This monsoon jade and lilac became the signature varnish.  Strips of yellow neon on leather. Rain was noticed down to the angle of his haircut against an airbrushed paper background from a photo studio. The sentimental tinkle of keyboards and kpop  became acceptable from seasons of mangoes to guavas, when chemo wards made us online pharmacologists ( Read more... )

 these floors have felt the drop of a hundred hairs, and hundreds more snipped carefully tip by tip measuring each time, each hour of avoidance added to days of denial. the split ends scatter with ironic common metaphors as the metal of scissors also becomes too familiar. floors and foil, the folding of metals cut past has unfolded shears with ( Read more... )

 Soft snow over Amsterdam, will crunch tomorrow through icy tracks leading me back under the sea-another year another trip once again bypassing water, avoiding ships.

 The brush of last week's verse wrote tomorrow I go back under the sea. Wrote that summer nights like these were not built for red wine. The heavy mud raked through teeth should have been best left to sleep in soil for sediments to wind back to some shores. There with the stories from the exchange of shells, I have smelt the Mediterranean salt and ( Read more... )

maybe because it's summer they aren't that sharp, it will still take time for the blooms to be berries ( Read more... )

                                                                             
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fathoms below, fathoms below, the sailing song starts with fathoms below, beginning a film that was never written so...

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February snow this white, that is far better kind of white, fall softly to blanket last year of betrayals, those layers of sticky fingered slayers. This morning the car that drove past was a wrong shade of blue. In manila, there are neon stickers of Jesus on a motorcyle, Jesus in a car, and they channel the prayers of humble drivers for the road to ( Read more... )

So it happened when pirate ships kept sailing past that an anchor instead was painted in the rogue waters, bringing stillness through a silver desert in the sea. Strangely it was the salt that slaked with silence the thirst. Absence sated, longing follows new lines over crisscrossed crimson paths in vermillion powdered trails past slapped ( Read more... )

The Lady of the Lake knows the heaviness of Excalibur weighing the paths of Arthur, Launcelot and Guinevere. What would be her measure of the depth of lotus petals atop a valley which once was a lake, and the pull of waters west? Running past charred rivers on crinkled silver she tripped on heartdrops from lakesides. Time to ask the sea ( Read more... )