Sunday, November 18, 2012


3 am, 
sugarless coffee
pumpkin spice latte
our hearts are spoons, stirring it
the smoky haze,
this smell mixed into yours
and first sips
the after tastes, like a burnt cigarette

while you talk of
the world, (is an asshole, you say)
I want to travel Europe
Nobokov is underrated
Brecht is overwhelming
wish we were in a jungle
wish we were in seventies
wish we were..
. together

I'll make you an early morning cup
I'll make you a metaphor
and a poem
our lives are rectilinear, like
sex, drugs and Beatles
perhaps indie movies, Jim Jarmusch

I am, me
class of 2013
summa cum laude
and your love.

When the coffee ends,
you can have my soul.

take me

take me as a kind word 
speak of me more often. 

as a poem to whisper 
in the dead of the night 

and then 
when you have claimed 
the mountains and oceans 
and the stars and the trees 
take me as your home, 
come back to me every now and then.

To, Gaza-

I have a memory and I live in it
sometimes I am a carpet and I dust myself inside
like the world.
I do not share borders with you for my borders like the rainbow
exists only in the rains and the tear drops
I share verses, sadness and death
the trembling faith of a father with a lost child
spreading around like God

Today, poetry would beg for a ventilator
but will be shut down, for it died with the death of her kids
the colored wings of a butterfly, the moonshine and the smiling child

The windows, the desk, the pen
they crave for poetry, but she would not knock
for feelings are fragile and wishless and words scarce
as life cannot be erased and re-written and memorized.

Sunday, November 4, 2012


slowly, reveal 
look out the window, touch the breeze
and if it rains, let it rain all over you
do not blame the sun, thank it 
caress the leaves, fallen or otherwise
the tears that you wipe, let them flow and dry
feel, this moment right now, yes,
you are alive

make that coffee a little dark 
and live through each sip and gulp it 
and breathe
write a poem that makes you smile and cry
and then say it out to yourself, 
'I love you.'

accept when others say that too and smile a little more this time,
for them

accept that you have made mistakes, would do again
be kind, to yourself, you are not perfect, who asked you to be, anyway
say, 'I love me.', now,
and then feel that breeze on your face again

for you and I are just the guests of space, 
and eternity
and we must live, my love
while we live.

stardusts and skyscrapers. -

We are neither words or pieces of poems. 
Nor, do we live in the water fronts of literature 
our world is a hardened place where guns silence language 
and love lives in the caskets of soda bubbles.

There was a time and a place in the withered island of memory 
where you and I and our friends lived 
where the smell of an approaching winter was home 
and the sonatas of homecoming were sung 
in the palimpsest of beautifully structured words.

Now, lyric and rhymes have abandoned us 
and we live in the cemetery of reality, 
where no matter how much we try 
we will not metamorphose into our favorite poems. 
Instead, we will slowly languish away 
in the yellow frayed agony of life.

But to tell you all of it, there is an archipelago
where silent conversations, silken touches are guarded as a child
and I have kept a handful of clouds and a prairie of rains
with a jar full of prose still live
where amidst all kinds of ruins our secret is safe.

So, hold onto my arms and stay with me 
for perhaps on some starry night, if we welt our souls deep enough,
then beyond the valley of lies and deceits
unseen and unheard, the slow moving breeze of poetry, 
would still flicker, like tiny stardust in our eyes.