Thursday, February 26, 2015

Cerulean Dream / The Name of a Poet

I was her passenger
on a dark blue freeway.

"I want your last name."

"Really? ...but, why?"

"Because it sounds better. It's cool.
It would just look good on my work."

"On you're writing, you mean?"

"Yea! I could carry on the name.
Whenever I publish something
your name will be there, too.
You know?"

I was baffled by her proposal, but
more so of her ambiguous enthusiasm,
the seriousness of her tone,
the earnest of desire.

As she steered the old Corolla
around muted blue bends,
a dusty sky churned behind
ashy blue mountains.

I glanced over at her.
She had that subtle smirk of hers,
a purple tank top,
her skin softly aglow.

All around was a cerulean shade
save for the flicker
of indicative red lights

"I guess I just don't understand.
You only want my name?"

Pressing on the pedal
she bent her smile
and quietly 
burned down the Caldecott 

Thursday, February 5, 2015

Tell me, what harbored soul
is able is rise from the depths
of fear, uncertainty, and insecurity
just as the Sun rises everyday
with grace and ardor?
Who then has the capacity
to undo all the tars and cancers
writhing and twisting within?
Who can unwind the vines
of the lessons that taught
self torment, quiet suffering,
endless stress, and solemness?
Does one ever reach the final end
to any one and to all questions?

Tuesday, February 3, 2015


It's true, my sensitivities get the better of me
I get twisted like a damp rag and everything
stagnant rushes out and whirlpools round
before being flushed away, down the drain

So, sorry for the shitty attitude, but something
about coffee runs after nine o-clock
offsets my trust module and I begin to
question everything over and over, again and again

And pardon me for being confrontational
It's just that I did take it personal
when our collaborations went missing, but
not before you twice forgot to mention my name