ways
yet I return to you,
ablaze from a recent

the spot beside you is

Slipping next to you I
observe the last rounds
and you likely know such
is not my

When they have cleared,
we take up cards:
I struggle;
you are a stronger
player than

Not a victory,
it was a ruse

Pulling the cards away
from my puzzled,
earnest fingers,
I see, I hope it is
my words you

Such tedium is
not your aim
I hope
it may be the same
as mine.

Separate ways:
as we part
you seem anxious,
I never know
what you are thinking –
eyes are not so helpful

I am descending the
I am passing a
display of books
biographies, calendars, and
things –

I greet the night
sharp breeze reminding me
how early and how
late it

It was November
when I wondered if I
had become a
wonderful thing to
walking along the
dry cobblestones
I am smiling:
maybe it is best if we
do not know

Such simplicity, such
is one such
irreplaceable victory
I will remember,
often and

Friday, December 21, 2012

120. Bell A23C

As all good actors,
I act so well I forget
the role:

All of a sudden, I
abandon self and
reclaim you.

Only after the
trance I look,
disgusted at myself.

Copy of a copy,
designed artificiality:

false grain repeating on
false planks of wood;
modems glowing in their
green domains,

chanting mutely in the winter breeze

We are all the same
only I am clever enough to
copy, copy
for I am too afraid to
disrupt this elaborate,

for I

Thursday, December 20, 2012

119. Erythrocytes

A moment’s sadness
clouded by the empty joys of

Humans are pliable,
This is what we do to

Words are immobile

Let me never die
let this moment of
desperation echo,
echo through days,
years, and if I presume
the centuries:

Let some naïve student
encounter such a pristine,
eternal ode to
regret and

knowing it is beautiful
to weep, and that
poet’s tears are worth
nothing in private
yet untold
millions in the hands of

Wednesday, December 19, 2012

118. Indictment

I do not understand my
judgement makes all

All seems
bland and
Child’s enchantments
revealed as

I am happy though I am
Smiling though I’m
Callous, wry, and witty
when all I feel is

So many disappointments,
so I have learned the game:
I can play too:
let us both
say empty things

only you mean them,
and I invent them.
Quicker the lies are said
that I may retire,
observing how alone I am,
remarking the silent absurdity
of my worthless life
somehow so exalted by my
ego that

it must awake again
each day,
to produce, create;
to hope
and regret.

Thursday, December 13, 2012

117. Il fiore della gioventù

Frost melts in the morning sun:
it is beginning and the

Everything is just as always,
and it will be, evermore;

On the final days,
when silence looms more present on the distant fields,
there does not seem to be enough
to count the branches and their

the blades of grass
or their migrant residents

there was only time for so much
before the moment is lost and
replaced, cycling
nowhere and

Saturday, December 8, 2012

116. Zerbinetta

Callous, cold,
and full of spite:
degenerate, the
courtesan is teasing
once again…

We were all of us
pining after one such

to a life of trickery, cheap wine, and
they are all the same,
one after another,

It is a life of
hard tales,
lost hopes, and
splintered dreams.

some are meant to
saunter aimlessly on a
ridiculous pedestal,
Emilia Marty in her
39th century, gazing over
blazing lights
into an audience who is
not there.

Saturday, November 24, 2012

115. Strange leaves

Chapped lips and
home-made mitts;
youthful couples in the
crisper air:

Simple pleasures,
sights that cause a smile to
form –

Children gather treats
advancing winds;
cars lay rampant in
hazy, oil-soaked coffee

To see as sights,
to smell as smells:
never to feel
the warm embrace of
commonality –

winter dawns, and
shows its weary
head too
to ignore.

Friday, November 16, 2012

114. Souvenirs

Lascivious poppies,
lusty in the sombre fields:
spill their irony in the
autumn frost,
shades of shameful
red –

Long have I envied their
reckless belligerence,
perching on some foreign shore,
immune to guilt, regret,
and melancholy:

No – guiltless in their wild
trampled, laid to rest beside their
human brethren, forever bear the
burdens of their
art –

Fatal beauty
grows across the silenced fields;
echoes resonate between the
rustling stems,
silent in eternal
gazing on the frozen

Curious, unknowing,
cast in strange and
penance –

Generations strive to
generations strive to
lose and

Saturday, November 10, 2012

113. Carious

Long forgotten,
delirious memories haunt,
reclaiming us in
the exhilarated clutches of

things we would have said left
hanging in the jaws
of bloodied twilight.

Swallowed into jet black
trapped in sparkling darkness
my voice collapses
into a mute,

Discarded remnants,
fossils of another time

Friday, October 5, 2012

112. Miss Anonymous

Cold cement,
scaffolding and
C. Dior.

race by quickly,

plaintive eyes
penetrate air,
dazed and mute.

Straightened, teased;
chemicals and
strange shampoos:

Turquoise eyes;
nude lips and brows,
pallid skin.

Gawky limbs
rendered comely

frozen, timeless,

Stamped upon
cardboard billboards
ten feet long

here, beneath
the apartment

Coming soon:
promises are

autumn leaves
swirl and simmer

Sunday, September 30, 2012

111. Irresolution

Photo by: Steven Hausler / Reuters

Something is lost in the
cold words.

Unresolved cadence of
distant trains whistling;
the world becomes real when we step
outside, the searing
tugs at skin,

Cold words cannot make me cower
unintelligibly on the
carpeted floor,
huddled in strange
depressive ecstasy

But it is the beginning
of that,
the start of something, of

little muddy footprints on the
Colorado snow
insignificant, leading
nowhere, leading

Saturday, September 22, 2012

110. Wild Child

Photo by: Chris Langton

Hairs stand golden,
glistening bristles on your face and
there is a certain danger,
exotic recklessness
drawing me to you.
I am afraid of you, and
enamoured of you;
I am your predator,
I am your victim.

Wild child;
cannot be tamed, must be put far away.
Lions in their cages
do not bite;
tigers in captivity do not

Wild child,
I love you.
But it is a far more
lethal beast
unleashed in me,
all-consuming, powerful,
which would ruin me.

Stay away, oh
wild child,
you are a foreign beast;
I must keep you to those who
know you well,
while I regard at a distance,
hesitant, curiously.

Saturday, September 8, 2012

109. Radieux, étranger

2 galaxies collide,
silent in the airless
what are the chances;
what is the

Quantification cannot classify,
instruments cannot perceive;
exhilaration of the unknown
exalts the most uncharted

As we part, there are
stars in the sky, in
the streetlamps.
Moving on our separate paths,
destined for our solitary
it is so beautiful
we can meet in such
covert darkness, ephemeral,
out of the millions of the collisions
that could have been,
and never will be

Thursday, August 30, 2012

108. Crickets in the Phone

I miss you,
how I miss you.

Even when there is
dead air
I can somehow hear,
echoing in the

scratches, noises,
bouncing within the

I can almost picture you
standing at the other end,
not knowing what to say…

I could sit for hours,
pretending to have a
mute conversation
with nothing but
trapped electrons.
But I hang up;
whether it be telemarketers
or my mother
I will not pick up again
for you.

Wednesday, August 29, 2012

107. Temps pour rentrer

Like a Turner portrait,
wild trees cut the soft sky
in aggressive rebellion.
The fields are aglow in the
impossible, perfect sunlight
painters only hope for,
or plagiarize.

In the middle of all of this
a green and white farm sits,
cozy and quaint, unassuming
over the twilight

Soybean plants stretch far,
some frenzy of
golden fire.
They are glowing bright now
in the setting sun.

It is almost too perfect for a
photograph, there is a
humid mist rising from the
torrid August rains.
Everywhere, there is this
impossible sparkle, gossamer,
and I think perhaps it is all
too lovely to be real.

Monday, August 27, 2012

106. Insensatez

So soon forgotten,
nylon strings drift out the other
scarce registered
by one.

Bathed in the exotic, balmy
sun-soaked and
indeed these are sweet nothings,
measured not in single drops of
liquor caressing your
throat, rather
a forgettable nectar,
enigmatic, ephemeral.

It’s Portuguese to you,
it’s all the same lithesome
beauty that is so
foreign, so

It is what tourists
accept, yet do
not seek,
experience but do not

I could not expect more:
sitting like Turandot
enshrouded by cross-hatched
palm-leaf shadows.
As one breeze carries my
voice, futile, one shadow
to the next, I am
the only constant,
alone in my
impossible artistry.

Saturday, August 25, 2012

105. A Record of Stock Characters

Everywhere I go,
there are people.
Little people, big people,
large people, small people.

I envision I am
taking them all in,
breathing their essence into my
bottling them up in
invisible, infinitely small
vials, for

I like to think that I could
pull one out, anytime:
but of course, there is the
modification, and tinkering.

It is all such strange and
interesting work.
There is just no place for them
yet, or

Friday, August 24, 2012

104. Alcina’s picnic

Crows are eating in the backyard,
congregating under the shady

Dark and plotting, hunched over in the

Reflecting on a former mortal
bemoaning the trappings of

Chatter subsides to feeding,
mechanic bobs
puncture the sheltered

Noontime ends, and all the
inmates part,
save the stragglers, digging
past the noon.

Even these few gluttonous
ones depart,
and there are only worms
and yellow butterflies,
and all the other innumerable
insects, left climbing on
the windswept

Thursday, August 23, 2012

103. Pentimento

Reflections paint the night;
streetlamps are overlaid with
my tired eyes –
when had the night been so
unsure, and shifting?

Things were so simple;
there were just – images.
Light, sound, smell, touch –
left to the mind, it is a
frightening chasm, there is
so much uncertainty.

I no longer know if I am
a reporter, a portraitist;
if I am supposed to
capture these scenes, or
alter them and place
this pedestrian here, or
make it rain, or
take the moon away.

Or if I must capture the
impressions on the impressions,
and interpret them, or
manipulate them.

Things were so simple
when we could watch the world
like a work of art.
When we caught butterflies
and observed how wonderful
they were, rather than
failing, time after time,
trying to capture something
we could never

Monday, July 30, 2012

102. Caenochrysis

Image source:

Dust settles mutely,
silent snow on gilded spines;
sunlight dyes the untouched leaves
more acrid shades of sand:

Turquoise glistens in the naïve lights;
photons dance upon the lacquered orb.
It is a scarab, it is some ancient

Pausing in the untold centuries,
a single timeless beauty rests,
beckoning amidst the desert of
celibate academia;

There is the long-faded scent of
crushed cigars, the strange perfume
of crystallized ink.
There are forgotten letters left
half-written on the desk:

How do we reconcile –
A catch of azul light,
ephemeral on the patio
reflects in the flower-stamped dress
of a young girl next door:

Some unknown beetle specimen
hovers soundlessly, brief on the false
lilies of the polyester fabric:
it’s like a factory, there is this
lovely hue everywhere –
but there is only one shade like this,
glistening everywhere,
landing noiselessly in the
obscurely dappled shrubs;

all others steal the eyes
for just as long,
but it is this precise,
indescribable swatch
we struggle the rest of our lives
studying, searching,
never truly describing,

Friday, July 27, 2012

101. Rain

Cleanse the Earth, rain;
feed the parched crops,
the sunburned acres.

Drive the men and women home,
send them driving home in cars,
in buses,
running with newspapers
wrapped around their heads;
send them back to the ones they

Wash away the scent of Wednesday night’s
wash away everything, rain,
until there is simply the rhythmic
of water dripping down the eaves
and blood coursing through my
spellbound veins.

Wednesday, July 4, 2012

100. Zdes’ khorosho

It’s lovely here:
the sky is blossoming into
it’s hard to believe
the close of day could be so
iridescent, wonderful.

It doesn’t matter that
I love you or
you love me;
the sun has not yet set,
but the moon lifts high upon the
silken skies:
and as you laugh,
creases form around your
molten eyes,
and I smile too.

No, nothing matters but this
lovely moment,
that I love you
and that you are here with me.

Sunday, July 1, 2012

99. after

After we die,
our parents continue making
grocery lists;
the ones we loved
take long walks in the
forest with their
and our friends wonder
how we became
a statistic.

After we die,
the world still moves on;
people, too, keep moving in their
predictable paths.

If I were still
alive, I suppose
I would still be
spinning, rotating.

But I wanted to be
I wanted to create

Stupid thing,
is what I was told
I was
when I still lived,
until I accepted it.
I am a stupid thing,
I could do everything but
none of it

There was no
I lay in the place I
hand outstretched,
eyes gazing at the
mid-day sun.

I had the courage to look
straight at the
People always told us,
don’t look at the sun
directly; it’ll
hurt your

But I dared to look,
I tried to live.
Life was simply not
meant for

Thursday, June 28, 2012

98. Chocolate

Deep and dark;
bitter sweetness on my
eager tongue.
Soft and sensual;
little florets
bloom within my

When all the children are asleep
and the evening’s work is
how nice it is to sit in the
silent darkness,
thinking of nothing
doing nothing
but enjoying this sinful

in a moment’s
single, solitary
alone and awake
in the dark hours,
only with a box of chocolates
and nothing else.

Wednesday, June 27, 2012

97. L’Inconnue

Faithless one!

In her despair,
drowned herself,
drowned herself in
the faceless Seine.

After so many soft words,
covert glances, what was she,
but a simple country girl,
he sophisticated.

It was inevitable;
it was too predictable
that he would take a wealthy wife,
and never think of her.

So many wasted days,
knitting sweaters,
daydreaming, and
nights spent sleepless.

Well, they say, it was
not all in vain,
it was not all for

The post-Romantics in their
sombre blacks, dramatic
oh, they fancied a martyr
to epitomize their horrid plights;
Her replicated face hung in their
parlours, denigrated,

Found in every incarnation,
CPR Annie, pale and plastic,
drowned again – does she need

Pound the ground, assess the
situation, administer
such a face saved so many

Paradoxically, the
spurned object of love
becomes the “most kissed face”
of all time…

Is this any consolation,
for a heart that breaks,
for a soul that languishes?

Abandoned and alone;
all sacrifices are in vain.
Posthumous fame,
mass-produced celebrity:

to a heart that lived and loved and
to a heart which spent its final beats
beneath the shining depths,
it is nothing,
it is trivial.
All sacrifices are in

Tuesday, June 26, 2012

96. Sketches of an Afternoon

It’s raining today;
it’s raining
quite a bit

I get out my notebook;
I am lying on my bed,
and I scribble down his
name, millions of
times, millions.
The curlicues cross into one
blurring into a haze of
spider webs or

I become nearly
cross-eyed and I
have to pause for

it’s hard to imagine that my
curly, swirly cursive
my love at all,
that this obscure,
dull word signifies his
being, his form at
all –

I take this criss-crossed page
onto the deck, into the yard.
I am soaked, bone-
deep, feet in the

and I tear the page to
shreds with the sharp end of my
black pen,
digging irregular
holes into its
watching as scraps
litter the eroding

ink melts, draining like
waterproof mascara,
which, after too long,
runs too –

my own words
trail strange greenish
paths into the damned
until I
can’t read anything,
I can’t even read

suddenly: it dawns on me that
I am wet and
cold, and that
the grass is getting long

but, no one cuts it:
and flowers lay, wilted and
trampled worms lay forgotten,
blood soaked into the
unforgiving patio

Monday, June 25, 2012

95. memento mori

Forgotten smiles float –
suspended in the ether of

Messages lay unanswered,
comments rest unread;
unchecked remains the
latest “news”…

Mementos of a frozen life:
smiles collected from adventurous days,
when we were young and
boastful –

Farewell, adieu –
a virtual graveyard left
vines grow unchecked,
obscuring what was,
and what remains,

Friday, June 22, 2012

94. Playing Tricks

Upon a warm and breezy afternoon,
the maidens in their sylvan silks
exhibit yet a wilder shade of green:

The impish breezes, by their own accord
(or else commanded by some sprite)
play naughty games of chase amongst their skirts;

And nestled in such trim and tidy dress,
hide dainty, little twiggy legs,
unmasked unto the lurid light of day!

Wednesday, June 20, 2012

93. Eyes See Me

Eyes see me:
eyes see me walking
'cross the street;
eyes see me in my
eyes see me

Eyes watch me
curiously, eyes watch
me, menacing…

Eyes see me as I
walk, I dance, I
slip, I fall:

Eyes are who I live for,
breathe for, die for;
eyes follow me everywhere,
eyes see me,
everywhere I

Tuesday, June 19, 2012

92. Visiting Mr. Guggenheim

To look at a painting –
look, not touch –
behold beauty at
arm’s length.

on a quiet weekday after
looking at a

Alone in the silence of
musing what was and
might have been.

I wish I could
look at you like a

walking back out into
the hum-drum day,
recalling the colours,
the proportions,
the brushwork

and simply forget,
lost in other images, other
realities, or
remember, from
time to time,
cold and

Monday, June 11, 2012

91. [Insert Text Here]

A teenager with a phone
is a horrid thing!
“Look at me!”
“Look at me!”
I want to yell.
I want to take you by the
shoulders, shake you.

Look at me!
But it's not the phone
you love; it is the
soul on the other end.
And I will always
be second

Saturday, June 9, 2012

90. Sagittarius

Gregarious Sagittarius:
so many friends;
this one, that one:
you have no time for me.

I was but another body in a
sea of other ones.
So I thought:
but you chased after me,
lit up the night, and I –
acquiesced –

Another night, when I was
slow and clumsy,
scrambling to get my things
together, I was afraid
you’d leave, find someone

but you stayed.
You waited,
and looked at me,
without question.

speechless, slightly
looked up at you, and wondered
if I really meant anything
to you?
This is what friends do;
this is what friends are for,
they say:
but why me, and
why you!

Wednesday, June 6, 2012

89. “See you tomorrow”

Each time we part,
it is like an affirmation:
that we will see each other
it is a hope, it is
a promise,

it is a guarantee.
Yet I must face the fact
that one day, it will
be a simple farewell,
because then –
our days together will have run

On one hand waiting for the next
on the other dreading the
finality of the past,
the austere future,
which instead tell me:
these little tomorrows
will one day be but
lost yesterdays.

Monday, May 28, 2012

88. Footfalls in the Dark

You are behind me:
I know it’s you.
The balmy night-time
buzzes in a certain way
with a certain electricity;

I half-smile to myself:
you’re running.
The pitter-patter
draws nearer, closer,
and I don’t know if I am supposed
to turn or not…

but I do.

And I can see your huge grin
light up the midsummer

I’m smiling too.
Our rhythms meld to one,
as your footfalls slow and mine
quicken again.

Our footfalls ring in the dark,
we could be mistaken for one

We walk together for only
moments, twenty-three steps,
before we part ways
and you drive off, in your

and I am alone.
I am not sure whether to feel
ecstatic or dejected,
but I continue walking:
footfalls still ring out in the
silent, muggy night;
but they belong to me,
and no one is chasing after me

Saturday, May 26, 2012

87. Striped in Sunlight

Striped in sunlight,
half-awakened from a dreamless sleep,
I have entered another world:
sun feels warm on my naked
oxygen soft and
Birds are tittering lazily;
I don’t know what they’re saying
children are playing in the park near-

and I am here,
listening to the cars go
There is such a sense of
but it is sad also,
knowing such instances
will be remembered forever,
though never occur the same way
twice –

Friday, May 25, 2012

86. Aleatory

What happens now?

Croce e delizia…
there are no rules in this
undefined space.
When a second becomes an
and all time is contained in
this infinite

yet having too much to say,
perhaps it’s best to remain silent
in the secret, secret night,
aware and at the same time
delirious in this

85. Mogliettina

When he was here, he would
call me “piccina mogliettina”,
“olezza di verbena”,
charmed me with his suave
Italian, American English, or

Where is he now, Butterfly,
where is he fucking now?
Butterfly, you are young, you are
lithe and

take these foolish dreams of
youth and pretty
words, and live a long and
happy life.

As you enter Act II,
don’t you realize, he’s
boinking someone else
back in the States?
Isn’t this how it always

Wednesday, May 23, 2012

84. Tosca is Lost

Tosca is lost:
Tosca is lost!
Tosca is lost at the grocery.
Tosca is lost;
Tosca is confused –
the flyers said the mushrooms were on
sale today;
Tosca does not even like mushrooms,
but Tosca does not like this new diet

Tosca is lost:
Tosca is lost;
all is lost at the
checkout line.
Tosca glares enviously at the row next to
fatsos with pounds upon
pounds of
Tosca wishes she could still eat that much,
picks up a magazine to distract
skinny bitch, this is what she’s become
Tosca throws it down;
gastric bypass wasn’t such a good

Tosca is lost,
Tosca is lonely.
Tosca is not liking the piles of music left unread on the couch.
Tosca takes her up her
Scarpia (little yipper) in her
weary arms;
groceries will wait…
Tosca is lost,
but Tosca listens to her

Tosca is lost,
Tosca is out of breath:
Tosca has gotten herself lost in -
Central Park; Tosca is not used to this -
exercise thing -
Tosca sits on a bench,
jealously watching the runners jog
Goddamn, your glistening bodies are
perfect, stop flaunting them at
Tosca does not -
understand -
why people continue -
to masochistically -
put themselves through Hell when -
they already look like the -
Greek pantheon,
better –

Tosca is lost…
Tosca is lost…
Tosca dreams she is a
skinny model, impossible size
walking down the catwalks in
but the audience is not applauding.
They want her to sing, but
Tosca –
Tosca can’t –
she can’t sing a

Tosca is late!

Tosca is found,
Tosca is found in the dressing room.
Tosca to stage in 5.
Tosca slips her black wig
over her itchy hairnet,
tiara in place, red gown wrinkle
free, clip-on diamond
earrings on each
scales run themselves automatically
in her insured throat.
“Vissi d’arte, vissi d’arte…”
she finds herself chanting,
adding “Fuck Scarpia” in between
iterations, for good measure.
Tosca to stage, Tosca to stage.

Tosca is found, Tosca is finally
found, running dramatically,
breathlessly onto stage:
Tosca sings, Tosca
Goddamn sings the
bleeding chunks

Deborah Voigt's transformation.
Left: Aida, 2011 (before).
Right: Salome, 2006 (after).

Tuesday, May 22, 2012

83. The Hermit Rediscovers Humanity

Such beauty:
leaves shimmer with unspoken secrecy;
dragonflies dance in iridescent hues.
Languishing under shade beneath the
mid-noon oak
there is joy, and

But another human eye,
like mine;
an arm, a mouth,
all like mine:
movement, speech –
like mine:

this is some strange and clever game!

Unlike trees with their sullen rules,
suns with their odious paths:
I am mystified, baffled by this
unpredictability, this
depth and unobservable,
attainable mystery –

and for you to feel the
to feel the world begin anew with

is this what every being
should desire!

Emerging from my vigil
of the bottom of the
Rusalka, selkie, Naiad:
return from the lonely depths
and regard these
creatures silently,

it is no wonder they have risked their
fragile hearts and sparkling realms for
to live and breathe and love –
how grand!

Monday, May 21, 2012

82. Crows and the Dandelions

Two crows amongst the yellow flames;
the sun of May ignites their black:
I am mystified.

Oft I have seen such beauty,
as the dandelions peek their ready heads
above the warming

as the dandelions grow, and live, and die,
and when at last their heads
grow old, bequeath their silken seeds
to summer days
to air, to chubby hands of
wobbling tots

and as the crows pick worms beside the
dying weeds,
so I grow older, suns continue in their
traversal ‘cross the

yet -
I am part of these
eternal rhythms,
a part of this lovely and
ephemeral world,
beginning on uncertain paths
as a fluff of dandelion seed,
having brief moments to
fly, and land, and live, and die;
but long enough to feel the air
& see the open sky.

Tuesday, May 8, 2012

81. Sitting on the Grand Canyon

I have a picture of you,
seated on a precarious ledge
teetering above the Grand Canyon.
You are smiling backwards,
thumbs up –

I want to reach out to you in this dead, frozen
you are more alive than you have ever
but I want to warn you, pull you back,
take you into my anxious arms,
and it saddens me:
you are happier here
than you ever were with

Which reassures me
that I made the correct moral
to relinquish you,
to let you be happy
and dangerous

Why must we love?
Why must we remember,
and never forget?
What makes us continue living
when there is so little
to live
for – ?

80. Forgetting

I am always forgetting my dreams these
Late hours, inattentiveness,
maybe –
or, I have also read:
impoverished dreaming indicates poor mental
health, or lack
My dreams these days are
blurry and

Hazy vignettes of the
strange scenes of things that cannot

If my reality does not
compute, how can I –
how can I expect
my madness to be any

79. It is a cold day today

I want to be as assured as
To say, each day, “This is
who I am;
I am not afraid of existing
alone –
I have something to
say – ”

I am insecure,
Seeking the empty world
yet disenchanted.
I have grown sick of
these robust, certain paths,

but I do not like wandering:
I would maybe have preferred
never to have encountered the
happy follies,
else I am always watching
out my slanted window,
desiring, yearning
for things that never
satisfy me, only
show me how
different I
and must

Wednesday, May 2, 2012

78. Stage Fright

Years of security,
vanish in a single moment:
the pre-destined moment arrives
and we are panic-stricken,

These people are no longer the
friendly folk we have come to know.
They are sharks, and we are
swallowed up.

But we force ourselves out again,
back into public view.
And by brute force,
overcome our fears,
become ourselves;

and each time becomes
easier and
until we recover,
and become ourselves once more,
or at least

77. Training wheels

Training wheels come off today:
waiting, anticipation…
it’s pretty easy in fact;
Dad knows how.

Mom & Dad are supportive;
parking lot of an abandoned
Saturdays are for

Fresh start, they say:
wobbling along on just
2 wheels:
the world is topsy-

Fall this way,
fall that way:
we straighten out on our own
then we are finally able to
ride circles
‘round our own parents;

but Mom & Dad
will always watch us
from the sidelines,
cheering, gasping, crying:
always supportive.

until the day
they cannot come to watch us anymore
and then even the wheels we have
come off

and we must learn
everything over

Friday, April 27, 2012

76. Small Town Woes

Small town charm,
Small town charm:
Little houses
In a row;
Small town charm,
Small town charm:
Aging couples
In the sun.

Small town joy,
Small town joy,
Baby girls and
Sunday school;
Small town joys,
Small town joys:
Halloween and
Harvest time.

Small town loves,
Small town loves:
Family and
First desire.
Small town love,
Small town love,
Neighbour’s tea
And potluck treats.

Small town woes;
Small town woes:
Silent days and
Empty nights.

Small town woes;
Small town woes:
Idle gossip,
scheming wives.

Small town woes;
Small town woes:

Small town woes;
small town woes,
prejudice and
old routines.

small town woes;
small town woes:

small town woes:
small town woes
peek beyond
the Cold Veneer –

Small town woes,
Small town woes.
small town woes:
small town woes.

Thursday, April 26, 2012

75. Cognate

It is like a selective camera
which captures everything
but only remembers certain

Synonym taboo:
burn pictures,
erase all signs of
previous life;
but it is not entirely

each July, somewhere,
something reminds me of
your – day –
I have never been there;
I could never be there.

Obvious as usual,
surrounded by your countless friends,
what was I to you?

A passing blot of ink in
a thesaurus, used for reference sake one day,
forgotten the next;

only this time, the word
cannot be found…
it is lost,

74. Blandine Verlet,

When your Chromatic Fantasy and
spun its sinewy lines around
the tickled folds of my
enamoured brain, I –
bliss tangled its webs around
my mind.

Bach never seemed so fresh, alive!
You inhabit and characterize
each prelude,
toccata, partita, sinfonia
with such a kaleidoscope of
brilliance & beauty;
my synesthesia eye danced
to your metallic

Never has an outmoded
instrument, a vestigial of the
seemed so present, so
full of “joie de vivre”.
Indeed, the clavier
smiles, “Well-Tempered”
once more:
what need have we for
pianistic ruminations
when such subtlety, illusion
of dynamic contrast,
coy rubato enchant our
modern ear?

Take us back, illusioniste,
to the time when
meadows sang
in rapt, enchanted

Blandine Verlet performs Bach's Partitas:

Buy on Amazon (Canada)

Buy on Amazon (US)

73. Skeumorphism

In a simpler time,
I smiled easily.
Littering the paths,
the sunlit grass,
smiles charmed the
wakened earth.

Follies of my innocence:
unrequited smiles
traverse the emptied
I am alone today,
reflecting on how times have changed:
smiles do not come easily anymore,
and when they do –
they are relics
of a simpler time,
when I was young
and love flowed easily.

Wednesday, April 25, 2012

72. Early bird

Photons underwhelm me;
I am inundated
and wake silently.
It is a slow, effortful awakening,
as if it will be my last.

It is quiet in the house;
the babies are still asleep.
I did not dream last night;
my head is wrung dry of

Sounds materialize from beyond my
window –
I have risen with the birds.
I do not believe I have ever
waken early enough,
while an adolescent sun is still
starting to dawn
and the robins are courting
in the dewy

The blinds draw sleepy stripes
across my back as I
I would like to listen to these
creatures for a while.

There is such a primal
sense of nostalgia,
of melancholy,
as their songs fade away
and morning begins.

Why do the birds stop singing?
A few precious notes are caught
by the scant
daylight and left to glitter on the buttercups
as the prima donnas’
exclusive contract ends and all the little
divas shoo their divos
back into nests and become once again
ordinary little songbirds;

until the next day, and day
when I will no longer hear them,
until their voices one day
shut up in their throats
and not even the early
can ever hear them sing

Tuesday, April 24, 2012

71. Postmodern Playmates

A beached boat,
a bronze huntress
in the middle of the park:
welcome to the actualization of our
contemporary world.

At least the sunshine is
still the same as it was for
illuminating the pair of playmates
in the same coy and dappled way
it has for millennia:

it could be a lord & lady like any
leaping over a resurrected
metal dinosaur
in a game of catch.

Not until the wind slaps me into
that I realize that they are in
T-shirts and tank tops,
in jeans,
playing Frisbee
in a world of endless
where bears beg and
rows of heads spin,
on discs of sun-baked

Brian Scott: Stray Plow (1993)

Cynthia Short: Lightmare (1989)

Scrap Art

Carl Skelton: Canadiana/Begging Bear (1989)

Evan Penny: Monad (1990)

Donald Forster Sculpture Park
Guelph, Ontario, Canada

Photographed by Hanneorla:

70. In a moment

From the epicentre,
a note rings, born from her
assertive hands.

Metres away, so close
to hear her breathe,
I hang from Loge 13, Seat A3;
I can only see the back,
her floral-printed black

Enslaved by each phrase,
each mordent, trill, and
the subtleties of the
da capo.

Why is it this one second
of rapture is forever captured by my
mind’s eye:
this one movement,
this one bar, this one
Reverberating forever
like some God-sent
miracle –

artistry personified
in a micromoment of

On hearing pianist Hélène Grimaud perform her Resonances programme at her 2011 Royal Conservatory début.
Buy CD here.
Download MP3 here.

Monday, April 23, 2012

69. Paging Dr. Freud

I think it was in 8th grade
when my English teacher noticed
I leave out “that” a lot.
It is not really an error, she told me,
but it isn’t entirely correct

I still find this in my writing today:
I wonder if it is some bizarre
Freudian slip.
The more I think about it,
the harder it is to gather what
its significance

At least now I know what to look for,
specifically; though I am finding
I forget even sometimes
to check for this
omission –

I have lost so many things,
but perhaps you cannot really
lose what you never had.
I think maybe I
am a little envious:
I feel I should have had the
normalcy, the happiness,
the security others have.

So maybe,
Dr. Freud,
that is why I am always
missing these “that’s”,
and those “that’s”.

But what do you know, sitting
in that chair,
in this office,
about me?
I am always reclaiming,
and you are always
collecting, collecting
fees, fees.

68. 2:05 P.M.

This is my second time in the
human anatomy lab.

I am all alone this time;

I need some time to process
what we learned today –

Or maybe just time to come to terms
with death.
In high school
we did things with
sheep eyes, pig foetuses.
But a human: a donated
human body
could be me,
could be my own

Ah, death:
we become spare
graciously to
labs, to Body Worlds,
to patients needing
organ transplants:

I held a brain in my hands today,
and I cried.
I cried
for the temporality of life,
for my own mortality.

All alone this time in the
human anatomy lab,
it is quiet, and
Preservatives fill my nose;
I am intoxicated with

Always alone,
after the crowds and lines have gone,
on a cold metal
foldable tray,
stuffed away in some
morgue, some cemetery, some lab;
and we become spare
and we cry,
for the temporality of life,
for our own mortality.

67. The Good Samaritan

I told you your bag was open
because I was worried
your keys, pencils, notes
would fall out of your
I told you because it
was probably left open by
mistace mistake

Instead, you looked at me,
asking if it bothered me.

I dress well,
I am well-mannered,
but I don’t go around
correcting things that I think
are out of place,
This is my last act of sympathy:
make your futile statements;
leave your bag wide open
for all to see
how much of a rebel you are:
while haplessly, your
essay, due Friday,
falls out,
splats in the mud;
rolls away and
drifts, lost,
with the wind.

Saturday, April 21, 2012

66. Waiting

I am waiting for a friend today.
People keep asking what I am doing, sitting
and I keep saying:
I am waiting for a friend today.

Saying it over again,
over again,
will somehow make it come true:
repeating it as my fervent mantra
over again
will cause you to solidify from my
into life
and you will appear before me,

All these things I tell myself
to pass the time,
to delude my fears, dilute
my yearning:

You did not come that day,
nor the next.

No, I did not ever see you
ever again.
Not that day, not the next,
no – never again.

It is so strange,
si – è strano!

You gave me the greatest 1 month
and 4 days
of my life,
but it seems that another lifetime
and forty days
could not fill the
emptiness, the grief I feel
at the would-have-saids and
should-have dones.

Time puts us further
yes –
but even years cannot put the
distance away
from this perennial
heartache, this
permanent loss.
I still miss you today;
I will forever love

Sunday, April 1, 2012

65. Oiseaux exotiques

4 slightly restless tourists,
all smiles          gaze around
you can tell they are not lost,
but curious.

we do not know how far
they have come
to buy a cup of coffee
and donuts.

In one moment, they are
fascinating, strange
in their foreign movements,
odd costumes;
curiosity fades though
as they fly from sight,
though not from

64. I cannot know you

Those punishing eyes:
I scarce know where else to look;
unzipping me, up and down,
assessing my foreignness –
things seem not so simple,
there are other characters

Saturday, March 31, 2012

63. Suns Set

Natalie Dessay
Le 50e Gala de l'Union des Artistes au cirque Alexis Grüss
le 21 novembre 2011
Photo: Yann Orhan

One day:
one fine day –
“Un bel dì”
your ankles start to get sore
after just a few hours
in rehearsal;

One day,
the high notes that were once
so easy
stick, become harder to attack
and you must slither, slide
around them
just to get up

One day:
you need one extra layer of make-up
just to hide the
just to erase the age
that is writ too clearly now;
in telecasts your skin appears
3 shades too light;
yes, tenors half your age
are your lovers once
again –

One day –
the long silences in the hotel
don’t seem so luxurious anymore;
you flip the scores
restlessly, the old ones
more so;
knowing you can’t get away with what
you used to,
that it is another that
vanishes from your singable repertoire once
again, the tessitura too high or
too much colouratura,
or just too damn

One day,
you sit in a busy American airport
realizing your two babies
are now teenagers
living in 2 distant countries
and that you haven’t
talked to either in at
least three

One day

you glance out at
the audience, but it is
night –
and no one realizes
how painful these stacatti
are becoming and how tired you
are after just the
third night of
mad scenes –

and wonder, as you sing the
Act I aria
if the pensive upward look you
do is
translating through the HD live transmission
the incredible regret you feel
on Thursday,
or your wandering mind on Saturday,
which has never before drifted
to dinner or how your
husband is doing back overseas,

your concentration, your enthusiasm is
scandalously stupid Eurotrash
productions, late
visionless directors hail a
frightening, new Era;
your face appears on buses;
audiences take high notes,
colouratura, phrases-in-one-breath
for granted; they do not even
hold it as a contest
anymore –

You are so tired
of trying when there is so much
resistance, so much upheaval.
The flurry of New York city is
frightening, emphasizing your
enhanced by the increasing
bareness of middle age.

It has been a long time since you
have last been at a
grocery store
you could be buying
plastic-wrapped Atlantic salmon
on a
Friday night like any
petite, dark-haired

One day –
as you rise creaking from bed
on a rare silent weekend morning
the instinctive urge to
vocalise is suddenly stilled;
your mouth forms the customary
“oohs” and “aahs” but
nothing emerges.
It is almost as if
the memory of previous conquests,
previous triumphs is best
left to the past, to
to the hallowed seats at the silent
La Scala

There is no way we can compete again
with youth;
when we have sung our songs
and our weary vocal cords
lie unused and stuffed away
under the socks in the
bedroom dresser,
we glance wearily out the
window of our own
home at last,
preparing for anonymity,
bidding farewell
to the Diva
that was.

Natalie Dessay et Charles Castronovo
La Traviata de Giuseppe Verdi
Festival d'Aix en Provence, 9 juillet 2011
Photo: Pascal Victor / Artcom Art

Tuesday, March 27, 2012

62. Senescence

In the dying light of day,
your face is as charmed as it was
the first day we met –
Wrinkles have not diminished
the twinkle in your eyes
or the hairs which glow golden in the light
as you raise your arms around me.
Crow’s feet and laugh lines
are mere ghosts of the joys we have
shared; that one there
must be from when we visited

A thousand romances we could have;
I could invent a thousand scenes
in which you feature, ageless.

I am here in the dying light of day,
an unseasonable chill
frosts my weary bones;
I have worked all my life
in a career where I have served
only others
and now must prepare
for fall.
I am cold,
so cold.

Sunday, March 25, 2012

61. Professing

I have too much to do deal with today:
unwritten poems to birth,
cue cards to make,
textbook readings,
finals to study

not enough time
to process this, to deal
with another emotion, another

Like an ink blot across the
pedestrian crosswalk
you’re walking leisurely with some
obsequious girl
semi-bald head bulbous,
swollen with veins and greyish -
God, this is what academia
has become?

I have beautiful things to write
things I need to put to
Italian phrases, operatic loves,
prophetic visions,

And though I am past,
having missed the chance
to run you over
I cannot forget that moment of
scratching at my brainstem
until I am compelled
to immortalize you.
You do not deserve even this,

Thursday, March 22, 2012

60. Arachnophobia

Tipping the napkin
Pizzeria logo,
spider and all
headlong into

Shivers roll in my skin;
there are spiders all over the ceiling
waiting to avenge their fallen

I have problems killing
creepy critters
with their eight legs,
scuttling all around, defying every
law of physics
                      sometimes hairy,
                      sometimes long,
they exert a strange sort of power –

Killing myself:
this is what I imagine each time.
Little me, crouched in a corner,
scuttling up walls,
down the bathroom
moulding –
evading the
Vulnerable, defenseless –
While we,
our empty lives,
carry on each day,
joyous in our dominance –
if probability had its way
I would be a spider too –

I would let you live too
as I would want to, scrambling
up these eggshell walls,
but I am afraid, I am

You hide in my cups,
dance in my dreams,
thousand eyes
they say killing spiders is bad

Monday, March 19, 2012

59. Taboo

There are certain things
we are not allowed to say,
certain things
of which
we cannot speak.

I say a great many

but certain things
I cannot, will not,
ever say.

These are the things
we carry in our heavy hearts,
staining the eggshell wall,
blurred with the dim,
half-hearted flicker
of a dusty lamp.

These are the things we whisper
to the deadened night,
when the children have gone to sleep
and the moonshine peaks through
the blinds

secrets -

Friday, March 16, 2012

58. Homebound

I, my simple meals:
shared with birds perching at the
Delicious fare, a fine wine;
there is Mozart in the
hall –

I am watching the
dying afternoon,
diaphanous as
watching the people scuttle
from place to place
on errands, playing,

No –
I am lying on my
neatly composed bed,
languishing like some fatal
Lady of Shalott:

If there is such a thing as destiny
I would be persuaded,
knowing that some of us
are doomed to imprisonment, despair,
jailed in unrelenting
while the rest are
smiling, dancing,
watching television
in the
downstairs den.

Evan Penny: Mask (1989)
Donald Forster Sculpture Park
Guelph, Ontario, Canada

Photographed by Hanneorla:

57. Vernal yearning

There is copious sunshine –
like a toddler waking from an
afternoon nap, I blink: blearily.

Each year, as if for nature’s
Christmas, we wait all night, for
day, for sunshine!

Why, tell me: tell me!
Tell me –

Baring my long-since covered arms,
like some indecent bear,
lumbering out of hibernation
into this simple child’s world,
where a lithe flower or a
buzzing bee elicit
simple giggles.

There is nowhere to
indoors, we regard the children playing
I wish there was really such a thing as spring –
I have not yet had time to recover:

Evan Penny: Mask (1989)
Donald Forster Sculpture Park
Guelph, Ontario, Canada

Photographed by Hanneorla:

Sunday, March 11, 2012


Astringent as the chill,
the smoke ascends
and smites the bleary eyes
from yonder hill:

Draw closer, frightened one;
the footsteps speed
from curiosity
into a run -

In horror, prim and stern,
the scene unfolds,
my gawking scolding what
the smell confirms;

Oh, tardy truants thus!
So comatose,
in view of all the street,

I feel it is my right,
my duty!  Yes -
to reprimand "this sort",
to set them right;

And yet - no words will come,
for out of shock
my bleak hypocrisy *
turns mute and numb.

We grudging brethren are
and share one tongue;
though speaking dialects,
seem not so far:

Escaping in his way
is bolder fun -
but my rebellion speaks
far past the day -

a little farther, still!

* This does not mean I smoke pot.

Friday, March 9, 2012

55. Sehnsucht

Out of the slant of window,
regarding fiercely;
the postman will not come!
It is Saturday.

Customs, duty, HST:
words jumble, clatter noiselessly;
meanwhile countless other packages
are likely similarly detained –

Mis-delivered to Thailand,
Taking the “scenic”

filling the emptiness with


I thought it would be easy
to condense, to distil all of it
into a person, into a Utopia
of sunlight; that citadel of
or in work, in
work of all kinds –


else we dwell in follies,
in goods reading
dead letters
we wrote ourselves
while we wait,
in suspension

Der Wanderer über dem Nebelmeer,
Caspar David Friedrich, 1818

Buy Jonas Kaufmann's album "Sehnsucht":

Wednesday, February 22, 2012

54. Breakfast Time

Silly things!
Scurrying ‘round in flocks of 2 or 3,
picking at the scraps:
French toast doesn’t remain
on the ground for long!

I can tell the females are
greyish; males maybe brighter brown.
I’m no ornithologist;
I can appreciate a good little bird
these little things are
little wonders,
aren’t they!

Look: this one has a
pink Fruit Loop
stuck round its beak:
if Kellogg knew how convenient
these were for the little birdies,
they would be proud –

How well they fit, like wreaths
around their beaks;
how well they fit down their little throats!
I don’t know if I should be mad,
losing bits of food to them,
or if I should be amused at their excitement, their sugar high;
or just to sit in peace,
regarding them
with such a
watchful eye!

"...daintily picking up a Cheerio..."
Photograph by Kelly Riccetti

Source: Red and the Peanut

Tuesday, February 21, 2012

53. Granted

It was just yesterday
you were a darling babe
in blue swaddling blankets,
who cried, yes,
but –
you were the sweetest,
littlest thing,

What happened?
Everything now is,
“No, no, no!”
Everything is
uphill struggles, battles of

You are now a slightly larger
bundle of rebellion.
I hope I am raising you up well,
but it’s hard to tell:
I live with so much
guilt, dread, regret;
I must be screwing up.

Thank God
you are just my brother.
I hope your life
is easier than mine,
that you don’t endure
the things I

But please, please, please
stop whining:
do your Goddamn

Monday, February 20, 2012

52. The Dead Poets

Society closes up its
entry is not permitted to

They create a world of
artisans, purported
sipping tea and critiquing
so-and-so's metrics,

Shameless feminists,
chauvinists, misogynists,
inept politicians, shockers,
potsmokers -
with a limbo-ing sexuality
for good

Yes, shun me from the
exalted doors:
you, who do not understand
true anguish;
you - who live to see your artless
names in
you -

I am disgusted, revolted
by this lack of Truth,
and this chaotic
struggle for

You are a cheap wine,
clichéd and overwrought
at best,
bubbling at snooty parties in
you are the sour milk,
curdling in the
August sun.

Saturday, February 18, 2012

51. Beneath the Summer Stars

The noisy filibustering
had thrust me out of doors;
there: tucked amidst the silenced hills,
the gypsy toiled away.

Her headdress marked with ancient signs,
magnetic, drew the crowds
exotic eyes aloof and dark,
aflame with prophecy.

And as I took my place by her,
a chill swept through my soul;
the Magyar sat across from me –
our eyes gazed potently.

She swept her skilful hands across,
the Tarok cards alight,
their cryptic symbols wild and strange:
and so she read my fate.

And as you watched me tacitly
the bitter breeze grew sharp,
tormenting my unready skin;
yet how I burned within!

Yes, as the gypsy’s tale had ceased,
I burnt with such a fire,
ignited by my destiny,
in fevered ecstasy.

As night wore on, I sat by you
and stole each glance I could
from those intense Uralic eyes;
they glanced at me so brief –

Despite the coldness of the moon,
which spilled across the steppes
and lit the gypsy’s secret craft,
bright hope had sprung in me;

but though I leapt into the flames,
the Fates could not be moved:
forever am I doomed to live,
recounting such a loss.

Friday, February 17, 2012

50. An Apology

The first time,
I recognized that awkward way
you tried to strike up conversation,
succeeding, yet failing –

The second, I thought
you would have forgotten:
I was busy stuffing my mouth
with free Timbits.
I did not look attractive
(this is an honest admission) –
I was startled
you even remembered

It’s scary, wonderful,
knowing –
someone pines for me
as I languish for others.
A strange twist of fate that
we must all suffer at
each other’s hands.

I see you sometimes.
I would like to say, “Hello”
and explain,
but I cannot recall
your name.
Maybe success demands
that I break hearts,

Sunday, February 5, 2012

49. Staregazing

Across this galaxy,
the multitude of light between –
a star shot ‘cross the sky!

The twinkle in your eye
ignites the ruddy brown in mine:
our galaxies collide –

Emboldened, bravely stare:
too curious to look away,
too startled to persist.

I want to be that doll
residing in that fiery eye;
I want to dwell in you,

the way you live in me:
illuminated in the sacred halls
of cross-stitched memory;

Oh, tell me – are you cold?
This blazing brilliance, upon
a skewed trajectory?

Or is this distant fire
a stare to set alight my hopes,
and do you burn for me!

Wednesday, February 1, 2012

48. Becoming: Immortal

Dare I say it?
Applauding, simpering,
fawning –
is This what It is?
I am disappointed.

Awards and recognition,
laurels, plaques, and accolades:
ah, to think –
this once meant something.

I have waded out too far:
the land I see is
seen by none;
I wander with the dead
in silent Purgatory.

To have died before a death:
to watch one’s body
while alive;
to be dissected, analyzed,
interpreted – to see this
failure to
“understand” –

It is not death in life we crave for
but quite the opposite.
Do not forget me –
but in life, let me be.

The grave is silent:
I cannot hear your

Friday, January 27, 2012

47. I like to party

I like to party.
The alleys of the mind
corridors crammed with
Cirque de Soleil.
Dancers set ablaze
the brainstem;
Acrobats paint
this Carnival.

I like to party:
as do you;
together, we in fantasies
could speak in tongues,
but you:
in banal stupor,
drenched in booze
and music BLARING
in your own prosaic

but – I rather think,
I fly higher:
the trapeze is not enough for
me –

Special Note: This origins of this poem has a unique and strange origin.  I am a biomedical science student, forced to take a non-specialist English course for an elective.  The irony is that I actively write poetry on a daily to weekly basis.  Our professor introduced us to poetry on Monday, asking everyone to write a line of poetry on a scrap piece of paper.  He asked selected individuals to read their fellow classmates came up with the predicted horrendous things, such as: "Roses are red, violets are blue", "I am not good at poetry", etc. The line that stuck with our professor turned out to be the seemingly silly "I like to party."  He sent us an e-mail later that night, claiming to give someone a cash prize for transforming the first line "I like to party" into a poem.  Was it cheating that I accept?  Undeniably, yes.  Hence...I wrote this poem on Tuesday and e-mailed it to him.  On Wednesday's class, he noted that someone went "above and beyond" his expectations and that from now on, whenever this person was seen, they were to be referred to as "the first winner of the first annual English 1--- poetry competition".  He put a print-out of my e-mail on the document camera and it blew it up on two ginormous screens in front of the entire class.  To my horror, he then proceeded to spend a full 30 minutes of our 50 minute class praising and analyzing the poem word for word in front of the entire class.  And at the end of the dissection, the entire class applauded and I sank into my chair, exhilarated and thrilled, but mostly emotionally exhausted, thoroughly embarrassed, and overwhelmed.  The entire time I felt cold and I was shaking was the strangest thing, like watching people trampling over my dead body or witnessing a live dissection of myself while still alive...fascinating, and really weird.  This is the first time, really, that my poetry was taken out from my personal quarters and disseminated with the real, living, breathing "public" - face to face (instead of through the impersonal Internet).  By the end of the class, I had the feeling that no one had read the poem the way I intended it to be read, but that it had taken on a new immortal life of its own, running rampant in a thousand different directions...I think the strangest thing is that I have never experienced any of the things mentioned in the poem - booze, parties, Cirque de Soleil, etc.  And now everyone thinks I'm some schizophrenic alcoholic.

Sunday, January 22, 2012

46. Houseplant

I am watering you enough,
I think.
But you keep dying -
your leaves are crispy
and golden,
falling to the

You are unhappy here.
I play you Bach,
but I don't think you like it.
People say
it will help you

Is it too much sun?

I rotate you,
by degrees
hoping some slant of light
will eventually feed you right.

Do you think
I like watching you die?
I am suffering too:
you are,
day in, day out,
reminding me
of our failed relationship,
of our vernal hopes.
please live.

Monday, January 9, 2012

45. The Simple Golfer

Your polo shirt in hunter green,
a mochachino in your hand -
relief: a gratefulness descends.
These years of callous bargaining
end here, in mute, indulgent joy.
As sunrise dawns upon the world,
you are the first - you always were -
the green before your eager arms.
And after two divorces rests
the latest conquest in your bed,
in lazy luxury, till noon.
But as you raise the primal swing,
reflect upon the bitter words,
the small regrets, the heartlessness -
but what of that? It all is past.
Oh simple golfer, full of pride,
does such completion satisfy,
this strange avoidance of the truth?
Oh, as you gaze upon the hills,
this just begins the questioning
that haunts the heart, that probes the mind;
but as your stoic, placid mind
alights upon the blazing sun
as if like foam upon your drink -
it rests, forever beckoning
yet too aloof for blinded Men -

Tuesday, January 3, 2012

44. From the Ruins

The progeny of artisans
Is carefully reviewed
Before the goods are shipped before
The future's eager eyes.
Such ancient architecture bears
The toils of their craft;
The remnants were preserved with care
And visit, vividly.
Though packaged in the finest silks
The ravages of time
Prove coldly ever-damaging -
The fragments tantalize;
We die, the secret on our lips -
The guess is yours to take.
Forever coy, forever mute,
The sleeping artist smiles.

Sunday, January 1, 2012

43. Rasputin

Eyes of the strange and the solemnest
stared at me; stirred in me mystery:
wonderfully, tenderly, pensively;

Searching, imploring you silently,
mounting obsession enraptures me:
steadfastly, easily, purposely;

Cold and unseeing, discarding me,
glanced at my longing and loneliness
fleetingly, vacantly, terribly.

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