vinyl excuses


, , ,

the echo between the

air conditioner and the dashboard

hasn’t spoken to you

for days now, there are highlights in

your radio.  streaks of blinking, soaring

seagulls, men without

pizzas delivering tangerines instead

of cheese.  a boy at the

chocolate store tells you that

the voice of god is what you speak and

not what you hear.


down into a boiling river


, , ,

taking a mango under a

summer moon, when the iftar

comes in august.  the night sky is

purple, so many sailors

talk into their walkie talkies

because of the rising

stones in the sea.  a flute plays

in the distance, where there

are only octopus and squid.  you turn and

then turn again and ask the

heavens what you can learn from

dying without having known a woman.

a view of dawn, from high in the sky


, , ,

at the beginning of the romantic

age, a soldier found a mystery in

a field of treasure.  he opened the box

of wine and woman met him

at the end of the gilded

row of flowers.  a column of

numbers were written on each petal,

they expressed an ancient italian

math, which when translated contained

recipes of long lost

cucumbers.  the two cooked cabbage and

grapes to make some

thing new, it was a way

to turn coal into silver

bracelets, that they wore on their ever

darkening skin.

oh, for the love of lizard women


, , ,

when we met at the bottom of the

ocean, we couldn’t see the light of

day because of the shade, we were able

to make several deals, unencumbered.  the tectonic

plates were not aware

that they were being traded and the millions

of soldiers on top of them were oblivious to

their fates.  lights come down and bubbles

go up. no knows to judge, but we sit for steak

later to commemorate the order of

things, and we stroll in the park, for fun.

scratching your knee even when its summer


, , ,

five years in the future, your mom

walks down to the

door of her childhood

home.  she’ll ask to buy it back and

to move in again.  the jazz music will

begin to play and the grass will grow, then

decrease in style.  a lover from a

past age will ask what’s become

of her, but she won’t know what

to say and maybe she’ll point at us.