Nov. 2002 I feel. I see. I touch. I taste. I smell. I hear. I talk. I live. I am. I am a person. I am this person. I am me. Life used to be the realistic setting of…
Category: Poetry
The Unopened Maps Inside Me
I hear a thousand voices, All shouting And They are my own. I’m listening to them in silence as they Fight to be heard. If I own these voices, these small wills Pretending to be entire persons then Who am…
Poem: Grandma’s Buddhas
Grandpa gave me Grandma’s three Buddhas Because she is no longer here to want this Trinity of not trivial treasures she bought when she Took her family to Nepal, so restless was her Heart that my father had traveled around…
The Poem of the Banana
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IF. . .
Some days, this poem is essential as the air I breath. Today is one of those days: IF . . . by Rudyard Kippling IF you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming…
In Video Games
She mastered the art of reckless endeavoring, always plunging Forward outnumbered on unknown paths In a world just purchased for $10 from the Haitian vender who works on the street with a guilty grimace and anxious attitudes again just a misunderstanding away from life…
However
We hold ourselves away from the cold winds away from the darkness like moths addicted to the light like we are adoring of life. We still find ourselves alone in the dark flying upside down the fireflies flash giving us unlasting…
Anticipation
Lives inside my cellphone when its darkened face has more patience than my fidgeting hands massaging everything they touch working out the stiffness of tonight robbing reality of its dull sensitivity clumsily holding a hundred howevers. ← Previous Next→
The Happiest Man In Denmark
The happiest man at the bar is the Danish drunk. But he is happier in a way that seems to say he is also happier when he is more sober than the rest of anxious, anticipating us. Next…
Steve Jobs Juggling Apples
I am writing this post on an Apple Macbook. A Galileo has died. But he showed us Applo before departing. This poem should have been commissioned as his death poem. It should be. It still could be. Play A.R. Ammons Nothing’s…
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