I am two feet
in front of myself
in sync with the
my skin is a dark purple
and there is a hole
perfect and
in my chest

I look outside and
see the sun shine
in two places

the sparkle
and dust
a dark blue

remember what it
felt like to feel it
all at once

heart pulsing
through thick
warm honey

don’t lose the

walking in ny

A creaky heart
with each inhale and exhale
is a twig holding the
red belly of a
little bird that travels nocturnally

Walking past the bar that looks
like a 1920’s gathering
with its yellow round bulbs
decorative and dark borders

The trash on the sidewalk
seems to have come together
through serendipity
for the pleasure of
the moonlight, the streetlight
and the rain from earlier

Treasure from this angle

and then it started raining

Before boarding the plane
my step-dad gave me some sudden advice
“Don’t accept free food samples”
I suppose being poisoned
is a fear that I had yet to acquire

but at last here it is

I sipped from a glass of wine
elegantly placed
between a marble statue and concrete

on the third sip, I found myself upstate
in the closing part of winter

there I was, staring at the ceiling fan
trying to convince the man in the red wool sweater
to paint over
all of the thin black lines
I had painted on their door

Last day of February

It is the last day of February
and I am lacking inspiration.

Months seem to go by
with no trace of productivity.
Oh well.
What should I do?
I know,
I should take on a new perspective.

A fresh one.

One free of insecurities and worries.

Let go of all of the thoughts
that don’t serve me anymore.
And there are many.

Isn’t terrible how people fall in love,
unreciprocated is the best kind.

Next month, I will be more productive.
Even if
the hoped for,
dreamed of,
aren’t reciprocated.


A writer just sat in front of me
I knew he looked familiar as soon as
he walked through the door.

He recognized me as well.
With a dispirited look and an outfit composed of
different shades of brown.

Dark brown vest, light brown shirt.
light brown jeans,
and light brown dockers.

White socks are the only contrasting aspect of his outfit.
That and the notepad he is holding
while keenly observing the other people in this starbucks.

Pen in hand and looking for inspiration.
I wonder if he knows
that he is currently my muse.

As he sips his coffee,
nothing is being written down on this notepad.
Perhaps I should stop
for a second,
and let him write.

I wonder where his thoughts are.
Are the people in this starbucks
too boring,
too content,
to draw any inspiration from.

Something has already
been written down on his

On the first page.

From another day
I suppose.
It looks like a poem.