Wednesday, May 13, 2009


bent goddess, howling at the moon
I wish my lungs
were inflated to greet your breath. It seems a rounder world,
a kinder womb.
Caress now scenting the world with tiny
sparks of breezy evenings glazed
from twirling afternoons.

Twisted to address my declawed character
to morph, drunk from you.
Defeated myself with emotion
(or perhaps I may just have bloomed). A muse,
inked neon sign of allure- pure
inspiration to forget the wretched latch within
these borders.
You said that beauty can be difficult to write about,
so write with its disorder.

Tuesday, May 12, 2009

"I don't learn from my own poems"

Learning to find quiet- beneath myself I
reach grasping to be saved
from your sense of accounting (a mere strut),
till I find goodness in some careful wine
then mistake it perhaps for the crimson of your cheek-
daylight peers with its kinding smirk.
(And to think I wanted to stay a week)

Still breathing-barely-breaking the yolk, it watches you:
review slender phrases titled with a label maker- "Emotions"--
a shield of your accustomed rationality.
I find you stuttering, sobbing, sighing
trying to keep sobering but still blatantly sheltering.
you told me a paraphrase of the memoir would do a life justice,
I watch you still squirm for some sense of attachment.
if you like my poems let them by E. E. Cummings

if you like my poems let them
walk in the evening,a little behind you

then people will say
"Along this road i saw a princess pass
on her way to meet her lover(it was
toward nightfall)with tall and ignorant servants."


We stab our spines, daggers penetrating the bus door
and anticipate its confined close and meek opening.
Burn holes into these intricate scuffs,
painted like a prophecy on the floor.

We are publicity speaking for ourselves, alone
(while thigh deep in looks of unsuited anger)
would rather stand alone than sit by a stranger.