I stood by while the shopkeeper
rang up the tea stored in little Big Bens.
My girlfriend fiddled with some pens at the desk.
"Where are you from?" he asked.
We both replied, "California!"
"Ah, but you," he said,
looking her straight in the eye,
"where are you from originally?"
Her shoulders slumped.
She repressed a sigh.
"Well, my mom, and grandma, and grandpa,
and their parents, and their parents' parents
were all born in America,
but way back when my mom's side
came from Japan.
My dad's side is English though."
"Ah," said the shopkeeper, "So your mom
is from Japan. I could see something different
in your face."
Inside I cried'
"Where are you from originally?
It couldn't possibly be here,
you hair is the wrong color,
your skin a shade off,
so please give us your family history.
Or do you swear you're a Brit?
You were born here? Oh sure, but your mom?
Her too?
No, she must be a foreigner."

Instead, I handed over the notes,
grabbed the tea,
and left without saying a thing,
without saying a thing,
without saying a...

reaches to the end of the universe
and back.
Ever expanding, limitless,
beyond conception,
even for true hearted romantics,
of which I count myself one.
I'm pretty sure the sun goes down each day
because it's jealous of your beauty,
and it gets tired of being outshined.
Remember when we stood on a hill that night,
where you witnessed three shooting stars?
I didn't witness a single one,
my eyes intent on you.
Those missed wishes are alright,
my dreams are in the middle of coming true.
Each night we lay down together for bed,
every morning I get to kiss your forehead,
is a wish fulfilled.
Now, one year into it, I'm ever more thrilled,
to call you my one and only,
my love bug,
my world.

I missed you today,
on my way home from work.
The horizon was getting dark,
aside from the glow of tail lights,
and I knew that after the front door
closed behind me,
I would be alone.

her voice is the ring of a hundred
silver bells,
rolling across the Irish Sea
passed Cork and the cliffs of Moher,
then on out over the ocean,
spanning the great divide,
till their shining reaches the East Coast,
flows over the Great Plains,
and on through the Mojave desert,
to dance around my ears,
banishing all fears.
A hundred silver bells
to ward against the whispers.

Distance breeds jealousy,
the kind that clings to my chest,
nestles in around my ribs and
whispers up to my ears.
It tells me all kinds of things,
the city will take her from me,
that boy that's just a friend has his hands around her waist,
they're taking shots after going on a date, and there ain't nothing I can do about it.
I've tried shoving my fingers in my ears,
stuffing them with cotton and
expensive ear plugs,
somehow the whispers breach it all,
slip through the cracks in my walls,
giggling menacingly,
ecstatic to see me fall,
to ruin,
to ruin,
to ruin.

The wind howled after the divorce,
debris flew about in hordes
and I simply couldn't hold my myself in place.
Sure, I learned to navigate treacherous terrain
with sure-footed grace,
Everyone around weathered the winds
with the same style, same half smile,
all saying, "It will just be just a little longer."
Years after I'd given up, become numb to the rain,
you walked by with an umbrella,
on your way somewhere, seeking more permanent shelter.
You stopped and offered for me to join you
under the umbrella's cover,
even though it was a tight squeeze for two.
Gentle, powerful, miniscule, monumentous,
I love you.

Holiday jingles jangle faintly
behind the soup of conversation.
Occasional laughs, clacking dishes,
the sizzle of eggs hitting the heated grill.
It's as if a cosmic wind
swirls in, group after group,
toward the front counter, passed the coffee,
to settle them each at a table,
then a little later, up and on to their respective places,
school, work, the air port, to some other destination.
Meanwhile, the wind passes me by,
forgets to tug me toward destiny,
forgets I want to fly.
Instead, I pick myself up
and walk myself outside.