I roam over these maps in search of my next destination, calibrating the time zones and coordinates with the rhythmic beating of my own heart trying to adjust itself to where it will land. But no matter how long I stare at the curves of these continents, I cannot trace the path of my Beloved… the longitude of my true longing… or the altitude of my joy.



The paper airplane never landed where we pointed to. Submitting it’s course to the whims of unseen drafts and some laws of aerodynamics that we could not calculate, no matter how crisply we creased its paper folds and sculpted its wing tips we ever failed to account for some slight shift in balance that rerouted our efforts for naught.

And how, I wondered, could I have ever presumed my own path lay in the hands of my design, when no matter how carefully a balance set could be redirected, as I swiftly learned to realign myself with the wind, or be capsized by its force.

real estate.

Build me a house made of paper
that I may not learn to love it long
before the rain melts it away,
that I may not learn
to live within walls
built to keep others outside,
or forget the light of the
stars guiding my dreams
above my head.

Build me a house made of paper
that I may not rest
against its walls,
but learn to stand straight
as a pillar
on my own foundation,
feeling the shifts and sighs
of the earth
below my feet.

Build me a house made of paper
that I may write on its walls
the truths of these days,
leaving smudged fingerprints
and crossed-out metaphors
where words fail to see beyond,
and speak in shadow-puppets
where hands becomes wings
that lift me away.


I had written honest once,
or so I was convinced,
but words beautifully arranged
can make liars of us all
with symbolic intentions
So now I shy from allusions
and emblematic turns of voice
and notes that linger in the air
quivering with significance.
I rise early now
with the sun
uncloaking shadows to dust
I live simply
speak plainly
and pay visits to visions no longer.

although still,
still they surprise me in dreams.


do you remember how we used to be able to tell the difference without even trying? before the line of reality began to blur and we knew without a second thought where we stood. now it is harder to tell and we question one another while still stubbornly refusing to show any vacillation ourselves. but this too is temporary and soon our own words will become so pregnant with nuance they will pause for a moment to wonder if we just said what they think we just said, or if there is something hidden under the surface of those sounds and letters. but before getting too far into this query they will grow impatient and move on to the next idea that hangs before their noses, ringing with cold clarity, and not notice as we sigh and shake our heads and we fumble with stacks of carefully-articulated proclamations as we slip quietly out the side door.