Monday, November 21, 2011


beneath the fiery glance
a ripple,                  

a trail of gentleness,
fireflies tracing a

time gently ruffles your
conviction of my yet un-
fulfilled role as your first
violator, your standard of
insincerity, your (secret)

within these gaps I
flow, these moral slippages,
the obscure realm between
vision and desire,

quietly invading suspicion,
for I am formless yet, inhaled
by you as you resist

my finger on your eyes now,
my voice in your head.

Thursday, March 3, 2011

a new story

children streaming in, joyful and joyless, bags tied to backs. taking their seats, quietly and noisily, waiting for authority to address their curiosity. one, two, three, four. the seconds pass, the minutes fly, the hours inflame their impatience. they are, of course, not sitting anymore.


the quiet turn raucous, the prudish turn reckless. pulling hair, breaking chairs, trampling on diaries. strange creatures litter the blackboard, paperballs litter the room. we-are-free, the collective chant goes. we-are-free-free-free.


five, six, seven. the first one to collapse is not fragile. a dungeon of paper swallows him as he tries to exhibit a flawed cartwheel for the seventy-seventh time. one by one, all fall. tiny bodies splayed across a ruined room, sweat still drying on their skin.


eight. the bell rings, loudly and obstinately, stirring them from their slumber. one by one, all rise. they pick up their bags and silently walk out in a perfect line. they are, of course, not going to pretend that their lives have been radically altered.