[Context: Scene from a novel. Balthasar and Katerina are ex-lovers and business rivals. This is their first meeting since their breakup, which she initiated.] He was grateful when Katerina breezed by the words of explanation on the entrance wall and…

My dreams are poems that I write in my sleep, &, if circumstances are right, I wake up, remember my dream, count backwards from one hundred to zero, then step out into the morning garden to ground myself & take…

My Papa…. He smelled of cigarettes, leather, paint lacquer, paint thinner, gold leaf and slight deodorized sweat. Everyone said I looked like him….i do have his large brown eyes. And his aquiline nose with a slight bump in the middle.…

Balthasar bridled like a dark stallion unaccustomed to having a bit in his mouth. He may have even tossed his head in a show of pride and rebelliousness, his ponytail arcing into an audible snap. But when Katie turned back…

Sam, I didn't take & bury your corpse in the secret recesses of a redwood forest, as you once asked me to do for you if you died first. But I did come through on your elegy. After all, who…

Listening to paintings is like filling in the blanks. My favorite painting is the one in art appreciation class. The one where the whole family cooks empanadas, the cousins help, the baby's crawls around on the floor, & the abuela…

[This continues from the previous episode in which Vince has to pick through his dirty laundry basket for clothing to wear that day because he spent the night calming down his mother who was on a bad trip.] "So the…

The last poem–not this one, nor the one before. The one to the left of the page, not the right. Below the fold, as it were; it’s definitely not above board. That’s the one that makes me a poet. None…

[novel character continuation!] Ravi was relieved that the Woodfords were due for their staycation that summer. He wanted more time. He wanted to hide with June under the covers and under the trees, away from the endless speculation of whether…

The last poem I wrote to you was this morning. The heat must be playing tricks on me, because I think I see you waiting on the sidewalk entrance in front of George Washington High School, sipping cold brew coffee…

I Love Hearing You in My Dreams. I love hearing you in my dream, I love seeing you in my dream, I love how you reach out to me! How do you even do that? Fog covers me. You whisper,…

The last poem…..what a notion…. Clearly, the last poem will be the final sound the Cosmos produces as it dissolves into Oblivion, never to be heard from again. For, as long as there is Sound, there is Poetry.