I wish I felt like this more often. 3:06 AM and I have forgotten for a moment what tomorrow holds. It feels like I could do anything.


Sadness, drips, cold sweat.
Puddle, shower, drips, wet.
Hang head, switch off,
Hang on, rinse off
Who you were when you
stepped in
Make you new when you
step out.


Half good, half toasted.
Mostly full, mostly bloated.
Tomorrow I’ll try again,
and I’ll miss being
easy to talk to
in the morning.


I like things that sound
like Dreamscape,
Semi consciousness, like a
Utopic autopilot
Flow, like rap, like
people who just
access a truthful part
of the human heart.


3:20 AM.


Mother’s fingers are stained
with orange peels.
She stands by the kitchen
and offers me orbs;
she wants me to live
a hundred years more.

Mirrors are painful,
my face is too round.
In harsh winter,
cheeks blossom
and soften into hers,
whose face I love.

I carry her as she carried me
inside her belly,
a little orange tree.
For as many years I’ll live,
I will brave through the winter
a quiet reminder
that I am
my mother’s daughter.



Tip-of-the tongue
what is the word?
hands in your hair
thinking about
others – ah it’s


Speaking of poets
like old friends, I must meet your
beloved Hardy.


Slate blue eyes, adorned with coral
you see beyond the mundane,
capturing light as it skims the leaves,
iridescent clouds, effervescent memories
in shadowy towers and age-old palaces.  

Attentive to whispers of feeling:
Timmy is watering the flowers-
maybe something is blossoming
between us. 

People like you are pockets of goodness:
strong, as nothing erodes it.
You land softly onto my shoulder
and teach me how to be lovely.