Cerulean skies mirage off waves
crafting polished sapphires of foam
set gleaming in refracted light,
blinding my sad thoughts
who now mindlessly navigate until
getting lost inside of myself,
leaving me abstracted, smiling,
in the absence of sadness.



Placid waters reflect
my changing emotions clearly
yet mistake my
expressions to be how I
truly feel.
Only a table away from
each other our eyes
cannot see straight
I look again
into your glass,
ice breaks up your face
clouding my vision
as we sit
unsure how each other
feel beneath placid reflections.

Shared Tears

You held
our future,
delicate, in your
small shaky hands.
All the while
unnerved by its
known fragility
and that inevitable
Now your
closed fists have
crushed and thrown
away, us,
dismembered instantaneously
with the verbal
punches, as if
practiced repeatedly
for months so that
you could fight
with your eyes closed,
vision blurred
by our last
shared tears.

Urban Decay

What makes you beautiful isn’t
your makeup, it isn’t your
“Urban Decay”, nor how you
carry yourself around the city
navigating life with a simple
generational compass;
I see more life in your eyes
when freed from lines of constraint,
your natural blush glows best
brightly highlighting your genuine smile.


Cleanse and wash away my
irrevocable actions, purify
those sinful thoughts and
bathe me with Natures eraser yet
I do not disappear
my memory persists,
my body remembers,
my thoughts still linger so
I ask “how can I forget?”
“Where is my second chance?”
my rebirth by Nature,
head soaked, dripping sadness in drops,
all the while,
translucent trillions infinitely cloud
my vision.


In New York there’s always an alarm going off
and a garbage truck regurgitating
and a pesky dog barking
and that astonishing phenomenon known to its denizens
as alternate side of the street parking.
Basically it means
that the first thing you do in the morning,
tired and yawning
is go out and move your car
from one side of the street to the other.
Unless your my mother
who can never remember
where she left it the night before.
Three blocks away or outside the front door,
which is why she sends me out
every morning before school,
as a scout.
To scour the neighborhood
in search of our beat-up, dented, rusty, secondhand automobile
which no one will steal.
And why every morning
before the bus
there’s this terrible fuss
when she looks at me in a kind of bleary miasma
and I have to tell her
all over again
sunshine or rain
“I don’t know where the Char*Is*Ma.