Posts tagged "poetry"

Summer in October

Today it was 80 degrees in October
A friend of a friend complained
about the weather
Girls like that never miss the sun.

He and I went to the beach
and marveled at the welted leaves
and barren trees
The sand looked clean.

I thought to write something but
tried to hold his hand instead
just a little longer
Winter will come eventually.

I’d like to write about time the way T.S. Eliot wrote.

Our Upcoming Vacation

You do not love me and yet

I am following you overseas, far far away

I followed you across borders before

400 miles away

I nearly left you

I am going again

I am uneasy, but I will go

I do not fear foreign land

Being alone on a strange island

I’ve been there

I am going but I am uneasy

Not of the place, the natives, the unknown language

But because you do not love me

And I am following you anyway.

For Anton: The Beginning (Unfinished)


You were born to me the day we met

first an idea, then a manifestation

out of the rose scented smoke

above a garden like Eden

where mice hung from grapevines.

Hologram Love

I am learning the art of being

in two places at once

giving oneself wholly while

giving nothing at all

like a hologram he sees me

but holograms are real after all

and feelings are felt without touch—

It feels real and I am still me

so this must be the way to be

in love.


I trust your affection the way I trust the weatherman’s forecast

He says expect blue skies but rain clouds blight the heavens

After all we are yet another prediction with a chance of precipitation

This predicament that’s soaked me to my bones enough times

That I always carry an umbrella even when the sky is benevolent

The patter from the downpour lulls you to sleep while I toss and turn restless

All too much aware that awake you hug me close but in your slumber you turn your back.

Summer Dreams

I suffer from Summer fever

In the dead of night a red Sun

Creeps into my dreams

Swallows the dark like a fire

Burning a picture of us

You a nameless face

Something from my subconscious, elusive

Like a shadow of someone

You could be from the future or the past

Time doesn’t matter

We move like rays from the Sun

One moment here the next

Like a movie

Drinking mojitos in Morocco

You could be James Bond and I the femme fatale

On a rooftop with a winding tube that spits us out

Into a pool of freezing agua

And I wake up cold—

In the Summer I am colder than ever.

You Are Your Own God

I blame him for haunting me and her for existing, but after all I gave birth to his ghost and I allow her to exist, as she does, in my jealousy. I am, in fact, the god of this world. My own. Vindictive and tormenting.


I have my body but it never suffices. My legs are constantly pulling me somewhere while all my back wants is to lie down. And that thing we call a heart, a soul; the metaphysical, this obsession with “home,” compels me to a kind of space, a shelter with multiple rooms and maybe some pretty furniture from a popular catalog. For what? I have air, and that should be enough. I have the four walls of my skull and those electrodes inside can’t be bought. Is it because I can’t show them off?  I am so preoccupied by this idea of a place, a home, and yet I am my own sanctuary. Me. So why do I feel homeless?

My Face

Peeling that scab—

takes me back

the last day, you and I

scrambling like mad

in the rain

moving impossible furniture—

and were you watching me

in the rear view mirror?

I could never control

my face;

those expressions you read


I could never tell what expression you meant

only that I was around for you to see it

and that was enough

for you to know better.

Never the less,

I look back—

rewinding those scenes

I might be grateful it’s over


I blame my face

for being two-sided.


Opportunity is a funny word,

like love,

a word that can be manipulated,


re-defined through time and

wielded from one’s mouth,

like a double edged sword.


The worst, when one fails to be at ease with their own body. But our bodies, they change beyond our control. Even now, as I sit here, the minutes past ravage my skin, my skeleton. Wrinkles grow deeper and bones deplete. And after all, I was never given a say in the first place. I didn’t choose my mother’s nose. This mechanism, atoms constantly evolving unbeknownst, was never mine to begin with, will never be at one with my mind, me.

"My Body is a Cage"

I’ve tried time and time again and failed, for I cannot break free from these limbs. My arms and legs, my torso, my chest; an inescapable prison cell. For what is freedom but made-up in our heads.

Life is Good

Your love
leads to
lean muscles
from all
your running
and hearts
missing in

And your friends,
they’re hopeless
romantics with
stories to humor
the humorless.

So you stare
into walls until
the paint begins
to corrode under
your eyes, their
sockets can hold
no more,
deliberating over
brewed coffee and
brewed hope how
life is good.

Written May 5th, 2006

This House

This house
stood on wooden stilts
over Jamaica Bay
over the Atlantic Ocean
over unrelenting waters.
And when the wind blew east
you heard the shingles shake
the walls moan
that whoosh! and crash
of the stock market
in the creaking floorboards.
Then one day the door slammed shut
so hard a tidal wave came
so fierce it tore this house to little bits
of wood and plaster
cruising in the flood.

Written December 16th, 2008

I struggle with what I should and should not reveal online and in my writing, which is why I have chosen to keep this tumblr annonymous.

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