There’s never been a worse time than too late Ever after nothing matters the past has passed and will not retreat no matter how you entreat implore beseech beg supplicate on knees, clenched fists the tears of salt and blood I failed to be your…

Dear Peddlers of Chocolate, I have to take a second to tell you that you are a hazard. Your wares are worse than crack or flesh or slangers of “happy pills” made to make us forget ourselves and how we hurt.   My beautiful waist…

  pools of colour   these rainy streets feel like Christmas when streets are dressed in light like whores on their days off waiting for a new date: all flash no fantasy.   these night bus rides make me sad: the farther I get from…

I’m millions of miles away I’m on my own adventure I’m learning new things Another language Things about myself I’m growing And yet At the start and finish The beginning and end Of every single day I can’t help it I become completely overtaken My…

We never had much as potato farmers in the poor man’s village But luck, your sibling, gave us a token to turn Lady Fortune’s wheel With assistance, we escaped poverty but landed in a dreadful world The middle class, where we all tread forward while…

Dear Jane, How I wish you were here to have an afternoon tea, make sly commentary on the women surrounding us, their transparent wiles and winning ways: such a penetrating gaze you leveled at our small world. None were safe from your pithy review. Minutiae…

Peace It’s all I feel with you It’s like going to the beach Listening to the waves crash The wind blowing through the trees How did I get here? How did I deserve you? What did I do to earn this? What do I have…

the end The farther away we get from our Mother, the more of Her we break dirty heap with hatred. We demand our desires be filled at Her expense at our peril. Our wounded egos filled with all manner of things to feed our starving…

I peer over the shoulders of strangers, a tourist in my own body. Am I here? I ask myself, nonexistent until noticed. No one turns back, meets my gaze, and sheepishly glances away. Their attention is focused forward, to a future misted and glazed into…

Every time I write down something I wonder who will come to know of it Will this tattered composition book land in the Library of Congress? Or will it see its end in the garbage heap behind my apartment building? Will my thoughts and creations…