Thursday, April 30, 2015


On the white tiles, blood
a spillage of water, washing
last night's accident

Tuesday, April 28, 2015

cup reading on a fine morning

Talk through my ears with something other than the beeping
of monitors and the squeak of wagons,
spinning in the corridors
like an end of destiny
there must be something bright, at the end of this cup

Saturday, April 25, 2015

meal invite

swimming in cream and peppers, the steaks 
I call onto you, come over 
there's plenty in the smallest of pans
but I will use herbs, 
formation of dirt that raised me
it is different in the southern hemisphere 
the sacred obsession with greenery
and cooking consumption on a slow fire 
Heat,  reheat, I'm not used to melting 
over and over, once is enough
come on over

Thursday, April 23, 2015

the prize

On the table, beer
peanuts gathering in a dish,
like sweet words, flirtatious
the prize of missing

Wednesday, April 22, 2015

Meeting on a street corner

on the street corner,
there are three vendors and space
small enough for the passerby,
wide enough to fit the vendors vision
of a better sale

I walk, head held high
shoulders square,
I am a glider, I don't need an engine
yet I bump into my own shadow

on the street corner,
beyond the seller's strawberry induced cart
sweet talkers hang their words on hook
throw them for the nearest fish in town

over the paved sidewalk, we meet
you ring into my ear, laughter
there's a tomorrow on your tongue
there's a yesterday on mine

we part with the seller's voice
promising a decrease of strawberry's prices
for the end of the day brings sweetness
condensed for less

I will be someone else,
with a heart the size of the Atlantic
and patience, smaller than the devil's to trouble
yet somehow I refuse to believe you
I have heard your words in a crystal ball
round like your belly, a couple of years ago.

breakfast arrangements

Eggs on the hob, sizzling
the toast lays ready, browned
let me love you
while the world awakes

shortest phonecall

Too long you wait on the end of a line
the answer curls into the cord
stretches across the cables
hell, oh
wrong number

morning argument

the sun reflects off the window
you brush your hair with sun rays
Stop arguing with numbers

simple joy

There are signs on the road
poppy blossoming in the field
simple things, overjoyed

Monday, April 20, 2015


Teach me to relearn the ways I walked
without tripping into the old holes my soles dug into the ground 
I'd be grateful for help
I know these potholes,I know the cobbles Hansel left before me 
too big for pigeons to carry, hard for our stomach to crunch on our way back 
from the war of distance, the holy fight for a place, 
that senses us the same way with its hands, 
fleeing us off-raw,
raw like the end of eggs left to simmer in the heat

leave me to stumble on my language, 
let me eat my old tongue, spit words 
after chewing on the wrong ends for too long
 all too clumsy of breath, like lemon, acidic
I dash with a lull of adventure and a twinge of the past
while yours is flavored with strawberries and smooth showered honey
language is our first marker
it marks how we morph
From caterpillars into straight pillars
To lend a hand, for the future

You leave me to swim
in my own sweat
how could you be more considerate?

Sunday, April 19, 2015

Dim lights

Three quarters dunked in night
There's more than stars in yous song
Less of moonlight, more of sawdust remaining
After the stars dim

Saturday, April 18, 2015

Man Measures

Nothing sets man from another
but a woman, dancing the end of candlewicks
a stash of gold coins at the end of a table
a passport to buy a new future, away from a past.

never open the windows

Glass vase, on the windowsill,
a demeanor of a child, a whiskers still
never throw caution to the wind and open your windows

Artwork: Paul Neitsche, found here.

of other sins

There's something to discover, you say
beneath the stone, above earth
a little death of bugs, odd feet here and there
in between the odds

there's something beneath the stone
little games we played like children
the earth is flat like the end of times
pressed onto itself, like a stamp

if you look downwards, you will seize
to see the discoloration in the sky, the treetops
the little disasters in between the pillars of earth
the cursing of the heavens

look downwards from time to time,
there will be coins thrown and dog bones
marred by humans who think
they can leave their mark on things by flagging
or worse by using their urine
reeking of other sins

A card game

the table doesn't mind the tricks on its back,
like drinkers never minding the hour,
where have our manners gone?
I dealt the cards
without saving queen for kings
or jokers for endless laughter.
how hard, tell me would it be to let me

Safe space

You do not know Saturn from Venus,
It is your problem, the case of differentiating
Rings and separation,  in light years
Because you know how the stars line up, unabashed
Spread against the night sky.

in the mornings I will realize
There are no silver linings  in your clouds
yet you still hope for a glow,
from outside, no one looks deep within

once you give me a clue,
when I run under thunder
Hide, you said between the rings of Mars
veil your self with the clouds of Saturn

I run instead to a tent built with blankets
behind a sofa smelling of leather, and old cologne
it smells like you when you come home from work, exhausted
it is safe in here, the safest spaces are always unused

Teach me how to be a feminist

You ask if I can teach you to think
in zigzag instead of dotted lines
there isn't much I can do to connect the dots
with words

words do not stitch everything
there are ends looser than letters
to sound, faster than speech
to fury

you ask again for me to teach you
to respect the woman I am
to go past the complimentary items
that come

with a woman. A touch like a breeze
docile, her eyes to the cracks in the pavement
her voice, tender like lilacs
too fragile

to break a woman doesn't need muscles
you should know better. To break a woman
you require patience and ignorance
that pave questions like these

how to be a feminist without losing my sex
without turning into an abjuration
for thought and for sharp tongues
defending the piling of kitchen dust

to be a feminist, I tell you, read the way
a woman curves into being
like an answer to a question
she never asked

like the world belongs to her
as it crumples into baby biscuit
for her son and daughter, to read a woman
 like a tree she clips the old to launch her branches
live and let live
 kiss her soul, once in a while
every woman needs just that,
before the questions begin again.

Casanova's child

Three quarters gold,
one quarter a woman's perfume 
wafting of jasmine, of alcohol and pure sweat 
Casanova's child is made of gold and space, 
a woman's spice, and a regrettable shot of whiskey with ice. 

Wednesday, April 15, 2015


The jeans hang on the roof, kissing the sun
but the sky is white and calm, you object
graceless, wishing for summer inside
the droplets of the rain, hazing into their mothers belly
wetting creatures, humans with dirt on their heads
and possibly your crisp dry jeans, facing the wrath
of the angels, or everyone else.

Sunday, April 12, 2015

No one Controls the weather

When i returned there was a man
In a light brown blazer, looking
For the boy he left next to my fountain,
one July, a few leaves down the roads
And i must confess that i looked too, for you

The shades are gone, the effeminante rants,
and the tuft of your cologne mixed with the sunset
There was a glare of jasmine
wafting with shisha
there was a woman sailing onto land

All is possible with a free imagination,
The indignation and departures
You have left the elements and made your own
Stroms for breakfast and fires for dinner
and calm, like land and water
Marrying, never intermixing

Maybe what you put on fits easier
than what you shed
Maybe i can explain the cigarette and justify the wine
But cant forogo, the weight of July's nights on my chest
Too much shedding doesn't heal new skin

too many men suffocate by words, like you,
tenderness is at the back of the hand
squeeze it dry, knead it
Maybe it will spare the generation of worry
The parades of soft skins

Must I see what you've become
Since I left you to be? Maybe cruel,
maybe vain. Maybe not merited for the change
No one controls the weather
But the words flow.

Saturday, April 11, 2015

Glass n water

You cannot tell theres glass at the surface of water
Both clear, sharp and cold with potential
A news of a death, at dawn.

morning nymphs

Burnt the color of plaid skies
The smoke rises softly near the tumbledryer
i have been careful to wash my socks separately
To sift throught the day with an endelss paitence
To darkness

You sit crosslegged on the edge of a dream
Cracked betweeen what you want and where you can be
between the Ariel packs and the figures of speech
Sweetened by a woman's belly
Shaking with inhilations
To think men hold onto day to day demanor
The way they do cigarettes,
Handy and so thin

There are always women at the end of your dream
Tumbling, creaking with Warmth
There are no Sultans in the laundry room
And women do not grow in pomegranate
But there's always food, for the thoughts
Emitting from the burning skies
And the carrying of my colored socks,
Too bright for the evening, you are helpful

You were altered with my thirst to realms, emitting purple hues
The room spins whilst still standing
And the hash takes the men, you- drowsy
To the nearest creek, to bathe, to hold, to catch
Naked nymphs

Future daugther

Dear child, please dont accept what strangers demand
Or the wishes they give
For i never  wish you my impatience
Nor the imp's kiss on your father's cheek
Painting the nursery black
Before the flowering of spring

Tuesday, April 7, 2015

After the tickles, ask about love

Taunting the words out of me is easy
just tickle my edges, a little on the waist
more under the arm and I shrill with the touch
of my legs. I have always been sensitive to theft
as I have been with attempted laughter
like wrapping made to fit the situation
stop running your hands into the curve of my fine lines
just above the fat storage unit, just bellow my midnight thoughts

you hit me with questions of abstracts
things I understood at thirteen and let go of at thirty
there are wider oceans than humans have found,
yes, there's an end to sadness and no, I don't have the questions
I think that the rest of the world would wait
till I formulate my answer

Enough with this going about, once pestering
and then jesting, I will spill out the beans
each for a certain day-
starting now I will assure you when you
ask about love, it is not gone
but  I have told you once
that a child has no power to hate
only to wreck a little, for creativity's sake.

a white face haunts tonight

Your face is white tonight
the trace of fear has left you, this time it is forever
so has the trace of sand and its mixing of water
to cement, to pave, not to build

expectations are worse than reality, most of the time
your face, whiter than dough sits ahead of me muttering
don't promise an everlasting spring
when you can only afford clouds

your face is white tonight
the song on your lips has been sealing itself
away from mine, there's enough indentation
to fill the choice of skipping lipstick

glossy for the generation of new blood,
you can always look beneath the covers
dig the reason for this rush toward ethereal
masks dipped in yogurt, take my hand but don't squeeze it

your face is white tonight,
you have skipped a meal and a prayer
the candles melted in the kitchen
and the pepper bursts into flames in front of the Madonna

forgive me if I seal your eyes
with the back of my hand, with a brush of my hair
your face is white tonight
I couldn't help but notice,
you were also a little cold.


The train tracks are frigid
there's a sound to the cold, husky
rusty and elongating like a tooting
that rises out of tunnels, tonight
I lay, captured by the mist on the train tracks
mesmerized, in my pocket a ticket
for the train that will take me home

Sunday, April 5, 2015

Late reactions

Coffee rings on the clean cloth
In the tray, unsmoked ash
The bed is unmade, you've slept.


Never mix two patterns,
there's always a variation of temperature
For the reaping of flowers doesnt harm the animals
Not all of them, i hope

Today there are flower petals on the windowsill
Announcing the beginning of sprining forth to life
today you are sitting facing a chair of iron and wheels
A little disdain doesnt kill anyone

Keep looking at thr petals
maybe it will remind you
That you are still alive