in one bite

hungry eyes gaze up

swallowing celestial

and blinking black holes

across the street

you are on the other side 

of a fish bowl, blurred,

obscured, barely discernible,

your breath rising in puffs,

a shroud enveloping your edges.

that is how I think of us now,

as misty morning images;

it would be too painful

to acknowledge each other as people

even as strangers in the street. 

second story

I listen, perched on freshly-washed sheets 

with the fan making white noise to fill

the interstitial spaces, humming over

the shouts of people taking refuge from

the rain under the decrepit Korean church,

filling themselves up over and over

under the steps beneath the awning.

the warmth that comes is a small comfort

in April under the endless rain

that spills off the roof in sloshing drips

that mists the plants like the fake-thundering

areas of a produce section, so that everything

glistens with the masked scent of wetness,

mingling with the fragrant jasmine

that cover filigreed archways and trellises.

It should not smell like a basement outside.

 I will wait for summer here, listening

to pattering rain on waterproof walkers,

to the squish of unprepared footwear

to the city-filled runoff slipping in to drains

to the unrelenting trickle off the church's roof

to my fan that muffles conversations of despair

and hunger, and of finding the dry spots,

while the trees drink in water.

I imagine them thinking:

"in a few months these people will love

my shade, branches thick with leaves,

all thanks to my friend the Rain".


unfinished business

Resisting to put you on my shit list 

took time, which seems silly now

being that you seldom exist 

outside a realm where you and I

reunite in a REM fueled fantasy

that always ends with you turning

away from me without hesitation.

with your enviable rekcless confinence. 

Now all that remains is memory,

flicked away from the mind 

and banished to the back of my head

only to surface in sleep, where 

realize that your eyes will never

come too meet mine the same way

I still look at you

through these dream dazed, half-awake

moments where we replicate the first time

we held

our gaze-

your liquid pools,

my evolving irises.

 I become a cliché,

my love life ruined; no one else

ever comes close to that electricity.

So I find myself settling for less

with a lukewarm feeling 

because I understood the best part of you

and you left by giving me the worst. 

When I am awake I want to ask

if you knew what part of me was

the best part of me, too.




fine line

He doesn't like celebrating

birthdays, not because he is afraid

of his body getting older or

because he fears death.

Instead he is terrified of living

amongst those that are wise

enough to recognize behavior

that stands out like a fake smile

at his age of nearly 30 years.

It is getting harder for him

to stay in one place

those that he destroyed

still recognize his face

but they are stronger now

they will not allow him to move

freely in his hunting grounds.

 So he travels up and down

the coasts, searching for hosts

that will readily accept

an "I'm sorry" for actions

that take years to heal from,

to undo, to not hurt anymore.

Beware those practiced words

that flow so easily, sounding

like he just tipped over a glass

that you loved, his shoulders shrug

"whoops, I'm sorry".