waiting

worried, agitated, anxious, forlorn, empty. this specious waiting is enervating. but, i must forget, move on, begin anew. i'm now on my own, completely alone. i must produce work to gain some self-respect and meet approaching deadlines. 

nothing to lose

when it's past midnight, fearful sorrows rust and tongues sharply halt with nothing, nothing at all at the sleeves of darkness

on writing

i'm not sure what i'm waiting for: perhaps some ancient writing recipe that will quench my lisping letters; for some shadows to disentangle and awaken a deep and sleek silvery dance across the screen; for a sober wind to lift me up and out of these limping, listless nights; for the lonely lights to catch the running stranger who cannot remember my name; whatever it may be, i need to write.

the impluse to push

melting words leave behind only an outline of a vague figure that i saw for the first and last time moving away as he followed my hands.

human error

i heard their testimonies: how their lives were carved by ancient darkness, that they slept on stones shrouded by tales of deceit and dishonour, that they bathed in the hum of tear drops. then their whispers came to an end, and we found foreign sounds escaping temporarily--laughter.

white space

despite the trail of gray leaves, i sometimes wonder what it takes to write a letter--to turn to aging ghosts...

yesterday

how many times have i stood underneath the blooming moonbeams and exploding stars, walked down the long sinuous meadows, listened to the crawling wind, sealed broken hearts with flour and history, opened my window at the crackling dusk, watched a few forgotten images emerge from the splitting sky, invited the timid rain to run across the field, clutched the edge of darkness in my palms, clung obsessively to lost nouns, only to be reminded that yesterday was my birthday.
and, what of it?