love letters in my mind
are all for you, i find.

i don't mail them or tweet them:
quite like secrets, i treat them.

i push them into pink envelopes
patterned with blue hearts and empty hopes.

pages and pages of length comes easy
(but the same for work would make me queasy).

what would we do, if we were lovers -
kiss, flirt and give each other flowers?

true, while i don't care for you -
in my mind, i write to you.

i wonder if you know
that i write to you so.


(this came out of a bet with A who wanted me to write something rhyming "flowers" and "lovers".)



it's extremely amusing that you think i'm living up to the idiot you think i am.



i'll carry around a
little yellow scribble pad
when i'm with you.

when you're not looking,
i'll make little notes about
things i ought to remember:

'bites nails when bored'
'hair curly when drunk'
'sings stupidly while driving'

i'll commit to memory
little details about you
that even you don't notice:

'eats left over cake crumbs with fork'
'holds down right corners of pages of books'
'thinks dinosaurs still exist'

but if i forget the bigger things:
like when your birthday is
or what you do for a living,

please know that i'll have
enough even without this
to blackmail you with.


"A poet never takes notes. You never take notes in a love affair."
- Robert Frost.

bucket list

ladies and gentlemen who read this blog,

i have told most of you what item #3 on my bucket list is - see the aurora borealis before it dies out. for the past few days, i have been reading about a large plasma cloud that was going to make the aurora spectacular last night.

well, it did. and apparently, it was visible even as far as the UK and the US.

i could bloody well just cry.
so who's going with me to sweden this summer?




i couldn't tell you
what it is like
to finish a book.

do you forget people
whose thoughts have been closer
to you than yours
(for mere hours sometimes,
whole years, sometimes)?

do you leave behind lives
whose moments you have stretched
into your life from theirs
(fall in love with their ears, perhaps,
find counsel in their fears, perhaps)?

don't you have nostalgia
set aside for old friends
in your life and theirs
(beers, (cheers!), leering at similar rears,
tears, peers, wearing similar brassieres)?

i couldn't tell you
what it is like
to finish a book.



i feel like writing a story, but i don't have one to tell.


on a rooftop yesterday: the beer was a bit flat and the end of my fingers were numb from the cold. the fog was thick, and i couldn't see much of my feet. the hum of the double bass was in my hair, and the groove of the sax was in my knees, and i don't know about you but i didn't have nothin' but the blues.


it's been a long time
since you've given me
(i miss them.
they miss you.)



corners of streets don't see
more than beggars and coins
and homeless people's blankets;
children playing hide and seek
lovers waiting patiently or
people walking mindlessly by.

don't be fooled by sounds
of haggling over peas
of chatter at bus stops, footsteps at subways.
don't be fooled by smells
of cigarettes and chai
of rush hour traffic or sunday afternoons.

they don't see hope
or love or people moving on;
they don't see day,
routine or people holding on;
they don't see night
or sleep or people giving up.

in spite of this, i write
- a fool for smells and sounds,
romantic by day
and idiot by night -
about love and hope
and people stuck routinely
in corners.


"You don't get jazz. It gets you."

(Brian Azzarello and Eduardo Risso. 100 Bullets, I don't remember which volume.)


conspiracy theory

"i know you're conspiring against me. bah."

"of course i'm conspiring. i am the universe ...yours, anyway."