The marching parade presses onward
faces, encircling around a beach
up the stairs, down Parkway Avenue
Racing against daylight.

Acrobats, clowns, and elephants one by one, 
clothed in flamboyant, aged garments
wrappings, hats, jewels 
snickering, and chattering madly

I can't glean if they catch my gaze from afar,
on this curved bike seat 
a crooked expression and a toasted
everything bagel, or if they are looking straight through me.

I'm too dull to be in a yellow jumpsuit
I'm too emanated to revisit here
to fly a line, the loud teasing of a
squawking bird reminding me of a primeval time.

Muddled and exhausted, I collapse to 
the grains of sand below my toes
and pillow a pile for my head,
resting in the warmth of the sunlight

I sing to my self a song of silence
my mouth, babbling rearwards 
wielding every breath and sigh as the
parade keeps winding by.


If I am Dreaming, don't Wake Me Up.

The alarm goes off,
like a slow, taunting dripping faucet
and I stretched from
Adam to Eve.

Inhaled the brisk air, 
From eyes to toes it fills me,

It rushes through my lungs,
my air capacity filling

I let out a sigh,
bid my farewells to the dreams of the night
as they danced away, 

into black and white
their colours faded

into fuzz
like an old, useless 
television set--

I embraced my elbows,

hugging them like a friend
my fingers trace the pattern of the down comforter
something to heave me back into rest

I am daring, swift
loving steadfastly 

blank, empty stares, 
but seeing everything

His smile doesn't overflow 
into a cute mess

It's wide and averse, 
it's strong

I realize I am once again dreaming.

And the vines expand,

entwining though
freshly painted windows.



It's that time of the year again..the stroke of a clock somehow equaling a fresh page, a clean slate, a new way of thinking and living life.  Counting Crows shoots through my head like angels singing "You go to sleep dreaming how you would be a different kind, if you thought you could but you come awake the way you are instead." I am me. Do I need changes? Yes. But I don't need a new year for that? My slate is full of blotches, lines, and sketches. Don't wipe them off to clear shininess. I am me. Flaws included. 


This is laid out flat, like a map
whatever has meaning in life
must vex to a halt, a
meticulous picture of every­thing you need
and need to know,
can’t have, and won’t.
The perfectionists, the mad

no tolerance for
the sound of water boil­ing.
It’s coffee-time in seven
of seven con­ti­nents, and here
my cig­a­rette burns, 

yellow smoke rings.
That boy.

I hate myself for lov­ing
he sleeps under warm, downy blankets

I remain cold,
leav­ing me all too bleak


Nights like these
the weak take over
Creeds clos­ing in
promises of com­fort
Acrid endings.

No time for confessions
I am still blinded by the sun, 

Always arising, coming up
pre­dictable as crops
At all hours does this heart of mine

Waxes equidistantly.