Tuesday, June 30, 2009

The Wounded Samurai

From a Conversation with a 5-year-old boy

If I had so much money
that i didn't know how to count
i'd buy an island
and drink rum in the sun.
listen to the waves spill the word
that was uttered before
the world became this world.
i'd play with the jelly fish
and feel my brain
lose its contours
like jelly in the rain.
and my body -- frail
and scarred by deep sun-burned wrinkles.
all memory would vanish --
no inkling of the past remains.
and as the night comes
splashing white, bright stars overhead
seen by Vincent
there would appear the Samurai
long since dead:
with a silver sword and without fear,
the- wounded-belly-Samurai
with a carved out pride,
and he would cry, cry, cry.

Monday, June 29, 2009


One tries
and fails to kill himself.
The other -- wants in again
to tread the same
lame path of petty love.
i feel crystal clear --
no pity. no love. no tear.


what do you want?
i want love.
bit. light. and real.

some falls
liquid and secret.
some loves
small, dark.
if you crash, then give it your all --
so there's nothing left but your soul
immaculate and ripped --
like the ripples in the sun.
all these years of living below the waist
but never really crossing the line
left me wasted as i predicted.
now living above the neck --
frozen passion
at times a feeling of lack.
and you say:
what you need is to go to the desert
howl like a beast.
let out a scream.
and find a new dream,
a new spark.


i think i've had enough.
some loves along the road
small and dark

in fact, i'll call it a night....
while waiting for the one :
big and light.

Thursday, June 18, 2009

On The Road

Love smells like bergamot.
Death -- like candle wax.
In a wooden traincar i caught
the light sneaking through the cracks.