Monday, September 29, 2003

no answer the machine picked up

i listened to her voice
over the speakers
cheerful, leave
a message
i'm lost in
my own world.

i could hear the piano in
the background. the phone
is faulty, i know she's there.
she plays the familiar chords
over and over in the afternoon
the sun penetrates the curtains to
spotlight her sheet music
i cannot enter this world anymore
i have no invitation, no ties left.
i cannot be sunlight to
enter into her sanctuary and i
cannot merely be the wind.

Sunday, September 28, 2003


it was nothing special...just a cloudy night
shot through liberally with stars
we sat on a cement sidewalk
we took walks
architecture hunting and visiting graves
the moon was with us
followed unseen through the darkened skies
as we lay
trespassing on labyrinths long covered
in layers of time and guilt
we spread out in
grim imitations of the past
i don't know how to recall that night...
in a glimmer of panic
a warm feeling
cool wind brushing past my face
blowing my hair into my eyes
i can't remember a time when
everything made sense.

Wednesday, September 24, 2003


last night
was a beautiful dream,
the kind you wake up from
and wish you hadn't
you curled by my side
a blanket to shield me from the world
i'm fragile today,
and yesterday
i put on personas like hats,
and watched mirrors
for the right reflection.

Friday, September 19, 2003

bohemian rhapsody

words are in vain when
trying to describe this
volumes have been written
upon less - a mere touch
of skin, a scent, a glance
yet i grasp your entirety
which leaves me speechless
we are more than this
we fill our spaces with each
other and fall asleep,
lonely, in empty beds,
when apart.
(my face cannot drop its smile,
which warms my heart
so that i could not be cold
in even the most sub-zero weather)

Friday, September 12, 2003

she's not here

and as i turn to tell you...
no one answers
the doorbell never rings
your lingerie refuses to hang
over the shower
and i see shadows
of your coffeeshop logic,
of you scribbling
we are split like
rotten fruit.
the basket's empty,
we spread
over the continent
butter, cream,
the game is over,
the players are gone.

Tuesday, September 9, 2003


the phone rings and
no one answers
the phone rings, buried
under stacks of papers
of last year's dreams
in the pile for the shredder.
the interns shrug and
let it ring. the
leaning against
one of the
counselors outside
sharing a smoky kiss
in the haze
of marlboro light.
last year's dreams in
small strips flutter
to the floor.

Wednesday, September 3, 2003

only imagine

i dreamed of pearls in mexico
buying the things we never could afford
trading parts of our hearts for tangible objects
but it was okay, okay,
i was with her.
we danced together in the clouds.
and as i knew that the bit players
would soon fade
i would stand in the spotlight
i can only imagine
a world such as this, where
i stand up alone
dancing for you