Once I was a teacher
Once I strolled in schools

Once I could actually reach her
(King Lear is actually the fool)

Humid Bangkok night
Silent drops upon the pool

Now for political fight
Stubborn as a mule

Heart racing,
breathless-
slick, the salt-sweet of us.
Hastily dressed
and feeling delicious.
Your fingers slipping
in, hard perfect rhythm-
Quick circles pressed
to the heel of your
hand. Whispered good-bye
forgotten, unheard-
Licked clean of
intent between
you and I.

Sometimes I stay on a while, once his work's done.
Depends on his mood. Today I’ll not.

Won’t let me see, but can tell he’s drawing me sweet.
He didn’t handle me into position-

Instead, worked an inch or so above hip and thigh
with invisible thread.

And- dragged across paper, the charcoal is pleading.
Often it whispers and moans.

The strokes that he’s using are careful, considered.
I'd rather go home.

muse

I thread ever so carefully
Every strand of you
Weaved into the fabric of my being
Under tension was picture perfection
But don't look at the knotted bottom

Thinking about getting a tattoo
But, I take pause...
Looking in the mirror
I see my body’s already covered
Marked in invisible ink
Every inch of my bare skin
Painted with the joy and pain of living
From my heart to my hips
Color faded here, but poppin’ over there
Memories designed by your hands
Others etched on my own
A collection that makes me smile
Among a few pieces I regret
So, about getting a tattoo...
I guess I’m not ready
Because I can’t think of a tattoo
Meaningful enough, yet
To write over any of the life I’ve lived

I want this to be
the last poem that I've written
while I'm sipping on my tea
after everything's been eaten

after everything has been digested
then gone to my mid-section
after every recipe been tested
and cooked to perfection

but now the dishes are all stacked
and empty is the fridge
I'm ready waiting fully packed
crossing my life's bridge

so let me slowly sip my tea
and let me out loud slurp
this poem i will want to be
worth a one last burp

To believe in a God means the facts of the world are not the end of the matter.

                    - Ludwig Wittgenstein

A new look for the social media giants
Censorship is now their yearning
What we called it years ago
Was an old-fashioned book burning