You were the poem I never knew how to write because no words could describe the wind you cannot see, but feel.

Outside our small safe place flies mystery.

I am not a finished poem, and I am not the song you’ve turned me into. I am a detached human being, making my way in a world that is constantly trying to push me...

A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up towards the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured...

Kroni i katunditShtegu qi çon te kroni asht shetija e katundarvet. Buzë mbramje me buljere në krah, dalin gra e vajza për me mbushun uj në krue. Ndeshen udhës shoqe me shoqe e shëndrrojnë dy...

Depths of Friendship…under fathoms deepof dark and bitter coldan eerie oscillationreverberated brash and bold…

Do You Believe…on this road of lifeon this dayI take younow husband and wife…

In a tired time, with the light outside drifting away for another day and the lights inside flickering as they come to life, I cup my hands together and prepare to give thanks … to...

But I was youngand didn’t know betterand someone should have told me to capture every secondevery kiss & every nightBecause now I’m sitting here alone and it’s getting really hard to breath because tears are...

I am a complicated person with a simple life.

I am young now and can look upon my body and soul with pride. But it will be mangled soon, and later it will begin to disintegrate, and then I shall die, and die conclusively....

He left the next morning, searching for a city with light that reminded him of me. He would mail me empty envelopes and boxes, I would take them into my closet, shut the door, and...

White IrisThe iris danced acrossthe ancient Grecian skiesgliding with her embossedsatiny milken sides …

I suppose that’s how it looks in prose. But it’s very different if you look at it through poetry…and I think it’s nicer…’ Anne recovered herself and her eyes shone and her cheeks flushed… ‘to...

It’s too short,’ she said, ‘ever so much too short.’ Never did anybody look so sad. Bitter and black, half-way down, in the darkness, in the shaft which ran from the sunlight to the depths,...

We are all running towards a destination which doesn’t exist. On our way, dogs of life keep barking at us where we respond to some and some we throw stones at. Every dog teaches a...

What is this thing? trading passions for a tiny bit of acceptance.

The great error consists in supposing that poetry is an unnatural form of language. We should all like to speak poetry at the moment when we truly live, and if we do not speak it,...

A silent velvet footstep filled me, unwelcome yet so needed. You finally found my hidden shore with grains of time and ocean of the most secret secrets, violet and red; left a trail of deep...

PartingOne is strong, a child now grownThe other weak, a parent aged-The strong once feebleThe weak once mighty-Time, the infinityhas marked them…

Work on good prose has three steps: a musical stage when it is composed, an architectonic one when it is built, and a textile one when it is woven.

And when they dusted my mind for your fingerprints they found yours.

He was a compact, clearcut man, with precise features, a lot of very soft black hair, and thoughtful dark brown eyes. He had a look of wariness, which could change when he felt relaxed or...

Sometimes you need to sit lonely on the floor in a quiet room in order to hear your own voice and not let it drown in the noise of others.

Unlike Gatsby and Tom Buchanan I had no girl whose disembodied face floated along the dark cornices and blinding signs and so I drew up the girl beside me, tightening my arms. Her wan scornful...

I’m a man of music as much as I am a man of words and prose. One could even possibly say that they, music and prose, are connected to a lengthy and mutually beneficial extent...

Nothingness…there in this placewhere nothingness takesbut for the glimmera steadfast shimmerall would be consumed…

… endowing the imperfect and the preterite with all the sweetness which there is in generosity, all the melancholy which there is in love; guided the sentence that was drawing to an end towards that...

I paid the taxi driver, got out with my suitcase, surveyed my surroundings, and just as I was turning to ask the driver something or get back into the taxi and return forthwith to Chillán...

I haven’t been very impressed lately.By people,or places,or the way someone said he loved me and then slowly changed his mind.

There were days when I still put on make up in case you’d come back,but I wear the same clothes and shower in the rainand eat when I can and sleep when I can,which is...

The Grim Reaper isn’t grim at all; he’s a life-saver. He isn’t grim because he isn’t anything. . . . he is nothing. And nothing is a hell of a lot better than anything. So...

Nowhere hidden has ever turned away a goodheart guest.

Saturated Arrogance…imprisoned musescried to be freeshe took away their quillsand saiddo not bother me…

A forced contemplation of the heavens, crisp and angelic blue, a classic prelude to death.

She would not have cared to confess how infinitely she preferred the exactitude, the star-like impersonality, of figures to the confusion, agitation, and vagueness of the finest prose.

Parched by the deprivation of your love for so long made me forget what a cup brimming with love, on my lips, felt like. Everything that now wets it, only wrinkles it with a bland...

He left that morning, the last words still echoing in my head, and though he said he’d come back one day I know a broken promise from a right one for I have used them...

I want to burn with excitement or anger and bleed, bleed out my words. I want to get all fucked up and write raw and ugly about all these things I see and am and...

Driving down deserted early morning roads. Round and round. Round downtown. Through naked streets. Lips pursed on two litre bottles of beer, but pursuing the lips of freedom’s night. Swapping cars. Winding up at karaoke...

In the coastal strains of music full of lovers hopes and dreams upon, wearing only warmth, fresh scent of the ocean and delightfully joyous smile…I look deep in your dark gloomy ochi ‘cross the oceans...

A Coy Aversion…a fluttertoo shyto be seen…

I’m a better polemicist in prose.

Niko? I have decided to christen this little pool Le Cagot’s Soul.””Oh?””Yes. Because it is clear and pure and lucid.””And treacherous and dangerous?””You know, Niko, I begin to suspect that you are a man of...

Always be a poet, even in prose.

Am I making something worth while?I’m not sure.I write and I sing and I hear words from time to time about my life and choices making ways, into other lives, other hearts,but am I making...

It’s been the longest timeSince I’ve been in this place,Where I spend my whole dayHoping I’ll see your face.Then I script things to say,And maybe what you’d say back.You don’t know it yet,But, girl, it’s...

Poetry is prose in slow motion.

RebukeObstinate regressionbringing untold pathsof deep dark forebodingdepression…

You campaign in poetry. You govern in prose.