exit wrong floor



like that,



was gone.

days went on

for weeks,

months passed,

years disappeared;

he died in his sleep

dreaming about her.

he should’ve said

something on

that elevator

instead of watching

her get off on a

different level.

doors closed.

the doors closed,

but never the memory.


a distinct smell and vague memories

waking up to

lipstick stains

on my sheets

(and other places),

i don’t notice

the aroma of

cheap wine


smoked substances

that are

soaked in the walls

and air conditioner filter

until my return

from an unsuccessful

trip for fresh water;

where’d you go?

were you even here?

traces of your presence

are outlined in my bed,

which i slowly

retrace with my fingertips.

scant memories begin

to reveal themselves:

veins pulsating in your

exposed neck –

head tilted back –

bottom of your

chin to the ceiling,

eyes rolled back in your head,

both your hands on the

back of my head

gripping the

suffocating product

in my hair,

contributing to the

uncontrollable shaking

between your thighs,

blood rushing to

all the zones

where blood doesn’t

even flow (adding some

color to your light skin

and new words to your

first, second,

spoken, and

unspoken languages).

yeah, i’m pretty sure

you were here;

question is:

why aren’t you here right now?

perhaps drinking another

bottle of cheap wine

and smoking a packed pipe

will enlighten me;


what else do I have to do,

except continue,

to think





your tongue envelopes

me like

tsunami tidal waves;

everyone should run for cover.


the crest of your lips crash

on my lustful heart;

my emotions run for shelter.


the arch of your back

breaks the barrier

I built for my heart.


gripping the roots

of your hair

for dear life

only intensifies

the situation.


my depression can’t handle

the transfer of energy

you’re hurling at

my fragile self.


the aftershocks have

me booking one-way

tickets on stolen


credit cards.


there’s no return from you;

lifeboats are deflated,

I’m hoping to drown in the riptide,

so i can die on a high note.



untitled poem #51

marinate my beard

shoot me in my heart

slice my chest open

rob my shadow,


I thought on the back

of the bike

in the middle of the intersection

blinded by shining




and blue



i wonder if you taste

like kumquat tea?


put me in a talking wheelchair

equipped with intellectual


so i can figure out

what you’re thinking about


as an added bonus,

know more about black holes.

(believe me, you’d be thankful.)



Just. Her.



i only want

to write for her,

about her,

to her,

i could fill

a million pages

with words

about her hair,

and a billion more


about her smile,


she doesn’t want

the pressure of

those words



so she sits

at a distance

reading some of the words


i was whispering them

into her ear

(of which I could write

a trillion more words about),

while she chats

with a lesser love.


One touch

I knew then,

when your hand

hung on for that

extra second

and our fingers

refused to depart,

that I knew

the connection

was real.

but the homeless woman

tried to sell us lottery


and I waved her off,

like an annoying insect,

with the buzzing noise of


zipping by,

with eyes,


fixed upon you.

They don’t want to leave

their position.

And why should they?

You’re treasure;

I won the lottery without playing.

But the homeless woman

is still homeless

while I get to call you home.

life just isn’t fair

and I’m surely partly to blame.



i see the flowers sprouting

from her eyes,

over there in the dark corner

of the bar where neon lights

from a hipster beer sign

shine upon the petals,

and it reminds me of you

and all the weeds i had

to poison

because the pulling out

wasn’t working.

tongue twisting

cherry stems,

sucking seeds

cherry cleaning;

i love the taste of cherries,

i love the memory of you,

i hate the taste of new love,

i want my old fermented

familiar twisted and knotted

cherry back … so i can

give it new seed.