Saturday, December 24, 2011


i look at my image, but only recognize war in scraps of paper floating above my half-opened books. an inward raw terror unmasking, yet too timid and delicate to join the outside world. dragging longing and loneliness in this wilderness that is my eyes. is there a moral dimension to looking, inspecting self as other? the soul is boundless and empty lying underneath a pair of boots. lipstick stains part of this fictional fluidity i call the self. unromantic disguises in four lettered words. i look.

Sunday, December 11, 2011


his words poured like a broken faucet
the water throbbed beneath my palms
it was lovely and deep
as though we were two
but, the water soon became waves
as the tongue rolled the eyes.