I have read your poems way too many times for a girl who says no, I know.
I have seen the words before
but never like that
diving deep in my soul.
I shouldn’t, I wouldn’t
but how tempting
you paint it, scenarios
out of my books
in your pen.

I can’t, I won’t
yet how my coat
is already on
my heels caught
at the door.

Words are trapped in the tangles of my hair. I don’t want to eat you alive, yet
I must.
You look better from afar. Please stay there.

Don’t try
I will weaken
stumble on my words
eat you for breakfast
and you will love me.

I just know it.

You can say what you want
on this and that
about the one and done philosophy
I can do it all
and still survive the day
the words never stop
I have to push them aside
add butter or pepper
while you feed the geese
on park benches
contemplating loneliness
ping pong love affairs
satisfaction never guaranteed
long lovely ladies
await you
I will watch you
from the best
seat in Central Park
with lost hope
and empty cigarette packs
it all means nothing
in the end
darkness calls my nickname
pulls out dust
from my pockets
sails across St. Lawrence river
excites me with dirty words
and secret promises
of unknown reasons
we still have faith
in silence and poetry.
Faith
In nothing but loneliness
a place only writers
visit
and succumb
to their Voices.

You kept me company
I thank you
for that
and so much more
I…

Lying in bed with my eyes half-open
the night at the emergency
was no Saturday night party
still surrounded my painful souls
swaying from one body part to another
read one-hundred and seventy four pages
of the book I told him about
couldn’t finish that horrible trashy romance
atrocious writing and the romance was a baseball game
but my mom sat next to me
between chapters
reminisced my childhood
and I remembered the reasons I love the way I do
everything seems clearer with no sleep
pain
at four in the morning.
So we barked about medicare
but thanked the doctor as if he was God
and my mom said
this country has gone to shits
we never waited nine hours to see a doctor
(and I was not alone).
Yet how that smell makes you feel
like you are so fucking alone
and young Chinese doctors
holding my future

I was burning something
(I think the meat sauce)
as I wrote that short
story that I suck at writing.
I don’t believe in
short stories
short cuts
short fuses.
In a long line up
I read urban
dictionaries for
the fun of it.
If I don’t make you
nod your head
at my flakiness
then you do not
know me yet
nor do you want to.
My sense of humour
is on the tip of my tongue
as it lands in your mouth
and you catch
the innuendoes
dark humour
tragicomedies
–
Hence my really short story:
Once there was a boy
who called me every night
as I sat on my green carpet
twirled the telephone wire
as I played song after song
holding the phone
in the air. Of course, he
did the same. Trying to
outdo me; he wrote
me the most beautiful
card, with two…

You dive right into me
as if I was the ocean
yet you have no fear
certain I will catch you
then you know
throughout
how I would take your hand
without a doubt
even if your words are quiet
or loud
It is your voice
I hear
even when my ocean is frozen
you find the passage to my soul
sail right into my very core
no other man has before
so I name you
the Captain of my heart
the sailor of my soul
the navigator of my body
the answer to my morning
afternoon
and night
questions.

You must know the lies
the made up truths
merely gaze into my eyes
know that I would travel
water, land or time
for you.

silence and I have a dance

we sway in and out of lanes

tapping our feet to our own ryrhmn

no one hears. we spill out extreme

parts of ourselves to random listeners.

the ones that don’t ask

any questions. didn’t you know

that curiosity killed the cat? i believe

in adages and saints. ‘Tis my foul

play and innocent coquettish way

of making men swerve their wheel.

i dropped my poems along your bank,

did you step on them?

guard them from the rain? or

disregard my blankets of faith?

i know how good girls go bad

and bad girls want to be good.

sirs and misters surround me

while i run to rivers to meet

my ocean. only 10 more months

until my poetry book is out

and I’ll be on coffee tables again.

bring the metaxa, bulleit bourbon

jack honey, it’s never been

the same

after the…