Saturday, February 23, 2013


And the feet are jutting out from under
As if in a
Face concealed
The rest of him tucked beneath a
Grubby cover
And the feet, socksed, lying
On the pavement
Seem detached from the body
The skin between cover and socks, pale and
But what can I do, I mutter as I pass by on my rushed way
I try to imagine the rest of him; almost certainly a him
Young or old?
Bearded or smooth faced?
Wrapped in a coat under that makeshift blanket against the
January air?

Where was he yesterday?

I glance at the feet as they rest on the far edge of the margins
But a few inches away from traffic whizzing past
Oh, these defenseless feet, the socks slightly rolled down as if
To not irritate the skin. 
Pink socks.  Perhaps not a him after all.

But what can I do

Saturday, February 16, 2013


I lift myself up from the hair, to start
Another day
The haze, the daze
The day must begin, I firmly say to myself

Sleep, black hole, where
Wild movies projected before me, in which I star
As the protagonist

Fears sneak up while in my sleeping hours
The realm of the uncontrolled
Releases demonic trepidations
Or untamed fantasies

Sleeping, waking—
Each day holds
Birth and death

Each morning I reconstruct myself
To start anew

Saturday, February 9, 2013


I do not know where these shadows are emanating from
Coming to me
So soft
From within, from without, the rooms.  With this quietude they are almost as a dream.  

The man I loved seems darker now
Perhaps because the shutters are tightly closed

To wake up in the middle of the night
       And wait