Giving up
On something important
When do I say when?
Maybe it should have been long ago
But here I still am
Trying as hard as I can
Maybe it’s pitiful
I know I’m a fool
But there is no universal
Giving up rule
I don’t know if I should quit
But you do

the message of the day,
via text, while taking coffee.

agreed. agreed that this is
a good place to write,
where every one meets,
works, falls in love.

boy staring into her soul,
pre-raphaelite, next table.

man who bought all things
good for him, then me retaining
my friends and dignity.

passed an hour there, later
ordered the red things.

your eyes incite such an echo on my lips
it reverberates every time I hear the trees, it engulfs my hands
I  feel how your gaze caresses my hair
sometimes only poems keep me whole
the hidden parts play hide and seek with daylight
all the me that cannot be create holes between words
I wait for time to confess its indifference
the solitude of skin is inborn but
poetry is this incessant birth of an imaginary me

Listen here, miss crazy,
Every Breath I Take, my soul
screams, Don't Stand so Close
to Me.  I want to escape.
Maybe to an Island, where
the only contact with your
madness will be by a
Message in a Bottle.

So please, Roxanne, for the
last time, there was no
Synchronicity between us.
Haunt someone else with
your, Ghost in the Machine
the mumbo jumbo and your
Do Do Do, Da Da Da.
no longer works.

Beauty isn’t verdict.
            It moves—
     slow, sudden.

One eye sees chorus.
      One hears a bell.

We met in the middle.
      Called it human.

          No greetings.
      No apologies.

Just the sentence,
already burning.

Silence held the shape.
        We stepped in.





.

Robinson Jeffers: The House-Dog's Grave

I've changed my ways a little; I cannot now
Run with you in the evenings along the shore,
Except in a kind of dream; and you,
If you dream a moment,
You see me there.

So leave awhile the paw-marks on the front door
Where I used to scratch to go out or in,
And you'd soon open; leave on the kitchen floor
The marks of my drinking-pan.

I cannot lie by your fire as I used to do
On the warm stone,
Nor at the foot of your bed; no,
All the nights through I lie alone.

But your kind thought has laid me less than six feet
Outside your window where firelight so often plays,
And where you sit to read‚
And I fear often grieving for me‚
Every night your lamplight lies on my place.

You, man and woman, live so long, it is hard
To think of you ever dying.
A little dog would get tired, living so long.
I hope that when you are lying
Under the ground like me your lives will appear
As good and joyful as mine.

No, dears, that's too much hope:
You are not so well cared for as I have been.
And never have known the passionate undivided
Fidelities that I knew.
Your minds are perhaps too active, too many-sided...
But to me you were true.

You were never masters, but friends. I was your friend.
I loved you well, and was loved. Deep love endures
To the end and far past the end. If this is my end,
I am not lonely. I am not afraid. I am still yours.

In my fantasies,I dream of a silent place,
Where only the birds dare to sing,
Their sweet melodies lighting up the morning.

A shelf full of books,
Each page breathing me back to life,
Whispering i belong in between the lines .

A garden blooming with flowers,
so radiant they seem to smile,
Filing the atmosphere with their fragrance.

And a fireplace comfy and enduring
Waiting eagerly to keep me warm
As i read my favorite words

The nineties sold us unity:
bright sitcoms,
Benetton colors,
commercials where everyone smiled
as though inequity had been resolved.

But the decade bled on screen—
a Black man beaten on asphalt,
a truck driver dragged from his cab,
bomb dust in Oklahoma,
children hunted in a school corridor.
Unity was the costume;
violence was the stage.

Then came a Black president.
For a moment,
the story looked complete.
"Post-racial," they said,
as though history had closed.

But the mask split.
Social media tore out the gatekeepers.
The hate that had been muted
found its tongue,
found its profit,
and screamed into the feed.

Division pays.
Unity does not.
Violence is systemic,
holistic,
from home to street to state.
Silence makes it whole.

The ethic remains:
If it is wrong, you stop it.
Otherwise the cycle turns,
profitable, endless,
calling itself America.

cold in my chest where charcuterie burned
pages of lifelines now crackle and moan
prayers for a future never returned
and silence within, the loudest I’ve known