An Ode to Self at Night

I lick the stars off my plate
while the candles whisper
to shadows,their newborn,
the stories of injured walls
and windows painted with
emotions of eternity,
the hyms of innocent lambs.



A rock fell from my brain
to dimple the crowd of dogs,
scattering their roars
over hunchback epithets
we use when our names
fall sick.

A painter’s solitary link
with the crypic water waves
in a mixing bowl,
leeches stealing blood
from the red bricks of Babel.

You shouldn’t cry over
the broken twigs,
or the white tablecloth
hiding the spoon’s uproar.
Always draw clouds
because smoke makes
the puppets cough out
aborted lip sychs.

You will never get too old
to catch seconds,
be the child running after
a stray bubble.


The clock strikes emotions
and the tick-tock stops.
Swallow my bones like
the branches of a tree.
It is easy to mix lies with
petrified mattocks,
calcified moments stuck
between your teeth,
like the river
hanging loose from
a cave stone.

Unpack the truth from
the seeds of an apple
because commas are
a wonderful way to say NO

We walk on the wooden muscles
of the cannibal stars,
thump thump thump
their matchstick dinner falling
on eternity’s stretcher,
gone without a trace.



I see the ripples you create

when you breathe on the

surface of the sun,

the blanched morning’s

levitating heartbeats.

Guess the thing you can’t name.

The two legged animal your tongue wears

is my castle on Sappho’s paper boat.

My fingers, the

quill of divisible dust on indivisible paper.

A leaf collides with my throat

and settles there,quivering

with my lost breath.