To exist and exist again

I am beautiful in the context of this sentence
in reflection (and all other avenues of misconception)
winter’s cold, the harshness takes it toll on fantasy
the escape cracks, coarse, pebbled under heavy ice
this life may not hold charms or even choices
only the nature of fools to think otherwise
I witness my parcels, your particulars melt, freeze
some fools never know the state of contentment
only that some abstract passion exists in the body
and the mind, the stubborn mind, going back, finding itself in reflection
forgetting itself for the sake of preservation.

The Modern Woman (Revisited)

I wrote this a few years ago and grinning to myself now as I am turning forty this week and still standing. 🙂


The woman I dreamed to be took flight.
She lived in a story that died overnight.
The woman of this story had beauty and grace.
She welcomed every guest with a smile on her face.
She coddled her children with patience and love.
She solved their disputes with the gentleness of a dove.
Her husband felt pride to call her “my wife”.
For she served him a four-course meal every night.
She pleasured his body in all different places.
And gave him head on a regular basis.
When not attending to family, she worked a full-time job.
Master of organization, multi-tasker galore.
The chauffeur to soccer, piano and art.
Model of composure behind the shopping cart.
Helper of homework, storyteller by night.
The smell of fresh laundry made her feel just right.
When the speakers of rational thought warned she would tire.
She told them, “Come on. You’re crazy. You’re a liar.”
The modern woman can take on it all.
There is never a project too big or too small.
At the ripe age of 40, the rational thinkers came again.
“Have you tired? Are you finished? How is your head?”
The modern woman couldn’t answer. She couldn’t hear what they said.
They found her on the floor, already dead.


what comes from the pen but sorrow
swimming in hope, from the mind’s world
what will not become real runs in paces
through the imagination.

i dreamt in days of sunlight, tracing hands
piecing through my body’s landscape
to find me again present in your eyes is to find life.

in this world all is imagined
even what we see outside of our eyes.
so let it be parallel in separation and touch
until we run in circles to find the center.


and all the grief that left the bodies became crowded in the chest of trees
years of temperless cries eroded the vertical outline of the forest
for it wasn’t eden from which they fell
and created this stream of deceptive patterns
much to ponder from the view of a plateaued stone
much to know when the breeze carries the prayers of humble worship
hums the stories of forgotten pain, bodies of curved, eroded trees
volume of water stagnant, you were meant to leave this place
unaccompanied by sighs.


I facilitated nothing that meant permanence
so this context can be called something like
a home for a lost citizen devoid of tradition.
the others build homes with punctuated
decorations that wave based on the weather
of attitude and storms.

lost I decorated you in the resistance
because it was natural to
want to stop drowning             hidden here now behind the metaphor
behind moist parallels, the exits and entrances for light.

I can hear voices back here that dare to tempt growth
fantasize compassion, perplex us in years
for just one reason for being.
keep asking while I prefer to listen, she blessed my ears
with the hope for something not yet heard.

the shape of in between

in flux, in between words, in time
what haunts each side of consciousness
is destined to meet in the middle and complicate the future with loneliness
i wait in between and meanwhile absurd,
look towards the eyes that dot the landscape
in pairs of festive spheres and outlined
so deceptive in purchased shape, as if to swipe a set
without commanding speech is to find the world inside
a merry set, a pair-

air. can I continue as is, no matter what the time
no matter what ghosts immigrate below monuments
I can continue, heighten my voice, be satisfied by the sound
of questions that become echoes blinking in the absence of answers
existence itself is my refusal to answer the future with lies.

what have you given me, if not a single answer,
not even the path to a mutual smile
I wait in between, meanwhile alive and breathing
looking in the mirror at someone’s empty, wandering eyes.

water is still life

droplets fall from the sky
cascade from my eyes
as I am again deceived by
the presence of tears.
I long for you, the stranger
yearn for the tight night
the flood, choking on still water
in other words—I provide acceptance
to the mind deny the current, give it up
the one who continues to be nevermore
I know what you’re thinking
that the words mix when we can
breathe in between them
that the silent temple tomorrow
provide oblique heaviness for hope
and I was asked to create the impossible
recreate future, I walk with mirrors that fail
the shape of my body and fresh bloom
still the same, choking on still water
tastes so fresh, so much like a new illusion.

deep and empty promises

fallen, that, like worded air
scrolled, touched
and departed
the mind in regret to have forgotten the probable importance
of something great.

kept, in pockets, abstract
you are mocking me in your metaphorical sarcasm
and the sun is wide in its breath.

while so many secrets are caged in our pockets
I find it shameful
especially here.
I smell them like cold coins
waiting to buy freedom
aren’t we done, tainted by time
dead in your lack of air and revelation.

you told me the future, the upper reaches of the sky
would be blooming and kind, settled in their beauty
nothing more to tell about the insignificant
the parcels of tomorrow
someplace to rise
enough, enough
the more you talk
the more I dig.


so the animals can talk
about balloons and soaring to the sky
and the children can hear through
their eyes what those with
caged dreams have come to leave
unnoticed. only seconds before
I forgot to read, I mean the Earth
I mean the creatures that feed the Earth
what I used to imagine through words
in highlights of the sun, so does it mean
a life of writing sorrow
an ode to imaginations, some artificial
some glassed, empty quench can you tell me
under your hair so gray and aging
how you keep the fairies alive, the seated fish
the lonely sparrow whose home is now with
the storks, what are my words if they don’t prove
life abstract drawn by the evidence of a wandering,
maladaptive mind. I can’t take it back
your childish words, your magnificent story
born out of the palms of talking hands.

how water travels

there is nothing beautiful in crying storms from the screams of discontent
falls black into shadows without the reflection of light
beautiful tears can fall from my eyes in current at the softness of your voice
they travel after a song to my palms, the surface and the curvature of my fingers
when gently fisted from joy, they fall after the rhythm of these words as they move
from keys like a prayer, today I am suspicious
of the sky; the tears will fall like rain and settle like growth
and the children outside my window will become flowers, flippant and colorful with hope.