Her head leans on the cold train’s window while

Her head leans on the cold train’s window while
witches are leaving their wicked incantations,
their cursed tears blocked from all exits.
Her weary eyes fixed on compositions of movement,
clear sky and a speck of lightning that changes the view,
trees turn to a reflection of a couple standing behind the bench.
He – a soldier with skin darkened, nurtured by the sun,
and around him wrapped the wide smile of the girl.
She laughs sparkles, sheltered on his skinny chest,
her bashful silence on his weekly strength.
Her eyes won’t let go of her soldier, her happiness,
love at its most fertile stage of evolution.

The view outside has darkened into night,
and the couple’s reflection vanish for a few moments of relief.
That’s what she wanted –
Only what she knew, only the comfortable particle
of her comfortable and lonely life.
The throat threatened again with its ache,
tears demanded their freedom but she fought them.
It’s not the place to confront hard questions
she doesn’t want to answer – one false outlet –
no place for suffering caused only by her, force.
She conquers the moment with a single deep breath,
in her ears the girl’s laughter, pops like sweet corn,
fills the wagon with the crunch of unfamiliar love


Chocolate & Flowers

I must have overslept when
the message was delivered;
when eyes met & hands were held;
when one awaited another’s phone call –
passion’s own tension with matters of patience.
I must have woke up too late, after
they said how one could find it;
what to say between trembling lips;
what to do in between sweetened sips of silence –
passion’s own frictions with matters of tension.
I must have waited too long in line
for screen tests & awkward auctions;
no intellect could bid high enough;
no attention for brown eyes & hair;
just sold-out sex, painful, bloody –
passion’s own joke on those lacking direction

They don’t even know our kind exists

Is that alright?
I reach for your hand as our bodies swirl,
it’s so gray when we try to catch up with the storm;
all is dust, forgettable mist without any mystery.
Can you see them?
We’re little sinners, petty gods of petty misfortunes;
tribes dance while we’re turning, black eyes
and honest smiles. Their feet sing of rain,
stomping on poor fires, feeding on the poorer.
Is that alright?
I reach for our tiny tragedies,
pills so romantic,
and they don’t even have water.


He’ll use his power to deflower female careers,
he’ll fly to Ukraine for flatlined blonde satisfactions
he’ll play sensitive until the ego gets in the way
he’ll grab a tissue wet with another web-hub attraction.
Normal but destructive,
typical but disgusting,
deep – attractive, but
desperate while hunting.
It’s the everyman
and the everywoman
it’s a simple riddle and
its disappointing solution


There’s a responsibility hiding there –
between long legs, under a silky tight dress;
it remains as silent as it has been for decades,
a power diminished by hashtags of redundant violence.
What happened to compassion?
When predators must answer for their deviant behaviors,
why do ideals keep eating their victims?

Voiceless limbs on a fractured body
it’s not the monster but the Doctor who cries
“all is chaos under the powerful order.”
We are just lost makers of bodies, enslaved,
there’ll never be bliss, no resolve, no understanding
on the wheels of sexuality and what they call love

I write

Only in true loneliness, I write.
Memory feeds the poison,
It sets the blood free;
he’ll never know the crimson fruit,
or the letters scribbled
on heated windows.
My mirrors speak of love,
but he will never know.
He translates tongues,
renders their bodies senseless,
and I in his beauty lie.
There’s a great key, they claim,
But he will never know –
I write.

Whimperish #2

Am I A Fool For Never Knowing Love
Or is It Those Lucky Enough
Who Don’t Know A Thing?
I Once Wondered How it Feels,
I’ve Been Kissed, I’ve Been Hailed –
An Angel – An Inspiration –
But Never In Love, Never The Song,
The Lyrics/The Spanish Guitar.
Am I A Fool For Never Knowing Love?
Never Up Close, Never A Month or Two,
A Ghost Fed With Stories & Sided Sights.
Am I A Fool For Never Falling In Love?
For Giving Time Value With Lonely Red Wine,