"Dreams are foreign and uncomfortable. The common dreamworld never quite mimics life in its truest form."

I flew over snowy mountain peaks on my way to Amsterdam, dreaming of existing in my truest form. My layover in Reykjavik was only three hours long, & I was traveling alone. Three hours is just enough time to worry about getting lost & I pondered what it would be like to let go.

My trip would take me to Amsterdam, then London. I would find myself in Amsterdam again by day 10. I chose to ignore the loneliness by drinking a pint of Belgian beer in a bar that was much too small and enveloped in tobacco smoke.

On my way to the bathroom I spotted a cat prowling the floor like he was hunting for a bird. He was out of place, yet here he was in his truest form. Forever hunting for a bird that was nowhere to be found.

Grey then blue and green
Turns the water of this scene
So does the facade of these ugly old buildings

Skirts shorten and cleavage expands
While my hairline recedes

Burnt black squares keep appearing
They’re branding the lawn!
At last summer is blooming

You are riding into the sunset
on the Nine Streets
Going against traffic
but it’s all good 
says a sign ‘Uitgezonderd’ beneath

Out of nowhere
an exuberant Porsche Cayenne appears
enters your vision
stealing the peace
your space
**** businessman!

Just get your key out
Slash through the paint
Expose the metal
Teach them what it takes
to mess with a bicycle

I felt it first –
the day we wore waterproof boots in Amsterdam in August,
an unexpected storm did little to disturb us
I began to notice it then
the secret in this town that everyone, except me, knew about

Something that was hushed and passed around
under the blanket of moon
hidden away in a fiercely dark room of the Red Light
beneath maroon velvet curtains and leather-topped stools
or nestled beneath a bridge on the black canal past midnight.

I saw water dotted with blurred droplets, dark blue
the reflection of milky streetlights.
I pull the curtains in the mezzanine and the show begins
on the street below. I look out.

A curve of the lips
a gentle folding of the arms
a hand brushing against another

A secret never told
A city more alive than awake.

our skin so delicate, so crude
we lie; beside each other & to each other
two tempered minds, wounded skins on the Amsterdam skinny bridge
letting the night to devour us into the darkness of its sky
hurt, tapered, and used
but we still are news
to each of our owns

I spend my summers in Amsterdam

Everyone rides bikes

The girls all wear short skirts

The wind blows and all the girls ride by with their ***** in the air

I sit outside the cafes and watch the bikes go by