Not That Kind of Love Poem (A Reading of “5-7-5”)

5-7-5 (you can find the full poem here) was written with a girl in mind. Last night, something happened. I merged Christina’s audio reading of the poem with a photo of a boy and some background music. The result was something unintentional yet wonderfully and indescribably different. I will never see 5-7-5 the same way again.…

: )

My friends say I smile for all the wrong reasons. —————————————————– Most of the time, I smile for no reason at all. ————————————————– Maybe I was born with a stupid smirk on my face. ————————————————- But whenever I walk into this cafe. ——————————————— And wander into her perfect world. —————————————– This meaningless smile is a…

Why I Keep Coming Back

THE DOOR HAS never swung shut ever since we left it so, creaking on its hinges, slightly broken.  We kept it leaning out a little, as if we agreed its openness was an invitation we would take up when we felt braver to explore the house of our separate strangeness and particular fears. We had…

Tempest In My Coffee Cup

YOUR COFFEE MUG still sits where you left it, half-empty, atop your favorite porcelain, brim smudged with a curious combination of dried froth and pink lipstick. It’s my little testimony, you know, to a life well led and a union I thought was blessed. I never had the heart to move it even as it perches precariously on…

The Last Brew

TIME FOR one last cup. I still dream of coffee. I still dream of dipping my fingers in eddies of swirling froth and suffer the distant warmth fading with the passing of time. I still jump out of bed with a start, disoriented, roused by a whistling kettle that’s never there, struggling with tangled sheets, hoping to catch a…

The Scent of Cinnamon and Coffee on My Hair

IT IS official. I have forgotten how to write. It didn’t take more than a sentence to know that I won’t be getting anywhere. My thoughts could no longer command these brittle fingers to pry themselves open. Perhaps they have gotten so accustomed to wielding a pen that jabbing at a Chiclet keyboard seems so…

First Light

“It is even quieter at dawn. I sit out back and I write stuff, like stories. That’s easy.  I don’t know, it’s like at that time of the day, because everyone’s still asleep, all the best thoughts haven’t been taken yet.” – House at the End of the Street

5-7-5

I SEE HER for what she is — uneven, a runaway three-line poetry.  Lesser minds have plunged her depths only to break the surface with questioning faces.  All these years they never understood for they saw her differently, an odd number in the realm of pairs and parallelisms. She was often measured, but in their eyes…

a

a solitary chord a floating sound a quiet sunday afternoon a green patch of grass a tamarind tree a hammock of slumber a waking boy a listening ear a longing heart a flick of the wrist a strum of the guitar a reluctant song a rising arpeggio a perfect octave a muted key a pause…

What It Means

Since we’re into videos as of late, I’m posting this slightly-tweaked, short video, which disappeared when i deleted my old Google account recently. Those expecting the “inevitable” appearance of Zooey Deschanel will be sorely disappointed. I wrote this short poem (?) some time back as a tribute to old Johnny, habitue of this cafe I…

For Loss of Words (Sit Beside Me Still)

For Loss of Words (Sit Beside Me Still) — “The Caffeine Chronicles” Number 4. This is my portrait of you. It speaks to me in strange, colored verses, in whispered codes of ancient languages. I often get that illusion.  You are not easy to ignore. I’ve long studied its dog-eared corners, one by one, pressed…