you won’t know what love is (a poem)

You won’t know what love is until you hear the blues,

‘Cause that love you love to talk about, baby,

That’s old news.

You see, it’s not about holding hands

And it’s not about the kisses

And it’s not about making plans

To be somebody’s Mrs.

You will never know what absolute bliss is

Until your heart dances to the subtle romances

In the notes and cues

Of blues.


last night at the park

Something happened at the park last night. Without any interpretation, here it is:

We were four people sitting on the grassy hill of Parc LaFontaine, talking about regular things, books, life, the absurdity of existence. The conversation was sweetened by the pineapple-basil-flavored ice cream that we picked up from a nearby shop.

Alongside us, on the hills, were groups of young people enjoying their Saturday night as well. The grassy whiff of marijuana filled the air. Not everyone was into ice cream.

Below us, closer to the lake’s edge, garbage dotted the grass surrounding the trashcans. The litter was scattered by people who had enough energy to walk to the trashcan but not enough dedication to put their waste inside it. In short, the condition of the lake’s edge was an embarrassment to civilization. But then,

Continue reading “last night at the park”

The Same Place, By Day

I have not forgotten much:

The tarmac was night.

And the streetlamp’s reflection,

A full moon in a puddle of dogpiss;

Sidewalks effervesced with ghosts

That blossomed out of the cracks

In my memory of the place.

I sat solid; not of cold,

But of fear that the slightest

Tremble might clear my visions

So that the street becomes

Street, and the ghosts become floating

Faces that resemble faces

Of ghosts I have hidden, and not so well,

Below the concrete of my fears.

The morning frost

Binds my eyelashes

And for a ghastly minute

I cannot open my eyes

To rid myself of the night.

The bittercold concrete

Defeats my temperature

In ravenous vengeance,

But I don’t remember much more.