She plucks stones

from the fragrant earth,

says they are pieces

of her existance.

I look the other way.

At night, a single star;

The sky sparks her tears.

She calls them pearls, diamonds.

I call them lost children,

tiny run-aways.

She could have been a dancer,

the glowing queen of a ballet.

Instead she tangles with boys and

cigarettes;

I'am becoming her ashtray.

The tall teenage girl sat quietly on the park bench,

Inspecting her hands that folded neatly upon her lap.

A long, black skirt hung from her hips,

partially covering her pale skinny legs.

Her deep brown eyes were wide and curious,

but branded a hint of painful misery that

she seemed to desperately hide.

Her dark chocolate hair was pulled out of her square-ish face

in a high pony-tail that barely touched her back.

Her skin was a pale peach color,

not looking too unhealthy.

Her cheeks showed no sign of color though,

as if her blood had frozen in her veins.

A long-sleeved v-neck of the color of the bluest sky hugged

her stringy figure tightly.

A light hum flowed from her throat; a tune that produced nostalgia,

agony, and tranquility all at the same time. 

Later that evening she sat alone in a corner

of a dark smoke filled bar downtown,
 
inside her glass was a wasteland:

Vodka swirling around, the creepy

club's lights turning the toxic drink

neon greens, oranges,

red like flames.

Inside her palms were scrawled

boy's numbers ; wild man-like

creatures that inhaled whiskey,

cigars. They all ached heavily

to be her prelude.

Inside her mouth

a quieted voice, a hollowed

throat;

A lost note.

A la lueur des bougies, Ô splendide Muse
Illumine mon cœur d'un grand amour candide
Ce n'est pas une jolie prose, belle Muse
Que je te propose mais une poésie

Une modeste poésie d'un plumitif
Qui te supplie de l'aider à écrire avec art
Consolatrice aide les artistes chétifs
Viens et reste avec mes côtés, protectrice des arts.

Ta beauté, Ô magnifique et sublime Muse
Est à la hauteur de tes dons artistiques,
Immenses, Immuables et talentueux que

J'aime autant que la divinité qui les use.
Je t'aime lumineuse étoile terrestre
Un amour pour moi a-t-il la chance de naître ?



*Pour Elodie
Monmatre Paris
France 2002*

I feel the gentle winds of summer.

Go fickle.

Slowly changing directions
like lovers gone awry
and tumbling
in the arms of others.

As the hot pierce of sky
rolls back the afternoon
in hazy fingerprints
blistering the grass.

Nothing moves but my breath,
distilled air battering glass
and pushing into sallow
pressed down against the world
while clouds embank the horizon
with a murder of crows.

And the day singes
into a bottlefly green
like a spent match.