I lost my shoes in India

Religion, reincarnation, representation


sweets on a plate
empty tuperware

lens cleaner is,

What we took to bed.

Red he says, but he’s deaf,
With earphones on,

Police frames and Louis Vuittion,
Cardboard handbags,
And perfect lips,

Peach by the way, like
I said, I

Lost my shoes in India and the Geisha wasn’t real.


♦photo♦ – Hyunception: Movie Reviews & Analysis

-short evocative poetry-



Receiver: A City To Love

Pick it up; handle it.
Hands have driven us,
finger manipulation of
matters ongoing.
My fingers ache tremendously
when you’re around.
Fingers help spread the news.
Lost; growing black inside,
all twelve have padded tips.

Living on a Prayer

You punish me for telling you my fantasy,
At night I lock the door so no one else can see,

Watch while the queen,
In one false move,

Turns herself into a pawn,

It’s like-
Drinking gasoline to quench your thirst until there’s nothing there left at all, I

Went to the doctor I,
Went to the mountains,

And then you happen to bring up reincarnation over,
A couple of beers the other night,

Spitting out all the bitterness along with half of my last drink,
This is no ordinary love,

Come Oberon!

Able only to gasp at the splendor of the sun,
Come satellite!

Saturns rings are lit by the Universe’s light!

For Simon

Photo – ♦Natsumi Hayashi

-evocative short poetry-

On gender based toiletry

poem, gender, toilets

Attack your assailant with the baguette,
You are carrying in your hand.

Soft weapon.

Transgender toilet,
Beat the crap out of the hoodlum, male
Or female,

Black or white, think
Not you must explain,

Why, during the attack
Men should not wear,

Flaming pink knickers, demand
The sex of the person approaching,

On the dark night,
In the lovely cottage,

Be determined after you have finished
The mission.

The lady so obviously not,
In the red heels,

And the blue make-up

Knows how to use her baguette, just
Do not touch her strong leather hand-bag.


-short evocative poetry-


Alone in the end
there is no privacy.
Only one mind,
which must love

Better practice death,
and live life alive.


Sometimes I watch other women 

Lithe creatures and voluptuous curves

Bodies and souls I imagine 

I could have inhabited (inherited?) in some other life

Life led by hips 

Bared breasts not too sensitive to touch

Fluid movements and intentional spines

(I must have been born too stiffly pale to dance)

In love even with blood 

While I lie awake writing poems in my head

No paper by my bed

So I think them to myself 

Love letters set aflame

Mandalas left to the will of the tides 

Carrying those grains of colored sand 

Broken and diffuse 

To fish who don’t care

While shame-stiffened muscles

And life with clean-cut men

Stealing the seduction from the small of my back

Make me dream of feminine embraces 

That teach me the fullness of the sea

Goat Bolt Tower Life

Ugly is beautiful again;
we shave off the hair,
rabbits stare,
run from the tower,
it’s a slow orange burn,
a time to bolt,
a time to pull open clouds.

All blues inside, beautiful blood;
the old skins are dying or dead,
peal and peal and peal,
underneath is the art of life.

Underneath we strive harder,
we see clearer, animus is visceral.
Orange kinetic fluff in the Oval,
we see Towers falling clearly above,
so Goats stand taller, don’t bolt;
our new path leads deep.

Until a snow fire improves us,
burning our lives bright in snow,
crystalizing patterns in code carriers,
goats will bolt. Tower. Life.