Writing, I think, is not apart form living. Writing is a kind of double living. The writer experiences everything twice. Once in reality and once in the mirror which waits always before or behind. --Catherine Drinker Bowen



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Wednesday, October 29, 2003

Ni sang ni miel
(Neither blood nor honey)

I want to reach over
Gently take your hand
Inhale you
And kiss you.

I want to walk over
Hold you for a moment
Feel you
The flesh beneath cloth.

But I don’t.

If only no one else were here
I would whisper
into your chest.
If you were not all the way
Across the room,
I would close my eyes
and fall into you.

If you looked at me just once
I would shatter and melt
Into tear streaked drops
of blood and honey.
If you even knew
How much I love
And loved me back...

But you don’t.

And neither of us ever will.

Saturday, August 18, 2001

I think I made a fool of
myself, owell
Ohell, I am wortheless
is who I am
damn, I need someone
to love me
be happy with
you and me
true love.
god--an unknown
Why the one I
I am
scared terrified
my brain
is fried
a broken heart
omelette for
fasts gone
a love hunger strike
takes its

The troll
under the bridge live I
with tales a plethora
but no one there
except the ever-present stream
and time.
one foot in the water or death,
and love,
just out of reach
on the bridge above me,
the sheep of society annoy me,
but when I fight back
with my stories,
Societies Sheep call for
and how I die.

Sunday, July 22, 2001

The porcupines.
A sea of hedgehogs
suspended by wire and scotch tape.
Memories of camp,
the journal,
le scotch de trois m.
familial; so unreal,
happy; so surreal,
fragile; so real.
They chase each other,
never catch,
discovered, caught, scared,
Insane and angry,
they dance on.

A lamp post is not a tree, or is it? Sprouting from a Frank Lloyd Wright-esque upside-down pyramid, a weed thrives. How does it do that? Why does it do that. Maybe it is an architecture afficionado. Perhaps it wishes to be illuminated. Could it tell us why someday? Probably not.

beneath the surface
something stirs

from beneath the surface
something tries

beneath the surface
something dies

we'll miss you, logic.


Could have
Might have
Should have
May have
Would have
Did, died
It is.


Too much
Too fast
Too weird
Too bad
So sad
Too little
Too late
Too happy
Too bad
So sad
Too long
too short
Too mad
Too bad
So sad
It is.


Death happens, as a part of life.
The world lets it do its job.
If only someone knew,
If only someone could.
So sad, mad, happy, glad
It's not as if the world's that bad
It is.

Gone, to another place
Or not, just gone away.
Someone didn't notice,
There is no way that they could have.
So mad, sad, happy, glad
It's not as if the world's that bad
It is.

Missed, they were.
Will I be?
Nobody should have noticed.
Nobody did.

Too late, too bad.
It is.


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