Looking from outside into an open window one never sees as much as when one looks through a closed window. There is nothing more profound, more mysterious, more pregnant, more insidious, more dazzling than a window lighted by a single candle. What one can see out in the sunlight is always less interesting than what goes on behind a windowpane. In that black or luminous square life lives, life dreams, life suffers.

Across the ocean of roofs I can see a middle-aged woman, her face already lined, who is forever bending over something and who never goes out. Out of her face, her dress, and her gestures, out of practically nothing at all, I have made up this woman’s story, or rather legend, and sometimes I tell it to myself and weep.

If it had been an old man I could have made up his just the same.

And I go to bed proud to have lived and to have suffered in some one besides myself.

Perhaps you are asking, “Are you sure that your story is the real one?” But what does it matter what reality is outside myself, so long as it has helped me to live, to feel that I am, and what I am?

Original poem by Charles Baudelaire


Brain Waves

If all of our reminders were writ in knitted neural wires,

There’d be no need for pens and paper, screens or keys.

The paths all our thoughts travel-

living streets of layered matter-

Are all the space a being could ever need.

Silent Spheres Sing

This galaxy’s an island-

A continent of stars,

And a billion other galaxies

Drift right alongside ours.

A black, vast sea before us,

An image from the past.

Everything is now some place else,

But our vision’s not as fast.

Hidden folds of wonder,

Life humble as clay.

Strokes as bold as thunder,

Origin of days.

The Long Night of History

Inside Room 103

On the back left hand wall,

6 portraits are hanging,

And each one of them all

Shows the very same building,

Just on different days.

6 sides of 1 person:

A revealing display.

Snapshots of progression-

2 Para ll e ll ines

Grouped 2 by 2

And stacked

Side by side.

We gather before them,

Linking thoughts into chains

To be wound round the table

And fastened to legs.

Transfixed, we stay seated,

Though time marches past.

Every moment a portrait-

Each the first,

Each the last.

Goodbye, and Thanks for Trying

There’s nothing you can do about the sores on your spine.

Growth spurts once hurt during youthful days gone by.

But now there’s dizziness in the morning.

And nights of tile for pillows, wondering

How soon sleep can turn to death.

You now face grim realizations;

So have a seat and catch your breath.

One in a million-

If they’re lucky- ¬†will drink of a sweet wine

Before a tired draught weighs down the dozing eIe.

You may get to be that happy one,

Or it may wind up you won’t.

But if you’re counting on a miracle,


Men trace the lines of cloud folds

With brushstrokes slight as flesh,

Yet draw no closer to the true shape.

We just try to do our best.

Nothing Good On

The new mother, Not-Nature, has begun providing for

A creature craving to devour all the piss-poor stock and store

Of a world so stuffed with hunger that it praeys to feed no more.

Nesting instincts with bad habits birthed this bestial kind of bore –

Deadbolted locks on deadened hearts, laid brick in open doors.

Lives now recede into themselves, untouched like none before.

Retail Blues

Lourdes is coughin’ on a Sponge Bob umbrella-

Checkin’ the price, and then she’s

Coughin’ again.

Lourdes is talkin’ about red bein’ dangerous.

She don’t have a Lexus, but she hopes

It would be black.

Lourdes is arrangin’ all the Beanie Babies,

‘Cause Beanie Babies just don’t

Straighten themselves.

Lourdes is cooin’ over Elvis Presley-

She says the King can be so

Hard to find.

“How far you wanna go inside this company?”

I’d rather go before the company comes…

I hate the shape of its communication.

Feels like who’s had a lobotomy.

Lourdes is coughin’ on a Sponge Bob umbrella-

Checkin’ the price, and then she’s

Coughin’ again.

Peace in Quiet

There are those who have all the words-

More than they need each day.

But some of us more lowly sons

Must work for what we say.

For empty thoughts are sold and bought

Like rich men’s luxuries,

Then said aloud and heaved around

As ships on waves at sea.

A little thrift won’t deaden tongues,

But wastefulness just might.

The thirsty man has leaks galore;

The sated’s watertight.

From the Cradle.

In springtime, life is easy.

Never has any man suffered in earnest

Due to March air breathing and spring.

It’s just when where we shop is where we live,

We end up home and barely speaking–

Barely living, is more like it, when it’s us and them and screens.

Convenience is a venom, Venus. It’s a you more bad than good.

And a workplace is a prison, minus fresh air,

And just two weeks off for being good.

It’s where we have to be to not die–

And to die simultaneously:

Happening at the same time, we say,

There is nothing more brutal than this!”

But that’s not true when it is springtime.

Here’s the trick:

That season is every day, sirs,

And all that’s cold is you.

Few things are truly “dying.”

It’s more like most things “are.”

So why waste time on feeling rotten

While still respiring without thought?

(Especially when it’s springtime)

You should not.

No soul can trap a moment

–Tap your touch screen all you please–

But each nerve remembers versions

Like old books they will reread.

And not a one’s recalled more fondly

Than even the dullest days

Of spring.