Category: Uncategorized

I believe that when we die,
our life repeats itself in a loop.
if i had to repeat this life,
I would do it without a second thought.
I could feel you again,
see you again and smile at you like the first time.
and if in the next life i don’t get to have you,
I will have to repeat my life until my soul
finally finds its other half
in another life.

He speaks virtuous words that feel unfairly sinful,
And I nod along, as I feel unbearably woeful;
He talks to me with his eyes sparkling,
The eyes that beg me to dive in and keep swimming.

He smiles at me innocently,
With the kind of charm that will haunt me endlessly;
He laughs at my jokes, especially those that even I do not deem worthy,
And I am left stuck between serenity and complete misery.

For he is unfortunately attached,
Not to me, and to levels of commitment that cannot be matched;
So, I am all alone in my wishful pining,
Dreaming of fantasies that will not be happening.

So why does he find reasons to touch me?
Mirthful taps on my shoulder, gentle pinches on my arm, and pats on my knee,
Because what feels right for me, is wrong for him,
Doesn’t he know that I feel loyalty to her, though I think of her as stuck-up and prim?

So, I refuse to move beyond this song and dance,
I never want to know his intentions, and I will not leave everything to chance;
I have to lock up these longings up in a vault,
Though I occasionally wonder whether his kiss will taste like dark chocolate with sea salt.

Famed Soeril, knife-eared, sable-skinned,
a statue when standing still, staring
over the horizon. Black clothed, robed
in cotton, do you stand there always?
Always, do you stand staring over this
field of wilted flowers?
The brutal lounge like clouds,
pitiful in their fervor, lily-colored,
foam-colored, never brown like the sun.
Sweet Soeril, sable-skinned, why those tears?
Is’t for the world? What has happened
to the world? The wicked rule,
but they always have. The virtuous
are afraid of the light, and the colorless
fear the night, so they sing only when
the moon has bloomed and gray
stars drip upon their tombs
of gold. Is that why you stand still,
staring over the horizon, into a field of
dove-dug holes, each holding a portion
of Hell? Will they hold me, I wonder?
Ó Soeril, will they hold me
like a carrion in a water well?

The other day I saw someone
Shake her st and scream
At a cheery jogger with a backwards hat
Just as he crossed the street.

He bounced along the crosswalk
To the music in his ears,
Her blinker twitched impatiently
At her well-deserved frontier.

She went on yelling and turning red,
A cartoon bomb set to explode,
And he kept jogging and didn’t notice
As he carried on up the road.

“I have a green!” she screamed aloud
And gesticulated wildly.
The look on his face was pure contentment
And that’s putting it mildly.

Color me silent, with the melody unheard.
Refusing compliance, the notes have been blurred.
From a song I was born, and the dance I have seen.
So raged and worn, abide the spaces between.
So color me alone, amidst life and death.
My heart’s cold as stone, as frost replaces my breath.
In a graveyard of moments, no penance I seek.
Ignoring the torments, that run down my cheek.
On the coffin lay roses, please color me bold.
As the pathway encloses, the last mile so cold.
Now paint me the freedom, and fill in the shades.
My songs will precede them, and my stories will fade.
As I scribe on my page, and connect love and pain.
Blend calmness and Rage, and turn madness to sane.
Now color me with fables, and paint me anew.
Apply the pigments of Angels, and use rainbows as hews.
Adopt tones of scarlet, and satin so smooth.
The semblance of velvet, in the dyes that we’ll use.
Color me serene, paint deep in my bones.
Of a portrait unseen, in this garden of stone

for the seas they were red
the banks of the almighty up roar
always being black by sight
memory
never a dim light overlooking the
pathetic endless rejection of empathy
stemming way back when i started to
see the path that awaits me
full of stumbling mistakes
non forgiving relations from hell
catastrophic issues with people
whom in their own disaster
filling my life with self destructive behavours
memory
role models be like
king and queen of the dump
proceed to the next chapter
memory
for the dreaded self pity
pays me a visit
a longer one than normal
captavating myself in happy romance of others
memory
in denial
losing all respect for myself
not understanding this lesson in front of me
memory
not knowing
played like a fool in a
sess pool of brown stenched lips
and breath that stops rats in their tracks
memory
deserving or not
tis getting quite boring this chapter
time to drown out the odours
of fowl play and
crustinated asses
memory

—Landays are Afghani poems told in two lines.

Dozers crushed roots of the old burr oak.
The tree of hope painstakingly died in four years.

After Iraq and Afghanistan,
no one knew he killed 14,000 with drone strikes.

A beautiful house slept under shade
but grew hotter and more ill-tempered each summer.

She loved her from afar for decades.
Watching the comet in gloom, she reached for her hand.

The red-winged blackbird’s epaulettes shone
in pulses of sunlight above the green cattails.

This old man lied repeatedly to us,
compacting our dark soil but we emerged unscathed.

His wife refused to sleep with him.
She said his penis was like a tiny toadstool.

We buried our guns in the backyard.
Rattled our keyboards till we solved that injustice.

Upon driving home in rain and fog,
the cornfields surprised us with their uniformity.

A police dog sniffed kilos of pot.
The man wondered when they’d find the loaded pistols.

A white man—with a racist dad—wed
a black woman, photographed only in grayscale.

After seventeen years of marriage,
she never reached a single orgasm, ever.

Between ship and whale, the young man steered
his boat. A harpoon punctured him through his torso.

Our daughter stole money from others.
All her unpaid bills were thrown in the back of her closet.

A fawn was born in her wild backyard.
The abused girl watched, never telling anyone.

His wife, repulsed by each touch,
believed her husband’s head was a sweaty pumpkin.

A pack of wolves passed him on the trail;
the man longed to stroke their black fur endlessly.

Her brood visited the nursing home,
behind glass, worried their touch would kill her.

We stumbled upon a silverback
snared by poachers’ wire, deep in Uganda, dead.

With windows open, the cicadas’
nightly chorus was rowdy but strangely soothing.

For years, his wife described holding up a frog
as resembling his backside. Frog ass she said.

Residual sadness consumed
the parents: never found one trace of their young son.

In wet markets in Thailand, we strode—
among strung snakes and hung dogs—unable to speak.

They unrolled the felt yurt, tending lambs
and hammering horseshoes, felt at peace in Delger.

Missing Lima and his father’s fare,
he made ceviche and picaronis with honey.

His wife knew her husband was a moron
when he said Easter Seals lived on Easter Island.

After four tours and a blasted convoy,
his brother shrank angrily from his family.

The girl, despite turning 18, sought
to end tyranny and registered to vote.

As a child, she peered over haybales
as two barn owls fed field mice to their eager young.

The soldier wept online during wife’s
delivery. Distance is deliberate torture.

Her husband said his favorite book
was by Alexander Dumb-Ass. No one told him.

She lived altogether on a diet
of conspiracies and died forlorn, unloved.

Dolphins herded to a Faroe beach
are slaughtered by spinal lances in a blood sea.

For beadwork, the Lakóta woman
made a mistake because only God is perfect.

Both daughters shunned him when he remarried
too quickly after his wife’s death and “her replacement.”

His first wife laughed at his elevated
sense of self, hubris. “You’ve gone bankrupt seven times.”

As she starved, she relished the half-digested
spruce tips from the hare’s stomach, fragrant and floral.

The hummingbird bathed in straight down rain:
his red shield gleaming, his beak jousting the droplets.

Perched on an iron rafter overlooking
this supersized suburb of China,
a sparrow stares at the sesame seed bagels.
He twitches, repulsed by the glue traps
so close to the contraceptives,
the hometown pharmacist hoarding Sudafed,
Ol’ Roy dog food.
He is ignored by the blue cashiers
and the yellow assistant managers,
just another minor health code violation
pecking on celery, shitting on hand sanitizers.
He is just another Tuesday.

Every second it’s noon in every Walmart Store,
enormous lights directly overhead so bright
the blind regain their sight.
The sparrow makes dusty gray shadows
flying over the rifles and swiffers,
the clearance rack of unclaimed five dollar
Starter basketball shorts and mesh tops,
all the same size, small.
A thousand people and one sparrow
pass the isles today, misfortune
bringing them all together.
We all have our special needs in the Walmart Store.
We save money, we live better,
we are the one boss, the customer.
We are the new romantic spirits
summoned with our receipts in our plastic bags
to Yelp our shopping experiences:

I would rate zero stars but not an option.
I’m tired of being treated as guilty by default.
Not one of these people said sorry you hurt yourself.
It reminds me of the mistake K-mart made in the 90’s. Now who shops there?
Beware. Walmart only sells tobacco products and alcohol to Americans.
Try to remember they handle hundreds of thousands maybe millions of transactions every day
and every once in a while something will go horribly wrong.

Sometimes I wish I could just sleep all day,
Or perhaps for 100 years.
I wonder who would notice?
Would anyone?
Who watched over Briar?
Who held her hand, waiting for her to wake?
Who fell asleep each night, hoping that when they woke, she’d finally wake too?
When did they give up on her,
And move on with their lives?
Or were they never there to begin with?
Had they already given up on her the first day she didn’t wake up?
Or did they not care enough to check?
Have they
Already given up
On me?

The life of a dancer
Dancer in life
The love for my body
Then There Was Modern Jazz Dance…
The Art in the Journey of a Dancer
Beauty in Modern Jazz dance goes great with my body
The lines, slightly perfect angles,
So I pivot
And dance Modern Jazz
The longing of the dance studio
Creates the technique in my movements
Movement qualities of self-care
Then there was Modern Jazz Dance
Gia’s Autumn Leaves
Modern Jazz is a form that liberates
Spaces and creativity
Then there was Modern Jazz Dance…
Movement qualities of attention to my body
Reflections
Of Lavender, Cologne
The Art in the Journey of Dancer