Monday, June 12, 2017


Graveyard hour
Your body crushes me.
Bones are stones.

Insomniacs together,
Blaming the other:
A future of guilt
Victims of 
pointless stress;
Punch clocks

As we lie in the 
Brightest darkness
Every breath, every micro-movement
We are playing 
monkeys jumping on the bed 

There is some red, 
Some dazzling blue:
in the purple of my

Oh honey,
Lady liberty won't bleach 
our linens white 
So sleep on the floor

Or bleed more frugally 

Wednesday, December 14, 2016

A Post-factual Romance

I met you in a magic way
The morning after 
A long night 
When my laughter rang strong

I think you tasted my 
in the alleyway kiss of a lifetime 
And guessed 

that I come from a time that remembers 
Blood must be pumped into the brain
Before its first command is spoken

You are also well versed in the 
weaknesses of brains
Tricks of perception

Yes, there are facts of reality
But we all know the word is fiction

Spaceships don’t scare those who remember
oxygen is just a group of letters

You pushed me
Against the cold-graffiti-shutters
I felt my back press onto a warm bed of feathers

That was the moment I knew 
Your art is building the world I want
A world where the heart is remembered

Lost Coverage

There is a tactile love
that grabs you in your sleep
A love of
kisses that once killed Keats

We live in a world of tailgating 
easy lovers
brashly hopeful for a fortunate accident

But the memory of touch 
is from a back-alley affair

the kind that makes overfull stomachs ache
and windswept hairs stand 
as we frigidly shake
Naked, uninsured

A blue-road accident
unwitnessed, unfortunate
leaves me nothing but a scar
in settlement

be warned that
a left-handed lover 
does not negotiate

for years to come you will receive
bills to remind you that
your damages 

must still be paid

Tuesday, November 8, 2016

Sail On, Silver Girl

A puppet of hate is only
As much as the connectomes
pulling the strings

We are the food we eat
the air we breathe
the water we drink

If we are to unite the world with us,

We must share our organic bread,
plant trees also in our neighbors’ yards
publish blueprints for clean water

Let us not mistake fear for hate
Let us seek to understand
And let us remember hope

For each of our troubles is all consuming
And each of our stories will be quilted
into the blanket for an inevitable winter

Let more of us be made of wool than of paper

Love is remembering
That every one of our neighbors
is made from love
and only schooled in ideology

Listening is hard work
But it is knowing the tune
That makes for song

And music exists equally
in city; village; church and crackhouse.

Monday, March 7, 2016

Intimacy & Inflation

It is a lane for slow walkers:
a graduated pipette carefully 
dispenses just enough

A process of preservation.

We won't flash-freeze 
our Familiarity. 

Avoid brittle bones;
We will, gently,
chill it.


Each time I look at you
Is like a museum visit.
The uniformity of the mole 
by the ridge 
of your nose
Is a monument 
to my nostalgia.

Like Grand Central, 
in lieu of tired metal:
You are even sweeter,
For my pink-eye. 

A journey of recovery. 

The supple
hearts can afford 
this cost
of overcompensation.

It is bad math
(good economics).
The colder it gets, the warmer
Last summer becomes. 

Tuesday, October 13, 2015

Sleepshead Bed

They say that in a lover’s bed, 
lies a tiny, little death. 
You think
It is not an endless pit to dread, 
Your lover’s bed 
Is a soft and warm
breeding ground. 

Sleep’s hard to come by in a
lover’s bed:
but not this little everyday death:
You’ll just keep their bedbugs fed. 
Such are the quiet labors of love,
Sometimes we bleed to save them blood, 
sink our backs into broken coils,
wonder if we’ll leave a mark behind. 
They’re sharing their blankets, 
Squeezing me in; 
Surely their bed isn’t just a 
plush, lidless, coffin. 

Don’t invite fear to your lover’s bed,
She’ll whisper in their weary ear: and
Lovers never hesitate to forget. 
Like the tip-of-tongue joy of meals, 
Our fingers tell us how we really feel,
Until our wretched lovers’ broken beds, 
Prevent it from getting to our heads. 

They are morbid lands, the downy, almost pyres
where our lovers nightly retire.
Dangerous places where we willfully
lie whilst sharing our bread;
So what of our own, carefully made bed?
Our familiar sheets will not tickle, 
But we know that even self-lovers are fickle—
So we make a safer bet, that
four hands will more readily suggest
companionship than two

And so we dream, 
As lovers in beds often do
Happily loved until they fall asleep:
A stupor of forgetting 
That love is a gift of giving.
And just like that, in one fell sweep
We’re lying at our lover’s bed’s wobbly feet, 
Prepared to mend the breached orifice
Face the curse which persists: reality must suffice                                                                                               In our tiny, little afterlife. 

Thursday, September 10, 2015

Translation: Kehne Ko Jashn-e-Bahaara Hai (Javed Akhtar)

Hearsay is that it’s time 
for a celebration of blossoms, 
(some call it spring);
But it seems that today, 
the sight of this 
causes love anguish 
to behold.

A so-called celebration, a
Purely nominal, titular spring, for
What court of spring-seasons 
can proceed lacking the participation 
of such an essential guest?

Yes, when love’s in distress: 
Even fragrance is sullen, 
she shies away from the flowers 
in the garden.
Some grief is hidden in the portiere, 
an unlikely
(but temporarily befitting)
alias for atmosphere; 
whose expansive vacuum has been 
(oddly) thinned by this 
lovelorn circumstance. 

Everything seems pastel, 
The views are subdued, 
The very threads of time are torpid, drowsy. 
Remaining suspended in our hearts 
is lost chatter,
as if to marinate us, tenderize us
in anticipation 
of love’s return to spring. 

How might I articulate my grouse?
I am presently consumed 
by thoughts of how to settle
whether or not I might claim him intimate.

For although we traverse together, 
the distances are between us...
Akin the opposite banks of a single river, 
we do not meet:
We are as aloof from one another as our destination. 
We are near each other, 
and yet, we are not close— 
I cannot consent to this pain! 
This interval amidst us
is a (perplexing) glass wall. 

Everything is tepid,
When love is tormented.  
This fake, namesake
of spring
aggrieves me. 
The tune I’d heard 
is the one my heart had chosen. 
But what strange destiny has time 
chosen to play me instead?

I cannot imagine that he is happy 
while I sit here, desolate. 
Indeed, in our rendezvous
it is as if we are commingled in loneliness.
Isolated together, 
Although we encounter the other, 
we never meet. 

Nothing is impossible in 
this alien springtime where
the flowers blossom without ever blooming.

Our eyes see the spring, 
But our hearts know it is autumn.