They Knew

God, he’s chewing with his mouth open again.
Sarah pushes over one of her peas on her plate,
Places her fork down impatiently as the metal
Chinks on the knife beneath it. Harry looks up.
Fuck, did I say something to piss her off. The fuck
Was I talking about.
Time dissipates for an instant,
He obsessively goes over the past few minutes of
Their conversation, but can’t pinpoint his blinding
Miscalculation. Talk about ponies, she mentioned she
Loved them.
“Ponies are great, huh.” Sarah forces a
Smile. Crisis averted. They proceed to engage in
Conversation throughout the remainder of the
Night. Sarah laughs, she smiles, but not quite
Like she did the first time. Harry gets home and
Lies in bed rehashing the details he is capable of
Remembering. Recalling every misspoken word,
Blunder in action, every reaction that could be
Perceived as annoyance, berating himself over
His behavior that could be viewed as “weird”
(Whatever the fuck that is). But she doesn’t call.
Not that night or the ones following. He starts
Reasoning that it was his gain, and that it was she
Who had lost.

Harry would keep going on these dates, Sarah too.
Where both would, at some point, find themselves thinking;
“I deserve”.



Listen, to the wanton sound of their trembling truths.
Hear the horns of heralded valor in epidemic proportions
Within befuddled songs of angelic ideations, satiating
Thirsts of longings in acquittals inside these time lapses.

Pointed Spears

What were the chances.
I thought them high;
High enough to
Search through monuments
Without a map to guide,
Building babbling towers
Towards the heavens,
Wading in waterfall fountains
Of penniless coin tosses

Or was that chance
Worth all this.

But doubt,
Friend or foe,
I can’t seem to tell.

But love
We know.

Wavering heart entrances,
Shields in steadfast motion;
Barricades of rhythmic paces;
Steadily we march,
After bypassing defenses
Overtly dressed
In bare nakedness
In lines of verses
With spears pointed
At those with chances.


Futily I search deserted tundras
For six leafed clover
In Fata Morgana mirages
Morphing, distorting, inverting
Sequentially imagined scenarios.

The harshness of veracity
Shoots flaming arrows of certainty,
Voraciously confirming
Fata Morgana promises
Of travelling distant lands
That were not targeted towards me,
Piercing this soul of its fetidity;
The offensive odor of pomposity;
To have the audacity
To have even an inkling of suspicion
To think that
That tumultuous wielder
Of golden tipped arrows
Would point such artillery
At such unworthy targetry.

The sombre of mendacity
Feebly folds in margins of duality
Of acceptance and repudiations
Where Fata Morgana regions
Supply convecting refracted reasons
Of changes in emotional climates;
Discarded ancient promises dustily
Recovered over realisations of finality.
You were the catalyst for germinating emergence
That were pushed out from underneath;
From soils of freezing and thawing cycles
Where permanence didn’t stand a chance;
Still, even in beguiling barren landscapes
In another flickering optical distortion
I see fields of clovers.

Misdirected Incantations

Brittle flakes of
Complexes of
Crumble at

Self worth is calculated
By the value of a soul
Compared to an other:
The mental rubric of
The individual
Determines “value”.

The value of the self
Is diminished
In comparison.

Berating the self
In bars of past notes
Of self worth,
Self love,
Self hate.
Cyclic fashions
Of coalescent realities
Dressed up
Of singularity.