With my whole body I taste these peaches,
I touch them and smell them.  Who speaks?

I absorb them as the Angevine
Absorbs Anjou.  I see them as a lover sees,

As a young lover sees the first buds of spring
And as the black Spaniard plays his guitar.

Who speaks?  But it must be that I,
That animal, that Russian, that exile, for whom

The bells of the chapel pullulate sounds at
Heart.  The peaches are large and round,

Ah! and red; and they have peach fuzz, ah!
They are full of juice and the skin is soft.

They are full of the colors of my village
And of fair weather, summer, dew, peace.

The room is quiet where they are.
The windows are open.  The sunlight fills

The curtains.  Even the drifting of the curtains,
Slight as it is, disturbs me.  I did not know

That such ferocities could tear
One self from another, as these peaches do.

Haikus, curious...
All tied down in syllables,
Short-lived word *******.

I EITHER WRITE IN ALL CAPITALS OR NONE AT ALL
and yes, i smoke every ****** cigarette to the filter
yet my sadness never fades
i have bent and creased my sorrows into tiny origami butterflies
and sometimes when it rains i am the happiest  i've ever been
and when the sun runs away
i am the only one here on earth
everyone is teeter-tottering on the moon  
i truly feel alive

and no,
i cannot take away what others have given
and no,
i cannot find solace in my own words

we are all together in this cosmic game

when your favourite pen runs out of ink,
i hope you think
of me.

The old man
cutting barley--
bent like a sickle.

Lately all my friends are
ghosts,
wrapped in black,
painted pale.
They are chopping
at their powders,
speaking into cigarettes,
breathing gasses,  
ingesting
acids.

They are laying
on the lawn under the
damp clouds.

I watch them watch the skyline,
their eyes
fixed
on the horizon,
caught in that
crooked
glance that ends in both eyes
twisting inward.
Both eyes closing.
They are looking for God in everything.
They are praying for a
sign. That special
high, that painful
peace and the semblance of
proof. Seeking every ephemeral
comfort.  

A car drives by.
A mother is taking her kids to soccer practice.
A man quietly
shuffles along the road, attached to his dog by a leash.
I'm sitting on the front porch under the
damp clouds
waiting for anything.
The poison is kicking
in.

I never used to be like this,
Not even 4 months ago,
I never used to wake up feeling sick
to my stomach,
Disgusted with myself, that I'm a
problem that people have to deal with,
Filled with anxiety causing a shaking
in my heart and ribs,
These butterflies are not cute,
They have wings of glass, puncturing
me from the inside out.
They're not because of you, but only
a repercussion of thinking of you,
and him, and her, and them,
and then, and when, and how.
               You'll leave.
               He thought he didn't hurt me.
               She was the only thing I had.
               They showed me I can't be one
               of them.
               Then the butterflies awoke,
               When I couldn't cope,
               How can I trust that you
               won't do the same.

I'm not a person. I'm the problem.

Fatal flick of my index finger
It's too dark to investigate
Ambition creeping out of my nose
Lungs filling with paranoia
I'm left in the dark
Where am I this time
Whose head is on my shoulders
That's not my heart beating in my chest
And I
Am
Not
          Me.

What if we had been strangers on a train
And I asked you what book you were reading.
You'd say:
“The Old Man and The Sea.”
Then I’d tell you I’d never read it before.
You’d say it was your favorite.
And ask for mine,
“Tuesdays with Morrie,”
I’d answer.
We’d bond over similar music taste
The **
PRiNCe
Flight of the Conchords.
You’d compliment my sweater.
I’d admire your socks.
Maybe I’d be bold and ask to take your picture,
But probably not.
Instead I’d ask you name
And you’d ask mine.
I’d smile at your reaction.
”Nice to meet you Oshin.”
Then you’d go back to reading your book
And I’d try to find another excuse to talk to you.