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The Walrus

The landscape is alluring
Glacial nooks and crannies
Disorganized synchronism of space

Herein the walrus lies
Belly to the ice
Cozy in his own space

Cozy to the sounds of melt
To the daily sights and fare
Permeating through time and space

His motivation fulfilled
He awaits for their reemergence
A body and two tusks for space

January 6, 2010

False confidence

I always do the crossword in pen.
And always end up regretting this choice.

November 12, 2009

V for Vanity

I will begin this with my defense. Hair can become a large part of a person, both metaphorically and literally. As those little follicles grow, so does your attachment to the little buggers. Many of us develop these relationships with our hair, no matter how frazzled, curly or flat. From perms–reeking with regret, to mullets–brimming with business (in the front). Given these deep-seated bonds, it is understandable that hair cuts can be momentous experiences. It’s difficult to part with those strands. And in this particular case, I had enough hair chopped off to make a thick sweater for a golden retriever. Trimmed to the chin–and bangs too.

Leaving the salon, I was satisfied, yet fascinated with this new ‘do. It was impossible to keep my nosy fingers out of it. As I combed through the back, the side, the other side, it was so strange to feel it suddenly end before the shoulders. I couldn’t stop looking at it either. As I checked my newly-minted bangs in the rear view mirror, a brown blur came into my periphery. Before my brain could fire those neurons to my leg muscles to break, or even before those neurons could reach my arms to steer out of the way–it was too late. The fate of the chipmunk was sealed. Vanity killed the chipmunk.

July 19, 2009

Perpetrator funeral

In the church sanctuary
42. White male. Unmarried
The simple casket, pine and brass handles, there lays
As the mother and father watch in black, dark greys
The pews polished and clean
Ready for mourners, but attendance is lean

Very few friends or acquaintances come
Their thoughts and feelings of grieving mum
Sorrow and shame intermingle to make sand,
Although it is not up to them for him to be damned,

Cards, loves, wreaths of fresh flowers
Justice, not vengeance, they are all vowers
Tears and sound bites flow
All believing humanity must have reached at an all time low

Did you know him?
Yes, he was a great man. My best friend.
How many best friends can one man have?
Is there anything bad said of those who have died young, accidentally, or intentionally by the hand of another?

Phalanxes of the sorrowful line the block
Harder to sympathize than mock
Caught up in the media spotlight
Crying over the unknown dead seems so trite
The victim’s funerals are much different
Than those of the perpetrator.

April 30, 2009


home is relative
for the transient and the nomadic
home means comfort, and general fulfillment of needs
home is not necessarily stable or static
only where contentment can breed

April 20, 2009