We break our fast
On the side of the road
That takes us places

While we left our beds
Warm with stories incomplete

Ours isn’t a huge journey
Just one trail forged by discovery.

We have traveled far in one night
Breakfast marks a new day.

Untitled poem

so many menus visited and served
yet I remain hungry

as if I have fasted for years

tongue tied and void of
tasteful bites
only burnt air circulates

and dropped like hot potato cakes
flat and thick with

I sit by the low table
while the diners feast into oblivion
and watch beer bottle caps pop open

until we find


Just like
Smoke in a hookah
Cleansed and released

Received by you
Disbursed and expired
Dissolved upon exit

Smoke does not last
But visits your bosom home

I am a visitor
I come and go
And you, stay

The Hunters Will Depart

I have no words to speak
no honesty to spill.
My truths dwell in apathy.

I hover, stagnant, in constraint time.
The space is vast but
there is no floor for depth.
I resent.

So I play dead
and hope that soon
the hunters will depart.


show us the way.
Show us what it means
to be strong.
Show us how to be
gentle as gentlemen would.
Show us what leaders do
as you head this land.
Show us how you use your head.
If femininity is sensibility
and masculinity is sense,
if there is Yin
and there is Yang,
show us the light for our shadows.

Daddy, be our father.
Raise us from birth to maturity.
Teach us how to walk, run, and ride
these bumpy roads.
Coach us to stand up after we fall,
and to fight for what we believe in.
Shelter us with your hard work
to put a roof over heads and food on our tables.

see in us your legacy.
We are your bloodlines,
we are your creation.
Love us so that
we will know to love you.
Honor us, so that
we will know to honor you.

May your hand be one of support
and not one of injury.
The mark that you leave,
may it be beautiful.

We are your imprint in this world, daddy.

In support for the student protestors in Burma who were cracked down by the military police. this is a call for the government of Burma to be the proper caretaker of our countrymen, for them to do the duty rightly.


this mothership may sink
the vessel is heavy
burdened with history

the books are there as weights
their pages sodden with poison
she wants to purge
but can’t

the ocean and its creatures
have done no wrong
to be fed such venom

so the vessel holds them
as she leaks from rusted joints
she has been out at sea for too long

the mothership needs a motherland
to dock at rest

her fleet is starved
for a happy ending
while her belly is full with broken stories

rusted ferrous solution is not ink
to write with.


shall she search the shore
for shells.

wave foams wash in
shards of shields
for tender innards

lucid ridges marred by
undulating currents

singed by the sea

soaked sand stuff their hollows
puny crustaceans clutter caves

but shells…
they are dead empty after all.