I entreated you to love me in so many different ways.

I entreated you to love me in so many different ways.

I entreated you to love me. In a roundabout way. When we stood on the edge of the ocean cliff, hugging our own bodies for warmth, staring into the sunset instead of each other’s eyes, I slipped my arm underneath yours, and you obliged.

When holding hands became as routine as breathing, I entreated you to love me by saying I love you. I said it first. And then I said it again. I said it in entirely different ways than I had said it to anyone before you. Still, you were not moved to say it in your own unique way. Instead, you grew weary and said:

Don’t say the same things over and over again, just as all lovers
do, for they imagine they will win love over with their use of
many words.

So then I made each of my many words count:

Interlace your fingers with my toes
and gently nudge my sleepy feet

Crumble the burnt crust of my homemade
pie into tomorrow’s bread pudding

Slip through my slamming door
all wrapped in a blanket for two

Stick around longer than my cat’s nine lives

Love me

And you did.

When my dreams became too lucid and I called you in the middle of the night, you came over and draped your body over mine. That kept the strange shadows circling my bed from reaching me.

I had discovered a poetry that never repeats. And just when my choice of words won your love over, my love grew weary:

When you send me
a dozen roses,
I will place them in
a can of peach juice,
and they will drown
in sweetness before their time.

When you bring me
hot chicken soup,
I will singe my tongue
until it’s numb,
and won’t be able
to thank you.

When you place a ring
on my finger,
I’ll be wearing a glove
of slippery black velvet.

When you kiss me,
I will lick my lips – and yours
– until they’re chapped,
cracked, and bleeding.

Don’t love me.

But sometimes words are not enough, and you are still here, loving me.

(Excerpt poem from “Myths & Meditations”)


Why I Write…

“So that I would not ask them to praise me or to denigrate me, but merely to tell me if this is the case, if the words which they read in themselves are indeed the ones I have written.” – Proust


– open to rot,
when bitten or not,
while hanging on a tree,
or handpicked
into a barrel.

Prefer the browned core
of a green apple slice
to the withered
virgin whole.

False Orifice (A very brief performance piece)

This mouth is no door
this eye no window
into my soul
my soul

Quit pushing gist
through wavering lips
blinking signs to the blind.


Latest Project: Molding Poetry

I’m feeling excited about my latest project – putting together a chapbook entitled: Beauty Other Than of the Face/The Sensuous Poems. I’ve been writing poetry consistently and doggedly for the past month or so, posting many of these poems here on WordPress. The process has been interesting in that as I’ve written, I have had in mind a general idea of the theme for the chapbook, and the resulting connections and undercurrents continue to manifest themselves. I’ve never been one to impose artificial connections, nor do I want the theme to be merely arbitrary, and I think this is becoming more evident as I piece together this project. It’s sort of an ‘imitation of life’ (excuse the cliche) in the sense that lived experiences often leave a clumsy or messy trail, which when you try to retrace your steps, you’re left more with impressions rather than a clear-cut path. Further, I feel like I am discovering form for the first time. I’ve certainly written poetry in the past, but now having to focus on what form the poem should take on the page is not as easy a task as I had previously thought. It feels almost painstaking to mold each poem into the best shape for its story and its sound. Nevertheless, the process is exhilarating and helps me keep up my writer’s stride.


One chin shaped by a shaver
Another hidden by a beard
One hand given to waving
Another hidden in the rear
Each love a happy accident
Each love residing in difference yet –
This smooth hand
Scratches that itchy chin
Just as well as any other

Time Striking

Time – hidden by a clock facing the wall –
will not strike with surprise
wide eyes
taking a peek

But the return of your face
a long lost habit
crumpled and aided
by a new set of teeth –

Now that’s time lost
time past
time made

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