Time Is a Taxi Driver we speed along through valleys and steep hillsthe driver determinedto put us back where we belong butI did not agree to be shoved alonghis path of Carpe Diemhis time schedule speeds tires tiredspeeds rubber and asphalthe drives on while I’m at the station negotiatingprices of one life-time guaranteed friendshipover another […]
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Muse The village girl is her own Muse.She shapeshifts into every painted circumstance.When she needs to know a hand, she studies her own.Canvased old man by a chair needs to stand crooked with a back broken – she curls herself like aluminium foiland examines how the spine sticks out like a dragon.When she needs the
The Child That Never Was Speak clearly, little man. Those curious eyes, know all I have forgotten.Remind me again, the place you came from. Your grip around my pinkie isdesperate. You are, I know, dyingto tell me about birth. I know, you’d killto see me reborn. I know, you’d birth me yourself if you could.The
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Dinner Next to A Caravaggio The quality of a human body,the tender flesh of a ripened pear,melts on my tongue andconsumes me,like the punch of a partyor the knockout of lust.It knocks the savage humaninto my core.The catastrophic picture of it all.The quality of a human body,invites me to dine.Figures, ancient, grotesque,a human subject flails
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The Scent in My Palm Bliss in the morning hourwhen a nose touches downinto a hand, soothing tremblesfrom aromas of a nightmarethe tinge of something smallinvestigated by the curiousman searching for a homeincense of a sweaty palmfound deodorant debrisor wrinkles on a bedsheetthe air from a windowpanethe static scent of subtle rain.
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The Last Waltz The little bird flees a Main Coon’s gaze.He kicks off the ground and rides the gust of a happy wind.Takes off, sweeps along the road then up, up through trees.Branches bent, adorned with leaves picked off one by one.The sky hosts a show of swans, an arrow-formed warning.The little bird settles on
My Father Plays The Morning A mild chill, flows through the spine like a stick holdinga puppet upright. The morning folds into itselfthrough the crack of a window, a symphony of carsrush through rainy roads, a steady hum sloshing –stress in the air. Floorboards squeak softly, footsteps ofa fathers workaholic coffee filling. Back and forthback
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I Stopped Singing There are soundsI’ve stopped singing.They ring away,over there, way over there.Chiming bellscackling fires – fumes.Library cards to pointed silencebestowed upon my throat.Good luck is the piano,cold fingers, glissando noteafter note, after note.
Radio Silence When my grandfather passed, I sleptevery night, waiting for the dream. Tick, ticka mantle clock counts the night.He sits in silence, laying out a game of solitaire.He knows I’m waiting for a seat. We have a conversation about his lifeI was happy, I woke up.I was happy.It was death done right.When you passed,
Dustbin Bag A man cracks her upthey hold hands forthe first timeShe tells me about the mountain grassbeneath their feetSometimes we singin the car beforebitter silence hitsA fruitful spacegone fickle from thewords I didn’t speakI, a rag old and usedto cleaning up hermess I stress herBecome ancient nowwaiting in a dustbin bagto be taken out.