Lovers resting lazily atop the bones of their ancestors.

Bones on bones

the living against the living

the dead against the dead.

One day to be interred not in their native ground

amongst those from whom they descend

but relegated to the concrete chaos of modern civilization’s making.



The morning fog rolled in like the undulating low tide.

Vete por aquí amorcito.

I can see the morning light consuming the streetlamp’s glow.

The buzzing dims.

The stench of wet asphalt stings my nostrils.

I dig my toes deeper into the dewy grass.

I taste the soil creeping through parted lips.

The birds retreat to their nests to greet the sun.

The quiet the new day brings burns inside my head.

Pebbles pelt me to shoo me off their sacred ground.


L ran to seek refuge and acceptance.

She will never find it.

I float off the earth and into the fog’s embrace.

Crack is an unusual drug.

Shelly warned me of that in the church basement.

She wanted me as her drug.

The train left the station at 6:00 am.

“All aboard” was the last thing she heard.

The sleek car filled with travelers’ hopes didn’t make it five miles.

The chintzy death.

She’ll have to be born again to remember her past life.

The deep mist penetrates my bones.


Flames Nevermore

A love reduced to ashes—

black, flaky, burnt to a crisp—

lays contained within a pit on the sea shore.

She’s been landlocked for so long—

in a different place and a different time—

with no plans of returning to that beach.

But by chance she happens upon it, and walks by that very pit where the ashes still sit silently.

The air providing them no hope—

damp, brisk and blustery—

reminding her of the once blazing bonfire’s untimely demise.

A fire not forgotten,

its warmth still felt in her skin,

but one put out by the Dictator Time.

A fire too difficult to maintain from a distance

and one that wreaked too much havoc on her heart.

A fire gone cold—yet still familiar.