25 January, 2017

Who Will Kill Haiku

We're all going to die
fighting over who will kill
almost everything

24 January, 2017


My anger runs away
in listless braids, ribboned
to a dark room and
I am abandoned to the rest of myself

We haunt ourselves by speaking
and every time I hear myself
I can see into the past

I thought I’d know how by now
But the sins we create for each other
are endless and the jars to catch them
are all broken
or put away somewhere

My sins are only useful to myself
My anger bolts
back to a stained past
Perfect glass ribbons

20 January, 2017

by shorthand for strangers

To address exquisiteness
or offer bittersweet affirmations
regarding our such delicate conditions, while
fervidly vomiting up loveleeches in milk
by shorthand for strangers,
because I don't feel like we're a family anymore,
and weave our breaths into harmonious chants
that fill up temples on golden hills
seems cheap and
somehow perfumed with sour grapes

All the things we do
we keep doing forever
allowing the past to keep haunting

13 January, 2017

Strange Shadows

It is true
I am more docile now
Not wild like before
Like you knew me before
I am not like the wildflowers
you keep pressed in secret
hoping to give to your beloved

Clipped ruby wings
Plump, taciturn
protect against strange shadows
melting silently
during the sunny part of the day

Leftover relics
built along broken tracks
dividing pasts being avoided
I am not wild but
I am wild and you can’t see me anymore
nor the secrets melting quietly away
wilting from old scorn

12 January, 2017


I have become from somewhere
No longer completely irrelevant
Alone, still, not lonely
Warding off that Second Death
there is nothing to do than eat
the grief of not having been oneself
for too long

How much further would I have gone walking
through a desert, convinced of oasis
Fabled, pearly ghost
I was always from nowhere at all
and now
And now I am pure again
I am encouraged not to flee so fast

I let myself stare
at your warm, bright eyes
seized by hypnotic vulnerability
Here it doesn’t matter who I am
There is no such thing as grief
in this light
where I see such unexpected roots