:::country party:::

Clear off the cobwebs!
Clear off the mold!
Do it right quick,
just as you’re told!

The guests have arrived!
The guests are all here!
Now, let’s greet them warmly,
with wine and good cheer!


Image Credit: Philip Gerrard

:::last rites:::

My city
My pride
Shall we wail for the
seraphs who float down
the river, soaked
in the
tears of God?

My city
My heart
Shall we bury the visions
which led us to
wage a war
that could
not be won?

My city
My life
Shall we close our eyes
and conjure a morning
that will never
encounter the
veil of night?


I am just a body,
framed neither by
light nor by darkness,
flowing through long
corridors with sweet
beasts of burden
while shouldering the
ashen narratives of
faces who have
already fallen.

I am merely a hand,
neither open nor
closed, beating
steadily against a taut
bolt of time, in spite
of myself, trying to
keep pace with the
all-embracing rhythm,
which shall undoubtedly
break me in the end.

A Portrait of Gratitude


This photograph is of my good friend Mayo—who I met in college over ten years ago—and her new husband Keisuke at their recent wedding in Yokohama, Japan.  This was taken right after the couple acknowledged their parents by reading prepared “letters of gratitude”.  It was a beautiful moment.

Five For My Eye: V

In atelier’s confines, an unseen canvas,
not for my eyes, plays upon maestro’s
fragmented mind.  He knows that I see
all through fraudulent spectacles, wry
smile yanking at dripping lips on this
formless day, almost gone as we sip
on snifters of sunset, honeyed and
hot on espresso coated throats.

Venetian blue clad mademoiselles
sneak in through open apertures,
inhaling paint fumes, sour and stark,
still lingering from desperate December
evenings, when steady fingers trembled and
blushing sacrifices went up in flames
while shedding slick, greasy tears under
the artificial glow of night.

I was not put on this earth to pick up
stacks of out-of-date newspapers
, he exhales
with disdain, regarding me warily with an
Aperol-tainted face.  Those half-baked
heralds scattered upon floorboards, those
collapsed playing cards of the lowlands,
those bleating sheep, those fountains
of songs, those aves del paraíso, falling atop
each other heavily with silent, gaping
mouths like vanquished bulls left to bleed
out beneath an apathetic star.

In space between forefinger and thumb,
luminous suits fall under sweeping veils of
tyranny. A sky that we cannot see becomes
camouflaged by clouds that we cannot touch
and the advancing storm beyond the far
wide-window is nothing next to the great
squall within.

In the corner by the fifth column, fantastical,
muted labyrinths of flesh with gleaming
teeth soundlessly beg to be made whole through
vacant iguana eyes, desperately desiring to
be unshackled from the eternal shades of
gray that fused their shattered bones
together as the deafening roar of the almighty
elephant dragged on.



This is the final installment in a series of five poems inspired by the photography of Constantine Brassaï.