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poetic prose

rattling trains of thoughts going just about nowhere

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May's weather may wither

and so may all else,

but no day I overstay

without spinning us back thither,

to that day in may,

do you?

Love Beans

Love Beans


You burned the beans, again.

Your cooking is what it is - something else.

So clumsy.

Not as terrible as it is tolerable and not as tolerable as it is adorable.

Oh, I know. I know everything has conspired against you.

From the sassy, ventriloquizing pot to the water molecules that kiss and hiss in it, colliding and colluding with the steel,
all things in the kitchen and universe join in the orchestra of laughs.

My laugh is louder still, but of an altogether different nature. A loving laugh, stowing away hardly any ridicule. 

And I know it’s absurd, but I feverishly hope that it was all your fault,

that you are to blame first, the kitchen ensemble second at most,

because the more you ruin the beans,

the more I love you.

Crowded One Way Streets

Crowded One-Way Streets


Crowded one way streets are viciously viscous.

They’ve slowed me down for the longest time.

Their neon has left me colorblind.

Drifting down that main stream, I feel rough, and my inside turns sour with sorrow, bitter with disbelief.

On those bleak Tuesdays, when everyone wears muzzles and blinders, dreams are deported to perish in one-fits-all coffins.

Now leaves are falling to paint colors over grey,
and the wind picks them up, twirls them in a spiral dance, and soon the wind picks up, hurls them at those empty bodies.

But they end up beneath our soles most unconsidered.

No one dares to stop.
No one cares to turn.

​And yet the lord breeds more of us to populate more dull streets.

And yet we all smile.




And as long as shadows overcast my path, I know of a star in the skies above the voices in my head and solid ground neath my jaded soles.

And hadn’t I longed for the shade the more I had lived in the bright shallow sunlight, just as much as I curse it now, lying in the dark?

So tell me what’s it gonna be, or better yet don’t tell me.

I keep living blind, but not blinded for I fear certainty more than coincidence, more than a street paved with the shards of shattered dreams, more than an unlikely desire.


I keep my eyes open without looking for something, keep longing without knowing better, keep desiring without loving, loving without appreciating, learning without understanding, torn like wild hearts parting.


Smiling at my sadness, I’m hoping for another paradise to lose.

Happiness flows through me like blood, like a torrent that loses itself in a thousand capillaries.

And every now and then I wonder if I live life or if it is living me.


But at the end of my days and nights I can feel nothing but gratitude without even knowing where to direct it.



a friend of company, a son of solitude

a complex question, a simple answer

a coauthor of chance encounters

a writer lost for words (who stole this line)

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