It's only just words
or the thoughts that alight them
It's only just a kiss
or the love that is created by it
It's only just a smile
or the memory it invokes
It's only just a voice
or the heart that beats for it

It's only just forgetting
that the winds are meant to change
It's only never knowing
if you ever called my name
And it's only just regret
If you ever felt the same

Home is where the heart is, but my home was built in vain.

The only man I ever loved
Said good bye
And went away
He was killed in Picardy
On a sunny day.

I’m tired of this old secret.


It drowned in the endless churning of my

washing-machine mind

long ago, and I hate its smooth, cold corpse,

languishing imperturbably in my unfortunate

dryer of a heart.


I’m too familiar with its satin surface —

the way the top left corner dips in almost imperceptibly,

the corresponding bump underneath,

the different textures (now worn faint

and smooth) that once marked

the subtle variations in shade —

and I’m tired of its constant presence

almost unnoticed

cradled in the palm of my right hand.

I’m tired of it.

And so I step back

and swing

my arm in one great resolute arch.

When,

satisfied,

I turn my back on the distant thud

that marks its far-off landing,

my hands find their way into my pockets.


It is still there,

lying smugly in its bed of grey clinging lint

and empty wrappers.

I so wish that I could see you
In a dimly lit cafe
Treating your spiced chai like an injured bird
And your face like the exhibits
Of local art on the walls around you

I thought I saw you there once
But it was too smokey
The air thick with conversations
And reunions after 24 hours or less
I'm so sorry that I missed you

But I know that later on I'll find you
Like I always tend to do
Sitting in your usual spot
Exactly like I would expect
On our couch
At home

Don't tell me that you love me
'Till you find a way to hate me
And still like me all the same

Call me stricken
by her
          my favorite color.

I want to fill my ears with static
to give my thoughts some room to move
and my eyes monochromatic
with an artistic side to prove


She writes
like shes giving
Noah Webster a *******,
her labyrinthine constructions
of consonants and vowels,
leading in circles
obliterating disbelief,
and I
          AM

the words.


She tastes like ***
and nostalgia
nauseating my pages,
wearing thin over keystrokes,
repetition,
               the mother of decrepitude
so my muse
               decimates my thoughts
          one in ten
     one in ten
one in ten
*CRACK

His eyes glazed over
          her art
      and missed the nuances
          small sounds
          measured movements
     Never saw it coming


Her eyes were blue
        and black
    defending him
          against her better judgment
     her face brushed
          in natural blushes
          and smokey greys
     that made me yell FIRE


They were a pristine model,
     he, a snapshot of time
     she, the painted portrait
               Je t'embrasse,
                        Marie A.


She was beautiful, and
he was happy
     to leave her hanging
     on a wall