Thursday, October 13, 2011


Despite the praises
that came chanting
from my lips
last Sunday morning,
I don't pray.
My panted sighs
of "Oh my God"
escaped between
clenched teeth,
filling your right ear,
leaving the left free
to listen
if my grandparents
would return early
from church.

Saturday, July 16, 2011

Piano Fingers

Five extremities creep,
daintily, and uncertain
across the sheets --
sliding along
like running scales on a piano
until they stop at those long desired
slender ivory keys
and claim them.
Your thumb plants itself over mine,
and our fingers weave together,

Sunday, June 12, 2011


Not only can you lie, you also shouldn't tell everything.

poetic license - license used by a writer or artist to heighten the effect of their work;
freedom to deviate deliberately from normally applicable rules or practices (especially in behavior or speech)

Monday, June 6, 2011


Years of pliƩ, pliƩ,
have strengthened my thighs
for climbing into backseats,
parked in backstreets,
and onto your lap,
where there's room
to stretch out (comparably)
and spread my legs
as if they were in 2nd position.
I kept thinking of us from 1993,
bending in half,
hairlines meeting the bowls
made from our cupped feet,
as a warm-up,
while I was bent
up against the steering wheel
of your mother's SUV,
and how you don't think I have cooties anymore.

Saturday, June 4, 2011

Happiness is colors, at 2:14 am

I am an expat to this reality,
relished without relinquish
by those that think
is the sole means of communication.
A raise in volume,
speaking slower,
gesturing wildly,
makes no difference
because they don't
speak my language, or care to.

So I speak theirs,
bumbling and about to burst
while my kinsman remains quiet.
He might as well be withholding
air while i'm gasping, grasping
for a gulp to fill my stifled lungs,
suffocating in his silence,
when I hear a snatch of familiar speech
and I surface,
I breathe easy,
inhaling your perfumed oxygen,
your weighty words.

He was yellow.
But you,
loose lipped
and strong jawed,
you could be ultramarine blue
deep, and warm, and I could sink into you.

Interior Studio

Just as stars,
only hear tales of her
glory, her radiance,
catching peeks of her
crown creeping
over the horizon,
I am banished
to the dark
and the
cool grays
and warm yellows
of artificial light.

Wednesday, June 1, 2011


Frail ghosts
of fireworks
trickle down
her pale palms,
after an untimely
staining her pure skin
blue. Like the putrid
blue in the breasts
and thighs of
ghastly women.

(Ugh, Renoir.)

She left the pen,
on the bench
in front of the
without remorse
and washed her hands
of the scribbles
any child
could do.