I mostly watched the singer

shake away his age

as it caught up with him

and nothing seemed to impress us

anymore besides one hundred dollar bills

and vodka shots. The youth left us

with our past. Our ten percent shot

at another night of bringing back the

days. All the drunken sailors

tried to get their hands on us

but we have to try so much more

now and drink so much less.

We’re getting sick of the city

and the dirt and the envy.

We’re getting tired of the puddles

and the hurt and the  five dollar coffee cups.

We’re getting upset with the fake news

the killing sprees, the hiding

of ugly humanity. I swear I want

to leave this place and never

look back. Never think about

what language I should speak

first, second guess someone’s

authenticity. I like the vast sky

the view from my window

on my quiet street, for years

I wanted to run from it

and chase the night. Now

I want to sit, enjoy my moments

and never look back to who

I used to be before I met you.



The Art inMe

if you could just dare

to fuck the art in me

the kind of sex

that would put

us both on fire.

the part where you

never leave in

the morning. i

disappoint you

all the time,

with my past,

my present,

my unstable future.

if you could just dare

to love me,

none of it would even matter.



From my poetry book, see link below.

Visions of the Future

Sleep disorders are common

being awake is difficult

when you see your past float by

as if you were on a ship

waving good bye.

Take me to a small deserted town

and lock me down

no escape plan

small grocery lists

and the visions of the future

are written across the sky

deciphered by so-called artists

who see mamas and papas

in drugstore alleyways

dreaming of all the times

Oklahoma had hurricanes

in yesterday’s tomorrow.

Pass the whiskey

down the line

of tortured souls

the b-line to the exit

gets longer

the scars deeper

the wounds shout out in haiku

too short for shelter

bring me shelter

the future looks too good

to handle

too sweet to taste

i can see its brilliance

not sure i want it now.

See you anon

Writing a novel is such a task

words found somewhere on the bottom of a tin flask

one last drop to tie me over

give me luck with a fake four leaf clover.

The dead trees still live

on the icy snow

we pass the farms, the homes

trying to let the feelings go

but they knock

they hum

like the sounds of this train or a long lost battle drum

on a bumpy ride or a field of dead

drink coffee and hide

behind Gatsby’s bed

or samples of another book

about people I never knew

or ones that I want to meet

so I write

on this train

on my feet

on a chair

in my head

up the musical stairs

as long as I paid the fare.
Did you miss my words?

all these crying kids

buy sour cream and onion chips

and then the mirror on the taxi reminds

me of him

fills my head up with deceitful lights

take words and turn them into

the vast forest

spanning across our two provinces

flowing in and out of them as robbers do

trickery, lies and subterfuge

filled with sweet apple pies.

Show my boarding pass

I have 87% of Fitzgerald

can’t stop reading about Daisy

Tom and Jay

leave nothing behind

night has turned into day

your name on my lips

and hands tightly squeeze my hips

for the trees are whispering again

and I know

people like us

can only hear them

even from behind the glass.

I write the title first

it’s from the book

another route

and cable lines

keep us joined

stronger than poetry.

Grab my bags

I’m coming home

and I missed you too.

My translator

Everyone struggles with the other side of the grass

is it green

is it the future

of the deep driven past

repeat, shuffle, play

life, songs

music every fucking day.

Off to another town

to play the role of how we go up

and fall hard down

onto the bed with you

in my high heels shoes

and nothing else.

You do not have to love me at all

as much as I use it

I don’t.

So many may say it better than me

so many may be prettier

or smarter

or uglier

or closer

and yet here we are

in the same room

no one else can see us

my eyes on yours

and yours on mine

who cares about the wallet

or the cars we drive

or the typing in my head.

Let go the pain

and let me keep on loving your insane


I knew it from the start

to run

but you kept on pulling my hand

painting the road yellow

fanning my stress

massaging my lower back

digging deep inside me with your


I still run fast

I need to

I’m made that way

like a statue coming alive

so cold

so bloody hot.

It’s merely rings on my fingers

gifts from the past

nights made of hot lust

wedding night drunks

it’s all or nothing

nothing or all

it’s my heart

my mind

my soul

that confide

to each other

my keyboard the translator.

Bleeding feet

I am on dangerous ground between the crossing line of your invisible border. My horse is ready for its trot of rolling hills and Highlander picturesque paintings.  I am on holy ground among the prophets and psychics of flea market and church surroundings

the cobblestone streets are breaking my stiletto heels. I watch as the deadlines of my life pass me by like the credits on a screen and marvel at how your need increases, just like that

I am so on

the bottom of my own list

I cannot enjoy my own playlists with precise titles of altered moods. You make me fall deeply in love and step all over my bleeding feet.

He once wore a uniform with gray pants and a white buttoned shirt. He was only fourteen, but I remember every sway of his head as he bopped to Modern English or Depeche Mode at at time when underground bands meant something more than Indie. And it was then when our eyes met that I knew, knew for certain, that we would meet again thirty years later.  He understood my musical soul and how it beat the same drumbeat as his; my chords became his.

Then I’m on shaky ground again.

The same place I’ve always been

looking at my bleeding feet.