You wear and compare,
The things I bear.
Sorries of none,
Pretending to care.
Scared to share
What you have of me.
Critical of others
That fail to see.
The parts of me
I tend to hide,
You make them scream
Until they die.
But i'm your truth,
And your my lie.
A friend of fake

Is no friend of mine.

I'm gonna read Knife
Book by Salman Rushdie
His is an interesting life
Alas and alack for him

Such a pretty church
England, lovely England
Mr. C.S. Lewis
In Florida long ago

America is corrupt
I have corruption too
Pondicherry Zoo
No real hope for me

Episcopaliens!
Walk in Purple Rain
Downbound, Downbound Train
I drift, I drift toward death

                quiet breath

Here,
In this womby-tomby

Safety of my coverings
I begin to realize,

I don't want to remain unborn.

.  if every letter was a rock,

      low case, light enough

   for a child to throw, then,

  should i, the poet, be held

   responsible for words of

   epitaphs on headstones

 and flagstones in palestine

                      ?

Night came,
stole her away.
It slipped in through a slit in the light,

The stranger, pale and grey,
with unfamiliar rudeness wrapped
tight boney fingers around her neck.

Then she was gone.
Now we both are captives
of the night.

a flavor lost in water
frustration dissolving into apathy
does it even matter any more.
a comedy of pain
would you like to see the discrepancy in timestamps
or is it enough to say im ready
and would you understand
when i tell you with joy
i no longer love you
or would that contradict these citrus-scented apple slices
touched only by two hands
and the burning of acidic salt beneath my eyes
as if i ever stood a chance