Is it in the way I thirst?

The dry, scarlet heat of the San Joaquin Valley

Blooms in my mouth’s cave

Flowering only fluffy white cotton at the tip of my tongue.

I am alive, and love is a lie

This hallucination to behave

Another heaviness to weigh

Rolling the thunder of my tongue between my cheeks

The dry heat is like a temptress,

And beyond this tangent I cannot speak

Of the fluffy white clouds bleached

Upon another blue desert sky

Breath of Fire

I swan dive into sparkling pixie dust As love is nothing without lust All alone and eyes on fire,
I am stardust,
My emotions ever long And growing towards the sun
The heaven in me is a ghost town And my body is a wonderland of stars
-dazzling stars.
Create me to be a breath taking constellation,
A stellar hallucination

Propose rings of Saturn in Poseidon’s wake Create life on Mars
The galaxies sail as my eyes dilate
From a breath of fire,
Create me to be all I can be
Laying down the law of the universe
And all its complexities

Creative Writing Assignment, Summer School 2020

A little assignment from my Creative Writing course. It’s a short story, with absolutely no plot. Note that this is a piece of fiction, and the character is fictitious. It’s really whatever you make of it…

Once upon a tragedy, somewhere in modern day London as the Waltz of C Sharp Minor, Opus 64, Number 2, Chopin,  drifts through a room…

            “Something has to be done for all the people out there”, he thought as his handsome balding head sunk into his weighing hands. His galvanizing eyes of true blue reflected a stare through the arched antiquated gothic window pane meeting the empty pavement, which reciprocated a droll glare. The streetlight was his only peer no matter the hour. The day was as grey as the night. The hours daunting as the young man of such great stature became lost within the day, often familiar with his own condition of keeping time as brilliance.

            You see, this day in particular resided in the peach pit of his stomach; within his chambers was a sort of nausea- that kind of being and nothingness which only philosophers quote on what constitutes a man. The weather taking many shapes of slate through the window in January as commoners hustled through the dawning of the New Year era. The common people hustled and bustled, but that is neither here nor there. This charming man was never aware that his very sighs were the given air. He simply was.

            Crouched in uniform beside the stone frame of the pane, he set himself on a considerably minute ottoman of velvet. The atmosphere of rain conveyed multitudes of his indecision, that kind of headspace of ponder the man had grown into, like taking up a sport. In a sense he was senseless, and perhaps sterling lined omniscience was his very innocence.

He was ready as he would ever be for the evening’s jubilee as he parted from the Drawing Room. His own imagination running wild on all of the things he could be when he grows up, like, perhaps he would establish peace and unity between the wild reputations of India and Pakistan and feed the hungry with his own bare hands, followed by fancying the fleeting idea of eventually marrying a beautiful woman. His inner dialogue rolled as he strolled through the palace, placing his slightly aware gaze upon those in attendance. Among the party guests were gussied up men in lavish attire and women who wore frocks while wining and dining on anything and everything.

The man raises a brow. He lifts his glass to his hollow gaze, raising the champagne eye level. “I would like to give a toast,” he began. The wide room filled the array of strangers among party guests came to a pointed halt. “A toast to those who know the most…to those who really know what life is truly all about…” Among the partygoers, one unfamiliar face gave the suited man a puzzled look. The man in the suit continued, “I am in need of some peace in my life, and will be divorcing my wife. This was all adequately delivered, followed by phrases of profanity.

And with that, the man, forgetful and always forgetting whether or not he was married, let alone always forgetful of where he placed his champagne glass, forgot as well that he was His Royal Highness.

Out of the House Running

Out of the house running,

The expression of expressed feet/Hasty as the rapids of moving metal boxcar remains/flash meticulous displeasures/at eye level

This body emitting zealous auras

Know this: I am a glow.

This striking emittance leads to the next man’s confession/And snap of my left hand

The luminescence ever lambent a seemingly vivacious revenge

I am among many swans.

Pale romances under stellar beams,

Collected light upon the features which constitutes this beyond dove-like creature

Reflected into something so before unseen.

And it’s in this shape,

The delicate posture of holding such great composure

I levitate before my reflection,

Floating ever so.


See✨My body, the thunder in its thighs✨A full figured 24 hours✨The treasure map of a wonderland

See✨My eyes, Clear✨The color of truth✨Frosted epoch

✨Running fingers through tangled hair, like this tangent✨Seeing through