creative writing & photography

Not dancing on my own

Off a tall cliff.
I nose-dived into the green of your eyes.
The wind blew.
And the body of water beginning in you shattered like glass.

I swam in shards.
And Homeric mermaids attempted to distract me.
No distractions.
You are God to me.

See those couples weakening /
/ insulting / undermining /
/ depriving / hurting /
each other? Shame on them

because they degrade love.
Make love deplorable to the rest of us.
Especially those of us who need love most.
Dancing for a life-time amorously with the Holy Ghost.


Our backs were bound

Our backs
were bound,
remember? We were
one reader,
four hands, four feet,
one book.
This trouble doubled for
loaded with thunderbolts.
Especially the two heads.
So with a divine rage
he struck Hemaphrodite apart.
But ruled by Aphrodite,
the goddess who gives
in spades
and wit
and insight
so when the separated
find each other
inevitably they will know
without knowing why.

Now it is the 21st century,
and I am looking for you still
my other half
even though all evidence
is to the contrary.
And I am still as sure
I will find you
Soul mate
just as I am sure of
what I had for breakfast.
The years harden the skin,
may even harden the heart,
But hope is hope,
no matter what.

You can’t collect hope.
It is usually revealed as small.
But it is enough to change the whole picture.
So on this night where the incurve
of the sickle moon
seems to be
beaming Venus,
I naively glare at the heavenly
bodies aligned,
certain you are
doing the same,
with the same hope
and love and certainty,

The Sighs

The word

spouts leaves

of poets,

and its flowers

are poetry,

should the poet

take a moment

from a Cyprus

summer aflame,

and write it.



One never


One with

the angels


The poem

if read


in the solitude

of the reader,

bringing her

or him

to a higher,

more populated

plane, of


heavenly bodies

that one cannot see

but who fill your senses.



One never


One with

the trees


Believe me for my eyes.

Believe me for my ties

with bougainvillea,


with eucalyptuses,

and grafitti

on either sides

of the streets.

Believe me for my sighs

sighed through me,

as though the sighs

belong to many,

virtues of any

person willing

to collect them

when they are fallen

to the ground.

Believe me for my feet.

On the same page

Weightless crash,
weightless crash,
you fall out
of the sky
onto me,
expecting a gasp.

Crashed before.
Nothing new.
Done that.
I blew.

A metaphor for falling in love?
Is it too obvious?
Is it a play on the word Crush?
The word crush.
Do you have a crush?
Like Miranda on Sex & The City (crush proof).
You will never forget that show.

Weightless crash,
we haven’t met before,
and we are so different,
so different,
we are on the same page
only because it’s earth.

For what it’s worth,
different things find themselves
in a state of forever
on earth,
why it seems inharmonious,
but it isn’t,
when we talk,

we find common
ground, in the
brutal sound,
of hound
and hound.

(Solemnly is not the way to declare.
Rapturously is the way to declare.)

Round and round.
The equators.

Life is a mystery which none of us get to figure out

36601456_862450587289818_2647938584564203520_oIf it

You worded the world.
It was a whorl of meaning
a wreathe of meaninglessness.

takes forever

It was cold
in the water.
The sky mostly
made us feel wind-swept.

then we will

The lizards
coming out of the tad-pole
astonished us some centuries later.

gracefully endure forever

The world, speechless,
carried on the words,
from time period
to time period.


I’m worth little,
I’m worth more,
I’m worth nothing,
I’m worth everything.

What am I?

A spec.

An entire planet.

A silence.

A voice.




Too present.

What am I?

What worded the world.
A whorl of meaning
a wreathe of meaninglessness.


I had never seen

such green.

I wanted

to swim


in your eyes.

Not naked

in a sexual sense.


in a spiritual sense.

I expected

nothing less

than your green love

to be a baptismal bath

of my own liberation.

Green as the swamps.

As the forests.

Green as each leaf.

Could I summer

in the green

of your love

and count leaves

till September?

Make me float.


Who is this woman



my assistance

on my very own


In my

very own house?

She says her name

is Questioning.

She wants

to be magical.

Not how

wizards say it.

How magic

says it.

One with

the spell-binding.

But she needs

someone mortal.

Very mortal

or quite mortal?

I ask,

after information.


with an immortal flame


in the eyes of

the soul.

Is this

the common shape?

I ask.





A touch.

A drop.

A shake.

Jesus –


Sighing I think of you sister.

Far away at sea.

On a remote island, remembering me.

In the moment, I am remembering you.

We were soul mates.

We didn’t plan it.

We just fit like wings.

You were as small

as raindrops. Our souls

reflected each other, we both said,

This is forever. But events

went insane

and we became

far flung.

Love long distance withers

to an impression, a feather.

I recall seeing you last

in a great American city

driving in your car.

Video Killed The Radio Star

on a continual loop.

We could never have sex

but we were spouses,

reinventing each other

in each other’s houses.

Remember that New Year’s Eve

I dyed my hair green?

It was a dream come true,

a beautiful parenthesis

(of friendship)

in our unravelling lives.

I will always miss it.


Angels levitate among us in human form, so we desire them, and the angels go away.

We catch them at a particular time in their life, when they are at their most beautiful.

We stare but we use the wrong gaze.

Our sex feels predatory.

The angels go away.

We chase the angels up the skies. We have machines now and uniforms.

Fake wings, but they work.

We chase the angels past the clouds, onto the firmament. On foot now we chase them through the trees.

How could they kiss us and leave us?

No, this won’t do.

We do not catch the angels. This is not how it works.

The angels rescue us. This is how it works.

Intervals between angels, seasons, years, terrible loneliness, pain, mostly unbearable.

So when an angel comes close we start running.

The place of a specificity

I cannot feel in a church, the way I usually feel. In a church I am emptied of feeling.

This is because all my senses become heightened so that I may decipher the miracle. I become all hearing, all listening, all reading. Because we can sense it.
Please do not pigeon hole us.
Nor call us freaks.
We can sense the miracle. But if it is, and if it means, what is it, and what does it mean?
Such questions unlock spirituality into the sublime.
Not if they are answered. If they are asked.