It’s not real.¬†Echo.
Denial screams,
frantically shakes my shirt collar,
shake harder until it becomes
the truth.

Panic. Oh God no.
Inward sweat trickles,
my inside eyes widen,
dart side to side.

Protect and avoid,
emergency lock down.
Please secure your own mask

Tighten the straps and deep breaths,
suffocate yourself with the cloudy frenzy.

Now put it away, slam the drawer into oblivion. No matter what.

The cellar is locked, nothing is there.



Fingertip burns
from man-made injury,
precisely executed
as with a razor blade.

The sting

a proof of dedication,
of success over failure,
over sinking into an emotionless pit.

Breaking through
the intolerable stillness
a drop of fire blood
pulsing and pulsing with
my whole body behind it.
The deep, dull sting –
the pain that’s
jolts of colour
stretching and stretching
farther, tighter, closer
than I thought I could stand.

A sting, and
silent snap.
It ends.

And the horizon of fire spreads
and swallows my ring finger.
It curls tight in retreat, but it cannot escape me.

I am cruel to it,
because it is not me
(and because it is).

Because it is not perfect,
as I want it to be.

Chubby red cherub,
my ice fire finger.

Poetry, Uncategorized

An Open Poem to Myself

I am the wind whistling through a cold, narrow tunnel.

I am a petal on a daisy, clinging by a thread in the breeze.

I am a deer in the meadow, timidly wandering in beauty.

I am a crack of lightening in a warm summer storm.

I am a string of pearls draped around a delicate neck.

I am that song you heard once and barely remember, but cannot forget.

I am the last shout of sunlight before the horizon swallows the dusk.

I am a cool, fluffy pillow on Sunday morning.

I am a lamppost on the corner on a dark, snowy street.

I am not this skin, this hair, this face. I am everything.



My innocent hand!
It’s smooth surface smiles at you with
three triangular freckles,
which I give you.

To be touched
(this kind of touch)
is kind, but the responsibility
of touching you
I couldn’t do.

Isn’t this enough?

There’s a chalk line up and down
my fingers,
imprecisely definite
as a maple leaf from summer to fall.
Calloused experience separates from
innocent reception. Onus shifts.

(my fingernails are merely
witnesses, vain ornamentation
adoring adoration.)

Sage wrinkled palms
know the hurt they’ve caused
and pained the virginal silk backs
to watch, and became wise.

The doe-eyed freckles
dance multiply move,
scattering on my skin –

I scratched one open once,
an oddball jutting it’s neck out
like an intrusive neighbor.
It’s decapitated head dangling
by a sinewy thread,
and it bled and bled
and bled.


Greasy, dust-laden air



betrayed by slim fingers of light

sneaking through the curtains,



The air –

heavy with it’s own perspiration –

holds its breath

while the tired, peeling walls

sympathize with Atlas.


A lonely potted plant


in the corner,

her crackle-dry petals

turned black as poison

and just as bitter.


The low, intruding hum of a housefly

who has just realized its mistake

retreats into the blackness of the hallway,

and the plant sheds a death-like petal.