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Flipping a coin not for its verdict,
but to borrow its resolve

to choose a side and remain on it.
But for now everything is up in the air.

Yet you make love,
not decisions.

The coin hangs between us.
Won’t you tell me what you want?



The End of the World

has been written about elsewhere and before,
possibly by myself, bleak and heavy with
imagined desires. Now that I’ve shrugged off
that metal mantle called the fear of time,
the sad youth’s companion, the end of the world
appears not as apocalypse, nor devastation,
not big glow, big fire, but rather, punctuation,
a gasp in the symphony sung by a choir
no one among us can keep time to alone.



Something about moderating one’s desires. Or questioning them.
Do I love you, for example, and are you your body?
You are in your body, and you are not in mine.

Aristophanes’ theory that every human is only half of what it once was.

There are many measures of eternity. In one, a bird flies
once every one thousand years to sharpen its beak on a cliff
halfway across the world. When the cliff is worn away,
that is the beginning of an eternity. The measures of eternity
are also measures of distance.

Tristan laying down beside the naked sword he laid down beside Iseult.

Sartre’s example of an infant plunging its hands
into a jar of honey, the crisis of contact,
the necessary dissolution of one’s self
upon touching the beloved world.

Alkibiades wrapped in Socrates’ cloak embracing Socrates’ wrapped in Alkibiades’ cloak.

The hotel room that exists for us both
but only in our minds, similar but not the same one,
differing only in the minute details: the fruit in the bowl,
the shape of the lamp shade, maybe the quality of the light.

Different ways to sleep beside but never with.

You once told me I had sticky hands. I can’t help
that what I want is to grasp.


Be mountains, be house
Have love, be mouse
A little labor, a found forgetting
We will have all the silly love that we look for

Cut-up poem using the text from my lover’s tattoos. Including the one he’s still planning.


Kahit muling tumutula, kahit laging nakahilata,
masasabing masikip pa rin ang pasilyo ng puso ko:
yung dating mansyon na ngayon ay mauseleo.

Pasikut-sikot man ang mga daanang ito, diretso’t
sigurado mga hakbang mo, walang takot
dahil mahimbing ang tulog ng mga multo.

Lakad lang, mahal, palayo ng palayo sa pinto.
Hindi natin alam ang hantungan ng biyahe mo,
pero nandito ka na rin, huwag na munang kumambiyo.


Tired Metaphors for Hate

A stone, to be cradled or thrown.
Forest fires, house fires, a lit match.
Not a good counselor.
Something sharp, or delicate.
A veil pulled over your eyes.
Enumerating is tiresome.
Think instead of that dusky queen
who bathed in milk, rising from it,
the rose petals clinging to her skin.


Now that I’ve figured out how HTML works through email posting (it doesn’t) I can make a slightly more intelligible attempt at showing you what I’ve been working on lately:

With other people, I edit:
With other people and a lot of alcohol, I write for:
With permanent marker and thrift store romance novels, I rewrite:

My previous erasure project is called Neighborly, and you can read it here:

Apologies for the mess I made of the last post. This one might not turn out so pretty either, but bear with me.


The Break-up Brew, A Recipe:

Take an unhealthy dose of poisonous self-loathing, cut with a thimbleful of ire. Mix in regret, and let it sit for a while until it turns into obsession. Cut with disdain and contempt. Add alternate dashes of sweet carefree fuck it all and bitter misery. Garnish, if you wish, with a marijuana leaf. Serve over his cold shoulder.

While under the influence, do not attempt to operate Facebook, Twitter, or your cellphone. Possible side effects are saying hello to strangers, loss of appetite, inability to sleep, and surprise crying jags.

It’s a potent cocktail, but you made it, so drink it down.


Edit of the most recent poem.
Let me know if it’s any better or worse.

I’m sorry I never told you I was voted Best Liar
for four years running since second grade
or at least until Posey McLaren fibbed that
her rooftop swimming pool goes down
a hundred feet deep. Imagine that.
Instead of a face-off, I turned the other cheek.
I spent my weekends carving untruths out of
ouija boards, engraving mottoes onto mirrors,
and spinning yarns. I got so good my mother
believed I was the neighbor’s child, wandering
into the kitchen for a cookie after lunch, and
staying for dinner because the rest of the family
was in Wales. She called me a well-bred example.
I got so good I convinced the sidewalk it was
a waterbed, into which I plunged when I fell
from the thirty-storey building of your grace.
It must have been my mockingbird talent, my
chameleon wit. Could it have been my penchant
for rap battling love, where I dropped compliments
like they hot? Could it have been that last story
I told you, as we lay like naked pick-up sticks
in the hands of the unskilled, about how
I was voted Best Liar in fifth grade, and that
I won it seven years running?


Hello, readers. I’m back, sort of. Been updating Soft Floors through email, because the office firewall won’t let me log into WordPress. That’s right, I’m a working girl. Regardless, I’ve been writing through a fresh and violent upheaval, so pardon the rusty gears. At least they are turning.

A short list of things that turn:
The world
The other cheek

Might edit that most recent poem tonight.

That’s all. It’s nice to be back on the softest of floors.