my whole life is a cheesy hindi film.


magic trick

Smoke and mirrors, that's what illusions are made of. Smoke, mirrors and deceit.

Me, I'm a trickster. I go on stage and make people believe that I know their mind, that I know the cards they pick with my superpowers, I let people think that I can cut people up and then bring them back to life, unharmed. I tell stories to enthrall and have assistants to distract. I'm no magician. I can tell you that much for sure. I thrive on cheap thrills made of darkness and light.

Magic, though, real magic, has nothing to do with any of that. It's an honest trade, as sure as the butterflies after a kiss and as exhilarating as flying in a dream. It's not something that pulls coins out of ears or makes women levitate in the middle of a room. It doesn't make the Taj Mahal disappear, or transport men from one door to another. That's trickery and lies, used to impress, awe and cheat the mind into believing.

So if you listen really, really closely, I could tell you how to do the real thing. I'll tell you how to find the music in a story, I'll show you how to see the mystery in a face. I could tell you how to disappear, and just as well, I'll let you try making rainbows out of rain. What would you do if I promised you the tune in every girl's head? Where do you think your poetry comes from, if not from words I put in your thoughts?

But I'm sure you'd do better than to trust a trickster, wouldn't you?

i really am hung up on the weather. forget the fictional character who had mildly hallucinatory experiences involving some phone sex woman and then made up a story about it. (man in a long black overcoat indeed. tch. who buys that nonsense).

stupid stupid weather is never right for the moment.


i have a heart made of cheese clingwrap, apparently.


hide and seek

i look for what cannot be found behind walls built in cyberspace.

i see it at the corner of my eye, i know it's there but i play the game. i'm a traditionalist, so i'll still pretend that i don't know, i'll still behave like i don't see. i'll still take part in that charade: i'll peek under the curtain when you mean for me to, put on a look of absolute surprise, run and shout "i spy!"

all the while i'll hum to myself, in irony i'll sing.

you can't see me
but i can


years and years of accumulated acquaintance, shared spaces, collected gossip, small talk, a kind of friendship that i don't know how to place. i've typed and deleted and typed and erased and typed and retyped for the past hour, looking for words. i don't know how to find them. what can i say? what can anyone say? to whom? i only have way too many questions. and no one to answer them. a whole life. worth what? pieces of fucking paper.


I'm just a regular Drama Queen.



nothing like context to help make sense of a song.

if you could only see the beast you made in me.
i've held it in but now it seems you've set it running free.

nothing like a song to help make sense of the world.