her face down-turned : these days.

coffee strained eyes. cried the color out a few months ago.

new greyed view doesn’t suit her.

left a letter draft: sits, waiting

to be sent in five , six

,  million years . can’t close the

matter right off?

quiet slogan ,  printed worn

to defend white

shirts she wears ,  still ,  every time.

life spilt errywhere’ ,  of circumstance ,  born

so ,  see.

and when there’s no step backwards ,.  every. one we

tentatively spoor ahead.






Arms always in an open stance

prepared to hug

my teddy bear

sits quietly, awaiting my return.

Patient, he is never

unprepared to

offer me comfort.


Crossing your hands around

yourself, you are

purposefully preventing me from

showing my affection.

Purposefully you spurn me, tease

my heart.

You cut me to the core.

So you I leave,

to my teddy I go.

Poor teddy.

He’s a real man:

content to lie on the bed

or be tossed to the floor in fits

or sobbed and gasped into when I need to hide

my face, despaired.

No matter what I can return

to his embrace.





The past works in the present.

It brings forward the mouth warming,

throat aching

scent of funnel cake

powdered sugar: mhm! everywhere

on my fingers, lips, cheeks… spills

down to my shirt, where

my mother doesn’t like it,

fried crumbs, melting, turning

your mouth into a sweltering summer day.

The past works in the present.

It pulls around ancient hearts sighing,

blood breaking

beat of solid drum

pouring toward: oh!! anywhere

pushing thunderclouds… this

hideaway in the mountains, where

we’ve frozen in time until

sorrow passes, hearing, yearning

for a peaceful, sweltering summer day.

The past works in the present.

Suggests that we change our course,

that though the stars sing in sync,

our souls don’t.

maybe they’ve become icy solid.

and maybe we don’t mind, but we

should, the memories shouldn’t bring

us shame, but pure happiness.

Hint , emphasize, suggest.

The past works in the present.


Turned around slowly, crept

up cliffed terrace, nobody

there to see me, rocks and pebbles

everywhere tumbling, rolling,

preparing to turn me into a

landslide, skimming my ankles upon

the surface of this stony hill

that I’m forced to climb.

here’s the slippery slope at it’s finest

here’s trickery clear as the brightest


shining constantly in motion white blare solid glare speeding, slowing, raising, going blowing past at midnight whispering silently through hot, dusty back allies , dirt clumps forming as they brush sweaty bangs backwards. can’t sweep singed curl beneath this crooked … Continue reading


This accent I’ve picked up gives me the jitters. Creates a rustiness that feels funny on my tongue. So carefully embedded in my nature are my words- my phrases-, accent mixing roughly with the sweetnesss of their mother tongue