This Could Go Three Ways

Photo by Sarah Chai on


I hugged her deeply

Palms splayed wide, pressed against her back

As thought posed to draw her inside my heart.

I loved her harder in that moment than if

She truly belonged to me.


I followed her

Thinking she wouldn’t noticate.

Or that I wanted her to notice me instead.

“Is your love…special?” She turned on her heels.

I said stoutly, “I want the truth.”


You said Vietnamese was cheap,

But for all I know, we are kings of the world.

Dinner was so sublime

I couldn’t even bring myself to ask:

“How do you make love in your castle?”

An Observer Listens Quietly

Photo by Max Andrey on

A wild struggle between hope and despair through the universal experience of listening to one’s favorite songs. Songs that have subliminal message but you wonder how far they’ll go for you…

Each my song

Has a distinct flavor

That shatters the bones

And pounds glistening tones.


I’m sorry, song.

I judged harshly

Before listening first

And quenching my thirst.


A hope, on a dare.

Respite from self.

I look up to the sky

And ask myself why oh why.


What do they warble

In wayward songs?

Do the squeeze out tears

That read my worldly fears?


Broken promises

And a sleepless night.

Lover, and lover to scorn

If only there’d BE lover to mourn.


Oh, if only

“It will get better.”

I look up in car to the sky

And weep why oh why oh why…


(Pictograde: a cross between “retrograde” (transgressing back in time) and “pictogram” (a picture symbol))

Photo by lil artsy on

Pictograde is a cross between the word “picture” and “retrograde.”


I traipsed along the path

that was green.


I sang like a little girl,

I saw them again.


The couple was no more than a couple, ratting

SunTory whiskey or…

An unraveling to a

Grand story of life.

A living pictograde,

which I could witness but never partake in.


I traipsed along the path

that was green.

A windy summer

Oh never mind, just more memories from college that I rephrase in a thousand different ways.

Photo by A M on

She was swept in by the gust of wind —

She, so angelic that I stupidly grinned.

I’d know, her smile was a knowing one —

That, whose enchantments were always never done.


I think summer fever gave me those hallucinations

For now I’m no freer from Fate’s elucidations.

Out of center light I was just a wistful pawn;

Then I blink and poof! and she was gone.


Sneaking a hello is some bizarre performance art;

I know not where t’will lead my quaking heart.

Only the breeze told me it’d bring her in tow —

‘Tis no small wonder that I really loved her so.

Love Poem to a Masculina

You know, I found this poem called “Love Poem to a Butch Woman. I really liked the concept but I didn’t like it enough, so I changed it considerably. I completed the sentences without hopefully sounding too pedantic. In addition I added in some descriptors that I thought sounded more colorful over the previous poem. I’m not a scholar like Deborah A. Miranda, so naturally I wouldn’t presume any superiority over her work. This is just a personal reinterpretation.

And of course, trigger warning for (I think ) any erotic content ahead.

So this is how it is;

A desire so strong I want to syphon the egg

From your womb and nourish it in mine.

I want a baby — yours, made out of this

sopping mess of us: no extra help from any other

But love in itself. I want to override

The matrix of man’s seed, create a living product

From the love that flows between

our intertwined bodies in electrifying passion.

This is how it is:

When you stride out of the bedroom,

Chain dangling above your half-hidden

Breasts in an unbutton blouse — I want to slip you into my heart

As I receive your secret.

I watch your hands, wait for the moment that

you’ll, open me, stroke me, love me, fill me;

The moment your desire leaps inside of me.

The Cliffside Blue

This isn’t a poem based off any real-life event. It’s an ode to inspiration that I drew from during one of the happier moments in my life. It wasn’t noteworthy or anything special. I was just out walking in the morning, listening to music, and daydreaming. Those three activities coincided so sweetly that they spelled out a magical “what-if” scenario, a sweet but universal fantasy representative of all young adults. I hope you enjoy it.

TRIGGER WARNING noted for erotic content below.


The wind wrapped me ’round the waist and

Jostled me out the door into a morning stroll to

There, where the cliffside overlooks the Blue of dawn.

The handsome stranger I met there earlier awaited in a

Breakfast of orange juice and biscuits and coffee and what-not.

Of course, I replied. Trying not to want it so much.

We watched the Blue tinge the house warm,

orange and yellow and — GREEN, I think,

A shade of sea salt wind from some wild Spaghetti dream;

The one over the cliffside

That overlooked the valley still drowsing and

Crowned itself lord o’ the land.

This cliffside of yours, where you pointed —

You, pianist fingers interlaced with rings and baubles

And a robe that signified a sleepy sort of warmth…

My god, Stelvio Cipriani himself must have composed a

Song, dedicated to this so very moment.

You asked my again, my ados, my existence follies;

But how can I possibly tell you that

Your breast in my mouth

And your nipple

On the tip of my tongue

And your bare abdomen,

Caressed by the breeze wind

Before I do


The reason for my being?

To hope, that mine eyes have told thee all.

And now I’m running out of time. Time again.

So come, come-!

Kiss your last goodbyes to me

Before the wind whisks me back to my briefcase

As though it was me leaving that house for a day

Out of the kitchen scented of old coffee stains

And canvassed paintings behind glass

Warmed by the intrepid sunrise —

Out of the bedroom

Out of your sleepy arms

And off your hips

Stubbled with the scent of pheromones and

Sweaty smiles

And spasmic hugs




out of another hapless little dream.

Never Know

The bittersweet pleasure of them never knowing that you held the most sacred of feelings dedicated to them along.


I writhed —

when you approached me.

Like your visage just…

bore into my soul for the world to see.

I’d confess my sins.

If you want. I am stubborn.

My doggeness when you’re gone and done?

Of that, you’ll never know.


You don’t have to know

that I bottle capped a fleeting year

nary soaked with less

than just a single tear.

Every first sight I’m crippled sick

and in the continuation of your abscence

I feel parts of you hither-!

verisimilitude of an omnipresence.


Spring out, already, like a boogeyman —

scare me wonderfully, my breath for capture;

know how much I panic in a day

but not the reason behind my rapture.

My bed feels more heavyweight, golden

plating to adorn, greening body to forego.

And a mind so catatonic…it just…?

That, you don’t have to know.


For the ones for whom it does on and on and on and…


…and yet still I long.

Oh, longing, longing,

said a confidante to me once.

To dream, perchance to dream.

What to do with a waiting lil’ heart?


I’ll tell you.


That you’ll see

how my heart is bleeding

profusely as my promiximity

to you

whom I’m not sure even exists.

And it’s so stunning

in all the ways of heaven and hell

that I can’t carry it all myself.

Will you help lighten the load?


It hurts me.

Every day.

she got mad again.

Photo by Kat Jayne on

Hi guys, so I’m going to try to make a habit to post every Sunday or so. I come up with so many poem ideas that it’s hard to keep track. Regardless! At least I don’t have a worry of running out of content.


Okay, I thought it was the dog,

but then it was me,

forgetting the dog.

Then I forgot to off the porch light this way

and the happenchance hall light

that way,

and then the dog-bitch got scared stiff after

I shocked the air with a taser stick

In preparation of a cold dangerous nightly stroll

and he wouldn’t budge.

So then —

“It’s YOUR fault.

your own, own fault.

while I’m lying here in pain.

Why don’t you…?

Why don’t you…?

Why don’t you…?

You struck out today.”

And you know?

I don’t even know who said it first. If at all.

Me or her. To me.


I walked out.

Without the dog.

Tried to drown in the songs

I preciously prepared for a gallivanting night

and pretended I was quite the pity person

in those TV shows.

Wow. You really are quite the pity.


My mind held quite the game show that night,

my thoughts fastened tight on the spinning game board.

How many portions of sorry

will repave your trust in me?

What TYPE of sorry,

that you think so significant,

will reconaissance my sheer fright of you?

…and other million dollar questions I can’t answer.


My God!


Or maybe the carousel,

round and about on a tizzying guilt trip.

What will she say next?

Oh, god, is there a next?

I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry and really I’m more penitent than a saint.”

“Why don’t you learn and know the pain you

cast into my already seething nerves of hellfire

and my migraines and my cold spells and…


Or…nothing the next morning.

It’s already spinning so quickly, you see,

it’s hard to get off and face you.


I love you so much

that I’d sooner wisk away into the ether

from where you took me and knit me

than show my miserly face all over again,

ready to pelt you with reminders

as if your own pain wasn’t enough to content with.


In the meantime,

until you forget,

I’ll keep tiptoeing around the hallways

like the tulips they they sing about.

Just for you.


I’d paid my penance

in silly tears.

Half a Woman

First time

like a foal on wobbly legs

I slipped a kiss

to one with a masculina’s countenance

and girlish wiles.

Your lips are warmer

than I imagined.

…are they as warm as your breasts?



That escalated quickly.


Yes, yes,

but if they press onto me,

they’ll stick fast like

childhood memories of my

favorite history class

and a man presses his DNA

and seed

and all of his grievances and conquests

into a woman’s body.


So come, come quickly,

while yours are still full of love and life

and our souls can blossom during every sunrise

after they’re caressed as though they’re mine.

Unless —

unless they’re actually mine.

And the you I think I know

doesn’t exist

outside of cheap machismo scams.

Hah! I can never really tell.