Monday, July 29, 2013

he touched my hand

he touched my hand
and for a cold moment
I was a woman. . .
lips trembling with awe, 
whispering lies

Thursday, July 25, 2013

two tanka

the dead 
gather white shadows 
from the past. . . 
real marionettes 
have no strings

a certain kind of Eden 
holds me thrall. . . 
your eyes
are a green twine,
the saddest rope

Wednesday, July 24, 2013

Tanka

silence
found a tongue
to haunt me. . .
sweat between the breasts
of sloe-eyed strippers

Sunday, July 21, 2013

tanka

no one believes
in their own life anymore
that's why
they're exiled from my eyes,
unable to find their own nakedness


so fearfully pale,
a lily bends to the breath
of the wind. . .
standing adrift
in the ruins of sorrow




Monday, July 15, 2013

Trayvon Martin

digging
a grave in the sky. . . 
a black boy 
walks through a quiet 
neighborhood

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