How many doors does it take for one to
find that door? The man had to choose between
the lady or the tiger. In one door
there is seeming death, in the other
possible death. Predictably, beauty
is only possible pain. Talk about
probabilities in a world of ifs.
The tiger prances on the long bars of
its cage. The lady sits without a cage.
Who’s to say it is not the man who is
caged? How many doors until that door that
leads only to the roads between death? How
to choose? That is wisdom. To pay the price?
That is pain. To be human is to know.


I’m crashing right through
Frozen as water freezes
As ever water held
Only skin. Liquidity is
              Constant, and pores
Are trapped as even love
              Is trapped (underwater,
Scaly breaths, hold on to
              Holding, my fingers are long
As my hair, longer even than
              Love). Believe in idols,
Idol, the moon gestates through
              Waves giving birth to more
Waves. We’re riders of the crest
              Sun-funnelled at an instant
When air is water, and water
             The last damaged breath.


Those iron railings
Steel butterflies that enfold
The glittering globe

The making of salt

A cup will hold a sea of water.
That is all one needs to make
Whatever one wants. Salt is
Food, licked at from the earth.
From sea-earth, I become
A saltling, child of the seas,
Where I come from you lick
At me to soften this rough-
Crystal features I am frozen
Into. Your tongue creates
Water, serrated with moisture
Drops fall like surf foam.
As white as salt-seas your
Cupped hands, gathering
Sea-weed from foam, forming
Foam at the corners of my
Mouth. What will you use me
For? I am salt only for you
Wounds, and placed there, I
Only add more wounds. Heart-
Soul-land-love, sea-foam is
Nothing without the seas. I
Shed my tears, hold them
In your cup.

New Year 2008

The fireworks open the sky to wounds
Crimson, violet, gold,

The bruises color the night,
Making it wary. The moon hides.

Silver. Non-celestial, it closes
Leaden eyes on this carnival

Of pain. We hide our wounds
Again, the fireworks close

Itself to a color, a sound
And then a memory of

Color, of sound.