दिनै फुंआवनो सिखारदोँ आं
5 रिँगा 30 मिनिट गोग्लैबायमोन
फुंनि जानायखौ थाबैनो जादोँ
साननि जानायखौबो थाबैनो जादोँ
जोँ आय-आफा आब' आं जयैनो
दिनै आं जेरावबो थांनाय जायाखिसै
सानसे न'आवनो थाबाय
जाया जाया दोँनैसो खन्थाइ लिरनो हादोँ आं दिनै
मोखां लाइसिनि गेजेरजोँ फोसावनाय जादोँ
बेलासियाव जोँना दिनै माय मारा होदोँ
6 रिँगानिफ्राय 7 रिँगासिम आंबो गोसो जाना आफाजोँ मदद होफादोँ
माय मारा होनाय समाव आब'आ गायखेरनि साहा फुदुंना स्राय लोँहोदोँमोन
लोगोआव गुरनै गुरनै बिसुखुद
मोनाबिलिनि जानायखौ थाबैनो जानाय जादोँ
7-30 रिँगायावनो जाखांदोँ आं
ओंख्रिया सबाय बिमासोमोन
ओँखाम जाखांनानै दान्दिसे जिरायबाय
बिजाब फरायनाय जायाखिसै दिनै
दान्दिसेनि उनाव उन्दुनो एमाव गाखोयो आं
मानोना दासान्दि जोबोद गुसुनिफ्राय गुसुसिनथार बोथोरा।

मानसिया साननो रोँगौ
आरो बुजिनोबो रोँगौ मानसिया
जेब्लासिम मानसिया बुजि रोङा
बे समाव बियो थारैनो लाजिया
देलायनो सोलोँनाया मानसिनि मोनसे रोँनाय
देलायनो रोँनाय लोगो लोगो
मानसिनाव मोनसे गियान सोमजियो
अब्लानो बियो लाजियो
लाजिनायानो मानसिनि मोनसे समायनाय
समायनाया मानसिनि मोनसे रोँनाय
बे बाथ्राखौ गोथौयै बुंनो हायोदि
जेसेबां रोङो बिनि आखल आखु गासैबो समायखाङो
लाजिनाया माखासेमानि रोखोमनि जायो
मोनसे नंखायनि थाखाय
आरो मोनसे रोङैनि थाखाय
अदेबानि मानसिया नंगौ नङाखौ लानानैबो
मोनसे गिनाय फैयो
बेयावनो लाजिनायबो थायो
मानसिफोरा गावखौ फुरायै बिजिरनो सोलोङाखै
नंगौ नङा बेखौ थि खालामनो हायैयाव
गुबुननो फोरमायनांगौ जायोब्ला
मानसिनाव लाजिनाया फैयो
नैबे बाथ्राखौबो साननो होयोदि
लाजिनाया मानसिखौ समायना खालामो
आरो बेनो गाज्रिबो नुहोयो
अदेबानि बियो मानसिनो गासै
गुण गियान आरो जाम्बाथिनि सायावनो
सोनारनोबो हागौ नंगुबैआव।

You’re just a voice on the phone
Flickering lights on a screen.
I don’t mean to be mean
But you’ve seen how upset
And how lonely I get
From missing you
When you do that smile,
That twist of your lip
And I slip into wishing
Pushing reality aside
And wanting to reach
Each time, greedily
Into the phone
And no longer be alone
Missing you.

And now, with Skype
A new type of missing
Has appeared in my world.
Now the curl of your hair
Is also down there
Where I can see it and
It’s grand to lust after it;
To get to sit and dream
Though it seems naughty
Somehow ******
Since it is you
What else can I do?
It feels better than crying
And trying to pretend
That on this end
Everything is fine.
I don’t mean to whine.

Often, perfection is a reflection
And you are looking into a mirror
You might need to see clearer
To realize you are staring
At a glaring projection of you
And not someone in front of you.
Now you have something to do.
You get to see if illusion
Causes so much confusion
You don’t know who is who
And who is they and who is you.
Sometimes, it’s not fun to do
Because new doesn’t always mean
Best, or wonderful or fun.

It reminds of the a certain elf
Who fell in love with himself
But he was looking in a mirror.
A lady elf called to him, but
He couldn’t hear her.
He was listening to poetry
Of love and praise of beauty
And felt it was his duty
To listen in total rapture
Not realizing he was captured
By the words he heard.
He felt he had no choice.
But it was his own voice.
He was listening to himself.
Silly elf.

So, if you work in Santa’s home
And look rather like a gnome
You might be excused
When you get accused
Of falling for your reflection.
This is just a suggestion,
But it seems it never misses,
Just remember old Narcissus
And don’t follow this whim.
Don’t be like him and the lake
Loving this reflection so thoroughly
You lose touch with reality
And make a conscious decision
To fall for a warped vision.

this summer was like
lucid dreaming an exorcism,
watching the little skeleton rise and scream and shatter
I bit into a mouthful of summer, expecting
sugar, and buttery love, but instead got a mouthful of
blood and broken teeth and shattered souls

I’m never sure. it’s sad. I know.
I want to be honest.
sometimes I’m too honest, honestly,
and in the wrong way. the worst way.
I want to be good. good at something
anything, really. I don’t know what.
maybe I’d be a good barista
or a good waitress. I don’t know.
sushi chef maybe? is that even
something that I’d want to do?
I hate when people say they do
“computers”. That’s not even DOING
something. That’s just a noun.
Can I say I do “books”??
Is your job too complicated to
explain to simple old me?
I need to work on being logical
with my heart. I need to start
believing in chances. I have a
poet’s eye, so why can’t I have
her ever-breaking heart? her
softasskin soul? her longing for
cold winters and sunbright lemonaid
her love of love?
I have a bitter feel of love. it’s
twisted into a harsh hatred. It’s
eaten by doubt. It doesn’t smile,
it blushes, it hides. I need to
re-coax love into existence.
so that when it opens up, it
recreates the boundaries
of safety that I so crave.
I want to be the fearless poet
that Frost examines in his woods
I want the flawed ***-ful poet
that Bukowski loves to paint
I want the darkest raven-breasted poet
that Poe tearfully wrote
or I want to be my own poet,
lost in thick dusty second-hand
bookstores, full of soggy stories
too heavy sometimes
to re-tell.

I’ve had this long distance relationship for
a while, now
since sleep-
overs were a thing, literally, sleep – overs, when
I was just 8,
the flicker of my friend’s basement
TV taunting me to dare it to come
back, seeing
daylight hours I never
knew existed before,
and it intensified in
college, as you could
imagine, I’ve missed it
so much since it’s been gone
I know when I had it,
when it wasn’t hours away,
I let it
kiss my eyelashes
right before the moon rose
and hold me tighter than
any secret I’ve
kept (on purpose). without it now,
I’ve never
felt so abandoned-helpless.
In college,
especially in college, it
was a constant that
everyone in a relationship
couldn’t relate to, they’d go
out late at night, and I’d
go, too, missing it
missing sleep.
Sleep.
How I’ve missed you
Wished to
embrace you
every night that
everyone who didn’t bother
took for granted, greedily stuffing
themselves with it,
but insomnia
pushes sleep out
onto an ocean voyage to nowhere,
reminding me of my first sleepover, when
everyone but me lay silently on the floor,
while my exhaustion crept around the corners, drowning in the
moonlight,
and it’s like I can only hear
the ocean waves long enough
to taunt me back awake

we have direct associations of
things long past and no
way to connect random
words. I wonder, then, why I always  think of peanut
butter when someone says winter
or I taste eggs when someone
mentions Christmas. I don't
even celebrate Christmas and
I taste caramel popcorn
and crisp wintermint and
what a cloud would taste
like. why is that? where do
our words go? others would taste fish when they hear
the word tooth
paste, or crave oranges when their feet first
hit pavement. if you're trying to fit the
words together, and see
why the bitter taste of chicory
is reminisced with coppery blood and
love, and you are sure your own word associations are
completely logical, one day you'll come across
the skeletons in closets, the snake slithering in the
greenest grass, things that mean
so little to you yet are bright points
of deep connection. you try to
fit the words together and
suddenly, you'll know. then.