I have one word answers

to statements

that do not get me

trapped under the snow

or hitting trees

speeding down slopes.

I am not even close

to being

who you think I am.

Over a coffee,

I aim to not impress you

with my silent eyes.

Over a drink,

I aim to not impress you

over my drunken innuendos

and real batty lashes.

I never


get a grip

on reality

for if I do,

I will let it control me

in ways that anxiety does.

I would rather live in my head

be in control

half of the time,

accumulate speeding tickets

burn notebooks

and still

you would not be impressed

by my recklessness,

or my playlist

or my grocery list

for you care only

about the softness of my skin,

how I never age,

so, I do suppose,

in that

I could finally impress you

the most.

How you want to seduce

me with your lies,

your brilliant skies,

your magnetic eyes,

all under poetic disguise.

My dad whispered how he loved me

in my dream last night .

You care not for my poetry

or my dark eyeliner

all you care for

is my reality

to be yours


under strange sheets.

I prefer the smell of fabric softener.

My dad said the words

I longed to hear. 

Even in death he knows what 

I need to hear. 

And still I can never be yours.




Sunday morning portrait, 2015

You may wonder

who I am

or who you are

or who we are together.

or apart?

leading highway lives

from the end to the start.

I saw you first

you were talking with friends

embarked on your high horse,

the room was hazy,

smoky, jazzy, of course.

Did you forget your desire?

At first glance,

was there a burning fire?

Were you in a poetic trance?

or a real life dance?

I am no one you want to love

been there and done that,

let my need float up above

blend with the sky

I fall out from

like a gift from the Greek gods’ nectar pie

here to ease your numb

feelings from life,

the blended coffee strife…

which to choose?

I forgot, you take no cream,

you never lose,

you are high above all the sports’ teams

the judgement call

you like to watch me fail, fall –

admit it –

nothing would please you more

than to hear me


like a paid whore

You do not have to put

your hands in your pockets,

I am free, I need no wallets,

no words of lies

please wear your secret lockets

and cover my eyes

in seductive disguise.

I should be asleep

but the words are heavy, knee deep

in your sweet-smelling mud.

I like it

when I am drowning

in my own flood.

Not any closer to who I am

just take my fucking hand

eventually we will land.



Every day is a different state of mind

do you see the difference in the sky?

It is a speckle of molecules that transpire

into dust, gone before you even see them.





A mere wait in line at the coffee shop

download the app from Starbucks and get

the free latte, get the royalty card and free

underwear, join the list and free eBooks,

upgrade your car, and free hubcaps.

No vacation this year?

I escape, I have my ways

concern yourself with your own child

your wife, your husband, I have nothing

to do with that boiling pot.

Sex is still hot because I make it that way

he can turn my body into a poem

his hands into sonnets

and I recite the masters

with ease and such fucking grace

you’d wish you were a fly on the wall.

I am no one that special

have been drilled to believe

just that

so all this means absolutely nothing.

I believe the poets more than the politicians.

One day I will write a poetry book

with a title that you will

truly understand

with some emotions

that will cascade on you

like a waterfall.

I will wait for you

as you drive by

I have been doing it for so long

as the sky watches me

in all its shades.

Poems poetry

Cold drive in

You think you have met
someone like me before
admit it
(At least to yourself)
that you may have not.

I think I met someone
like you
way back
in university
he was a philosophy major
and he followed me
with his eyes
until in front
of James Dean
exhibition he said
the right things
to get me to have cafe
but his notebooks
were complicated
his ideas far fetched
his apartment filthy
and I never saw him again.

You’re not like anyone;
I may be like everyone;
but the cold sun
is not warming up my love.

The words are useless
to a mere touch.
The drive is vacant
without you
Joking around
and making me laugh.
You sleep
I dream.
I dream
you sleep.

It seems in the middle of the night
we wake up
and drive into each other
without a collision.
I can feel the drive in
to work
miles away,
I can feel strange
I’ve admitted to no one.
(Not even to myself).

First novel

Second Cup 3

I wonder if you are
tired of me yet,
when it happens
please make me forget.
It is innocent
even when it’s not,
come across me
as if I’m bent,
passing yellow lights.
I will not talk to you
for days
still one word
and you are in again
we write truths
we write lies
we write from a place
which blends art and words
they come out baked
a word poetry pie
full of apple sex
but, above all
no regrets
to walk away from.

What if I went?
What if I didn’t?

None of that mindfucking crap
that wakes me up
staring at ceilings
listening to water tap.

As I sit here,
I eavesdrop about wedding plans
flower arrangements
small lists
that I once pursued
flipping magazine pages
clipping hairstyles
painting cards
writing love sonnets.
I miss my dad
when I think of how
he answered the phone
on the first ring.

Her dad tells her
use Facebook
to find a florist,
at another table
four young girls
laugh, acting
their age.
Next to me sits
the reading man,
in hipster attire.
I try not to let
all these voices
conflict with min
but I cannot.
So I signed out
of all things that
muddle my mind
and listen to real
the way that writers do.
I write the words
on paper and pen
as others let it
out with thumbs.
I pack my stuff
time to pick up
my son from practice
lean against the brick
smoke a last cigarette
and conjure you up
in my head.
It’s not that cold tonight.

Poems poetry


kiss me with your words
wake me with your hot coffee
I’ll drink it how you like
you know that about me
without ever seeing mine
drinking all that amount of wine
doing stupid things with you
winking at those who have no clue
what it means to wake up
wanting all you cannot have
so grabbing it in spurts
let the pain continue its hurt
I need to work on this and that
all I want is none of it
but you
doing what you said you would
knowing it’s all there is

in this winding, staircase mood
I’m in

she says, you’re like oil,
everything slides off of you,
but I know I’m not,
I let it stick
but I told her
the only way I can survive
is waking up to a brand new day
and starting over.
She said they should make
an SNL character on you
he agreed, laughing,
it would be a hit.
I didn’t know if I meant to say
that about the gerry curls
that got them both
in a whirl
but I think I like my version
They’d only botch me up
into some free-spirited
bohemian, barefoot,
impulsive, redhead,
reading Neruda
as bedtime stories,
forgetting the trash,
and sleepy eyed
poems under my pillow,
wine-drinking, trash-reading,
…(I will stop this now)
And that is just no
Story at all.

I was going somewhere else with this poem, but as it goes, who knows where it’s headed now.

I might start
another book.