in the centre of what is supposed to be good, Dreams speak my truth.

little blood speckles from mozzie bites in the sapphire evening, and you

 listening and loving. (forgiving) Both caught up in the quiet, fire

pouring from your throat, smoke teases up

spelling burnt hope into the tile roof.

– oh, you. Still friend. Still real. Still here.

I don’t need a dream this time.

nostalgic wanderlust

I am homesick

for lengthy conversations with French Buddhists

on the sandy cliffs of Margao, where I got my nose pierced

January 2nd, 2011. I am lonely without

the tens of millions of silvery sand grains

which shimmered with the sea in the too-early moonlight

as we kicked amber beer bottles into the waves,

where they would float in, back, out…there I was


finally understanding what the hippies were raving about

the wind carried my hair into the sky

and I walked into the ocean fearlessly,

looking great in my Sunday best.

Now I think I may have drowned there, three years past

I do not recognise me

are we focused

anger gets the best of me every time

the very best, my smile is drowned

raging, bitter, the best is eaten up and can’t be given,

best can’t be done tonight, sorry –

on impulse, I leap up and scream in faces instead,

dammit, again??

so hot the snow dies before me, whirling

clouds of it blind the air, we’re all shadows in the white,

all sound is muffled and dark, can’t even

slow down for a lie, they frost everyone’s hair and coats

because we’re all fine. Dissolve me in these words, reality is lost in layers

Small talk is small because it is little memories of nothing,

so I’ll force a small smile and try not to cryout hurt-bitter in front of everyone,

hard memories slam into me againagainagainagain –

the thudding refrain I never asked for this

but I don’t know how to tell you to stop

the wave of regretting humans washing over us all

just don’t make eye contact…

distanced hypothesizing

“poverty and death” said the classmate

self explanatory, the overused overwritten idea of something

never experienced completely known

to the point of cliche.


I –  in whom these bitter texts

ring and resound like churchbells in my ribcage

painful, horrible truth

guilty of wealth, seeing that which is untouchably impoverished

– am incredulous that this hideous,

so close to my heart and home

is so easily exhausted when never encountered.

walk: a true story

Last night, I sat on the edge

of the river and yelled out into the blackness

admitting the truth, clinging to the ground before I fell

headlong into the black-encased stars.

You held me down with a hand. We talked of

broken wrists and cold mists. As

always, the rushing of water calmed and with it

flowed away the things that were wrapped around my eyes –

I saw the treetops silhouetted, chilled fingers losing flesh-leaves

as I fear the skeletal, I hope

you will not let me hide when the winter comes.


thank you for being you.

you are the last one left that i can look straight in the eyes and just talk to

you bring out words i need to say

you hear things and see things in me that are really there, that are good

you have seen me for years

and understand when i need to have my fingers stirred in shape and color

i do not have to explain

we are just talking.


bad things just keep happening

but why do we have to care?

 better off undead

 easy to pretend nothing’s going on,

stagger, groan, mumble,



arms grasping

eyes dulled, flimsy films holding back thought

occasionally a stammered nothing falling off the tongue

this zombie is just tired of being dead.

(sometimes I wonder how many times I’ve offended & hurt people

and not known it.)