life is an improbable nothing
it is a muscle
it is *******

it makes hands with hands
and speaks not a word

nor is a number

nor is countable

it is a whole and it is a moment

beyond heat, it burns

and say i (life little; life improbable)

speak not a word
be uncountable

be not a number

I can walk through the waves and the sand all day,
Just waiting for the tide to take me away.
There's a reason why I am by the seaside,
There's a story that belongs with the bewildering tide.
It's about a boy and a girl who expressed their love,
In ways far from ordinary- it was completely above.
Her love is the ocean and his the sand,
You can tell that it's love as they walk side by side, hand in hand.
I think you knew why I was by the seaside,
When I looked to my left you were watching the tide.
I pulled you near and held your hand as the tide rolled in and covered the sand.
The story's still unraveling as we grow older,
With our toes in the sand and my head on your shoulder.
We will come and go, yet always meet,
Emotions as strong as the waves hitting our feet.
Our love may get pushed aside, bruised and sore,
But remember, the tide always returns to the shore.

You asked me where I wanted to fall in love

And all I could think was, "In your arms"

I ran into you again in the old café.
You know the one, with its yellow and blue vintage mugs,
The one with the mismatched chairs and Old Persian rugs.
With the red espresso machine and the barista who knows us both by name.

When I say I ran into you, I don’t really mean we made small talk,
Or even acknowledged one another with a head tilt or nod.
It was more so I saw you from across the shop, and you saw through me.

I watched you order your coffee as I mimicked the bartender’s “Markus”.
I put my head in my book, the one about god-knows-who doing god-knows-what.
You took your usual seat, the one a table down from mine,
The one beside the window that looks down the main strip.

You drink your coffee with cold milk and sugar, with a slow rush and concentration.
I wonder where you go to each afternoon, who you meet with
And if she knows you bite your nails.

As you drink and think, you scrawl.
I follow your hand motions in-between a word or two on the page in-front of me.
Each time I try and imagine what it says, but each time you finish your cup you crumple the page and stuff it in your denims.
I wonder who washes your pants, who find those words,
Who treasures them the way I would.
I wonder if she knows you mess with the front of your hair when your hands don’t know what to do.

You pick up your empty cup, place it on the counter, you open the door and nod to the barista.
She nods and tells you to “not be a stranger”.
I look to where you sat, and feel lonely without your scribbling.
But where you sit is not empty, with a sugar *** and stir sticks.
Your words you left, for her not to find and for me to steal.

I walk to the table and turn over your page. It writes,
“A letter to the girl I see in our café, the one that knows us both by name.
I see you but you see right through me.
I wonder who you are looking for out on the street, I wonder if you are waiting for someone to walk by,
And if he knows you touch your hair when you’re nervous and drink vanilla lattes with one sugar.
I wonder if he is in your books you read about only-you-know-who and only-you-know-what.
I sit in the window where you look, waiting for you to see me,
I write and write to tell you something or anything,
But I know he is out there somewhere and not here in.
I scribble something down in hopes I can somehow get you to notice me,
But all I can write about is how beautiful you look in our quiet, old café, drinking the froth from a blue mug.”

the barber and the bald man
and the ubiquitous philosopher
are travelling in ancient Rome
Here below the tree at night
they rest and take turns to keep an eye
on their luggage
Now it is the turn of the barber to keep watch
and he gets bored
and he takes out his shaving kit
and he gives the sleeping philosopher
a free shave, so now you have two bald men

And now it’s the philosopher’s watch
and he wakes up
and he feels his smooth head
and he muses to himself:
*“That stupid barber!
He has woken up the bald man
instead of waking up the philosopher!”

I'm tired and ready.
It's that time in my life
To move on and move forward,
To forget my strife.

Pack up my stuff.
Get ready to go,
the only place that makes sense;
Mexico.

So fun, so sunny,
laid-back and carefree.
tequila shots and beer
lined in front of me.

exactly what I need
yet I still find it tough.
so much alochol
yet somehow sober enough.

Sober enough to remember
you're still in my mind
Pain, heartbreak and self-pity
I wish I  left behind.

I grab a drink and guzzle some more
the last thing to do
is stay sober enough
to be reminded of you.

It pains me to think
I miss you calling me pretty
despite what happened
it still seems a pity

A vacation no more and instead a waste
For I am in my perfect place
And I will never
get to see your face.

It all makes sense now
I'm sober and aware
shots or not,
I still figure it unfair

Mexico was my solid solution
but you had to mess up my perfect plan
im sober, staring at the sunset alone
and  have written your name in the sand.

People who live by the sea
understand eternity.
They copy the curves of the waves,
their hearts beat with the tides,
& the saltiness of their blood
corresponds with the sea.

They know that the house of flesh
is only a sandcastle
built on the shore,
that skin breaks
under the waves
like sand under the soles
of the first walker on the beach
when the tide recedes.

Each of us walks there once,
watching the bubbles
rise up through the sand
like ascending souls,
tracing the line of the foam,
drawing our index fingers
along the horizon
pointing home.

I dreamt there were millions of
Bright little frogs
With jeweled-dew eyes
And glimmering legs that
Flashed and leapt about in your sea-kelp hair

And your skin was the brown of river-beds,
Warmed by midday winter-sun
And dappled like eels swimming

And your eyes held the liquor of pearls and amber
And the sting of scorpions
And the songs of river-stones

And in my dream,
There were *****
Like tiny polished pomegranates
Clasped in a long chain about your neck;
They skittered uneasily, whispering to one another
Of faith and betrayal

And your words, they were few,
Falling in indigo droplets-
Cool, distant
Murmuring
That held the secrets of the clouds

And you wanted me to understand
Something…
So urgently- something about death and what came after-
Beaches and endless sky, or purple meadows and pale stars,
Or just words perhaps…
I don’t remember
Except that it was sad.

And then I woke up-
Tears warm against my cheek,
Heart baffled by water-love and secrets,
And memory of a million bright little frogs
Glittering in your sea-kelp hair