Perfect Self-deprecation 



O thing of beauty,
You know not your beauty,
Tho’ likely ’tis better
That you remain unbeknownst

For in your obscurity,
You emanate selfless luminosity
Without afterthought
Without the pride of things.

Other things of beauty whose conceit darkens their luster.


The Life of a Siren


The Life of a Siren

The siren is born with a song in her heart; it is as fundamental to her being as the very water she breathes. She is not a predator, but she is doomed to enchant. She sings her song because that is her purpose, her very existence. She is doomed to drown the enchanted. She may be the most splendid monster, but we should not judge her murderous enticements. After all, we do not judge the black widow for entangling and consuming her unfortunate partner… her actions are in-built and inevitable. And, like the black widow, the siren is doomed to loneliness.

Every sailor she’s captured should have known that oceans are vast and unforgiving. The sailor is advised not to listen to siren song, but he is helpless to hear. Every sailor, being human, has been endowed with sensory capacities: humans are born punctured with orifices, utterly susceptible to the penetration of loveliness. It is unavoidable that they will be victims of flavorful aroma, tuneful fragrance, and melodies both soft and delicious. Like the siren, humans are souls divided, and when they meet only one will survive. Survive on until the next tragic inevitability.



I can’t find my notes
I can’t find my notes
I know I put them in here
I know that they’re here
It’s hard evidence:
A letter, in your handwriting
There’s no way that I’d throw it out.
You said that thing
That thing I love…
But I’ll remember it wrong for the rest of my life
I only remember a word of it here or there…
I remember the feeling,
But I need my notes.

Reflections on Rochester II


You are greater than fiction, my darling
You’re the archetype that gives birth to
every word that’s been spoken about
every character I’ve ever loved on the
and in the flesh.

I met you more than one hundred years ago
and we meet again
and again.

My Rochester, my Heathcliff, my Darcy:
I seek you out in your multitudinous forms;
I dare you to find me.
And then I dare you to betray me,
my grand delusion
Only to leave you
And again.

It hurts every time; the thumping, rotating machine of history
like clockwork…
as I attempt to outrun its metallic arm
it threatens to catch me
and I anticipate that heavy thud of it hitting me on the back of the skull.
Running me over.

Reflections on Rochester


Pain, absolution, pain, catharsis.
chasing that high:
tension, release.
Resist, surrender–
The exhilaration of experience:
an object of desire so abundantly meaningful…
elevated close to total importance
to the extent that the pleasure of longing for it sometimes exceeds the pleasure of obtaining it.

A wise person once said that love can be defined as “the acute awareness of the impossibility of possession”
This is true.
I skirt along the border of attainment,
feeling the thrill of nearly
and the ecstasy of almost.

The Split-second Poem


Split-second decisions are full of lard and MSG and high-fructose corn syrup:
It’s calling you,
It’s saying yes,
It’s saying no,
It’s leaving.
I carry their weight for years and years
But no exercise regimen seems to exorcise the guilt compacted in me,
tumor-like, hanging from my bones
One idea disguised as inspiration or revelation or a stroke of genius
will be the last to leave me, stored in my gut,
my lifelong hangover,
my tattooed asymptote.

This Morning


I awoke from the most vivid dream;
such a lurid attraction was playing before me 
in a sickly fuscia glow,
a sleek array of bottles neatly stacked along the wall.
A shouting, shuffling, squeezing-pasting Friday night atop a barstool-
You, too, were cast in this haze of hot pink, 
and casting fleeting glances.
—Our possibility ignited—
a spark of connection,
the tangling of filament.
The music eerily, obnoxiously loud.
Your lips were moving but no words came out.



An endless ocean of blue
is contained in celestial spheres where great glaciers move
in seconds, right before your eyes.
A cloudless sky of the same hue
stretches on the way centuries do,
yet maintains its wonder circumscribed
while shards of night impose their shade
in their own sweet, seductive way
casting sapphiric shadows of your thoughts.
I soon become arrested by the glorious play
of twilight glow and sun mid-day
before me, as my chest tightens into lovely knots.
Beyond this world of other-worldly views,
the whole universe could be ending or created anew.
I’d never know the difference through the glare
Of crystalline pools reflecting truth,
their surface gleaming, gentle, smooth.
This is the picture of your stare.