Tag Archives: Poetry



A cello

That weeps.

My heart,

The base.

That beats.

The tears form into


on the staff

Of my life.

They hear music

In the pain.

Crying has a rhythm.

It is a melody

Of happiness

Overcome by pain and sadness,

The gods clap for me.

I have not asked

To lead the orchestra,

I have not asked to compose

Any movements.

I am too still.

I don’t know how notes become a tune,

Perhaps it is the vicious cycle of my doom.

The bow, Fate,

Grating against the strings of my will

Wearing them away


they break.

But a cello cannot play itself.

The masterpiece,

What is it?

I value not the legacy of it.

I seek nothing from fame.

Who are the hands

That play it?

Where is the audience

Who will feel it?

The cello awaits.

The bow grates.

It’s so sad,

It weeps so badly,

My heart is the base.

Hear me,

Hear me,

I am not loud,

It is the echo of my sob.

Do I exist?

Do I exist?

If I do,

I am so frightfully scared.



She Don’t Cry


I never cry

Because they don’t see me crying;

And I don’t hurt-

My pain ain’t physical,

So it don’t count.


Then there is the hour,

When I hug my bedroom-

Weeping on the pillow’s shoulder,

Talking with the molecules of air floating

In the dark.


But, the room can’t hug me back-

And the pillow’s shoulder sags,

Weighted down with tears.

The air’s too busy to even echo my ache.



Is it out there?

No, is HE out there?

Is anyone out there?

God is-

But sometimes too out there it seems.


It’s quiet around me,

The silent entrance of too-lateness

Seeps under the door—

An odorless monoxide of despair.


What is it that I am waiting for?

Has it already ended?

Why does everyone else know—

Except me?


It still hurts,

Even after I ate the anesthetic—

You know, the chocolate novocain

And sugar injections.


Tell me,

Like everyone else did when I was a kid,

That Santa Claus’s zip code is in the North Pole,

That the tooth fairy is not my mother,

That happiness is not the Lochness monster, (seen by only the insane).


Accept it,

Like everyone else did when I was a kid,

That I throw myself on the floor and shout,

That even then, I can blackmail you to still love me,

That my tantrums are colorful cartwheels of rational thought.


But, you can’t just do that—

I know.

That’s why I don’t wear my inside out.

That’s why you don’t see me hurt,




That’s why I embrace the walls,

Lean on flimsy linen shoulders,

Converse with voiceless gases.


Because they cannot love me,

And they cannot not love me.


I don’t get jealous. If a girl wants to take my man and he’s that stupid to contemplate it, she can have him and I’ll even get ordained just to perform the ceremony.

BUT, THIS MADE ME MADLY JEALOUS. INSANELY JEALOUS. Don’t know who wrote this ad, but it won a coveted Cannes years back and is abso-freakin-lutely FANTASTIC! It’s out of Argentina, and it’s called ‘The Truth’.


My soul’s too old

To have Poetry.

The Ink don’t write no more.

Got a dictionary to find meaning,

But ain’t sure how to use the words.

I try to put it down on paper,

End up using the eraser.

But the feeling is still there.

Life gave me a story,

Don’t want to publish it.

It got nothing good enough to sell.

Borrowed my brother’s life,

Threw it in a blender with my papa marrying many wives.

Salted it with Rockwell,

Ain’t nothing misspelled,

Just doesn’t look like the truth.

Ripped it up,

Turned me into third person,

Made HER bio mine,

Spoke to a sage,

He gave me wisdom,

Didn’t listen at all,

Just transcribed.

Another girl,

Another life,

Another philosophy.


They’ll buy.

When it’s fiction,

They forgive the lie.

It Doesn’t


Does it end?

It can’t—

It never begins.

There’s nothing, and it’s all something—

But it’s not everything.

That’s what makes it so sad.

I shed sometime tears,

Between all-the-time smiles.

Every time.

I substitute an inane laugh

For an indispensable cry.

That’s what makes it so sad.

My skin has shrunk—

Or my soul has gotten a little too fat—

I don’t fit into myself anymore.

I feel tight around the chest,

I’m choked up at the neck,

My lids don’t close.

Being barefoot hurts too—

I could wear shoes—

What good would that do?

Covering what’s bare doesn’t make it less bare—

It just makes it barely visible.

I already am.

Someone once told me to just breathe—

(As if he didn’t, I would have not done it on my own).

It’s advice like that which makes for stupid holiday cards.

But it’s not Christmas, and I don’t celebrate Easter—

Don’t bother to tell me to ‘Get Well’—

Cause that’s a really imbecilic prescription.

I won’t ever stop wondering ‘Why?’

Even if I had the answers.

I always look for ‘Where?’

Even if it’s in front of me.

I seem to never get enough of ‘When?’

Even though I don’t have time.

I often think ‘What?’

Even though it replies before I ask.

I am always aware of ‘How?’

Even so—I prefer to kid myself.

It’s a vicious circle, or a pleasant oval—

Maybe an indifferent square, perhaps a careless rectangle.

The shape of it doesn’t matter.

It starts.

It doesn’t begin.

It finishes.

It doesn’t end.

The Pulpit


Bless’d is me,

I cry for you,

Misery is thy nature,

Bliss is mine,

I am water,

You are wine.

I give-

Thou take.

I love-

Thou hate.

Fool, riding

 Atop a carousel you cannot control.

The secret’s with me,

It I do hold.

Which makes me the winner-

And thou the sinner.

So pluck thy heart out from its haven,

I know it is stone, the slivers unshaven.

I shall hover above thy grave- you buried underneath,

Beside your tomb, I shall lay a black wreath,

Posies of poisons and thorns, laced with ale.

I offered you truth to drink from the Grail,

but you ate the lie,

How my wisdom could have kept you alive.

Alas, chosen is thy end,

Woe is you,

The devil He sends.

Flaming June


Flaming June,

Riper than May,

Whose fruit is plucked

in anticipation of

sweet flesh;

Only half-eaten,

thrown to the ground.

Lying in a sheet of fire,

An angel,



from heaven;

No, no- not Rossetti’s Jenny,

sleeping between the

sheets of sin;

You are TOO awakened.

The peace of your face,

the spun silk of honey


And your velvet hands folded

beneath your breasts-

No, no- not pink-nosed from

the dried tears of guilt,

Wept by Fetti’s Sleeping Girl-

Not a Magdalene;

But a dove, whose wing is clipped,

looking with lament to the

skies from whence she came,

Only to return by way of dream.

Summer’s June, instinct presses to prey

upon the virgin flesh,

Feeding man’s insatiable appetite;

Flaming June,

not as sultry as July;

Bitten by December’s frost,

Melting upon the pillow;

The stung seeds of a spring flower

can never be sewn again.