Eating Poetry

Car Bomb

a truck stalled among the ruins of 3 A.M.
echoes of car bombs
disturbed its crouching ghosts
as the stray piano inside a distant train station
played to exploding trains

Eating Poetry

The Sums of Our Past

we are young
kissing on a graffittied park bench
a breeze blowing through our hair
I taste your morning coffee, and for a moment
our souls aren’t sums of our past
but ancient
until the wind ceases
until the sun sets
until the man with the dog disappears
into the pouring rain

Personal · Thoughts

Letters from Florida

Writer, I was in love with your expressive hands. I’ve curled up and slept peacefully in the curves of your beautiful o’s and a’s.  Soared freely in the space in-between your lines. Touched the wet ink that stained my soul. After you left, I tried to write my own stories instead of living yours. And still, as I wearily sit behind my desk after a long day of work, I can’t help but cut my fingers on the painfully sharp edges of your silent dashes.

Vignettes Baby

The Secret Digits of Pi

When the speckled meteors came, you said they were God’s marbles, and that He had lost them. So we fled the city, running with the mob of hungry, barefooted students who had spray-painted the White House black.  We went back to The Hague, my birthplace, sailing the canals, which had been poisoned with mercury. One night, as the crumbling walls of our house violently shook, I told you that the lights in Paris had gone out forever. You covered my lips with trembling fingers, and told me that you didn’t want to hear it. And as I held you close, I read the secret digits of pi in your spinning eyes and knew that the world we had lost would haunt us with undying glory.