A stranger to my style

This morning she gave me a fist
When I asked for a smile.
All day I've been walking with a bruise in my heart.

Poetry doesn't have to be bigger than the thing it contains

I choke within myself, straining to find a voice
that does not want to be heard.
Meaning is a rope tightening around
my neck; a daily strangler.
A little I gasp for breath everyday.
A little I watch myself die everyday.

Whenever I put paper to pen,
Reading my thoughts
Means looking through the paper of my mind
On to the other side
And reading what's written there, backwards.

This page, printed,
Is a blurred, tasteless, memory
of minds full of illegible meaning.

Experimenting with shape

The rectangular mirror
Reveals a form untamed by geometry;
A gurgling shape.

I stare at my eyes.
My eyes draw me
Out as they stare me out
Spilling shapeless over form.

I see my eye.
A single eye with possessions
From both parents,
Deposited in me; temporary safekeepings.

Not my own, my own existence -
Borrowed.

I shift shape between man and woman
Lingering along lines,
Uncertain, certainly not defined.

On silent nights, when sound is a fragile friend
Waiting to exist in its own right,
Is that me, you hear, gurgling into amorphous unity?

'O Clock!

My body goes tick-tock to the 3 A.M. wisdom of night;
A snip-snip sound comes from the sharp scissors of time
as they cut my life into more and more bits of age.

this monotonous life

all night I stared at four
unattractive legs of my three
dimensional chair
to take a break from my
flattened existence within two
dimensional computer screens.