I write more in winter.

Sadistically I enjoy cold hands

And letting old man winter think he’s won;

Or in summer I’m lost in the grip of life well lived.

Summer needs sonnets like winter needs melancholy ramblings

Or drams of the hard stuff.


Winter in paris is severe.

She wears her grey coat

Long and heavy

With an air of grace.


Autumn is like a favorite

Sweater - pulled from the corner

Of the closet. Fitting just right

On the wrists and laying across the shoulders.

Full of promise and memories,

Like the first pour of whisky from the bottle

You know you’ll share it with celebrations, rejoicing, and tears

Company, loneliness and cold nights.

Autumn is a breath of fresh air when you’d forgotten the room was stale.

the seine

Cradled in the seine’s cold embrace;

Not wet, but watching

Ships bludgeon their way through

Her murky waters.

If I were a child I would fancy a frolic in her hold;

Now my mind strays to needles, bodies and hypothermia.

Oh to be a child again.

in Paris

Foreign country,

Languages melt together.

Bouillon cubes in boiling water

Flavoring what was not.


I cannot remember life before her.

Fragments, pieces, but no picture,

My mind sometimes places her there;

At my 10th birthday, round glasses, cheeks red

From February rain.

We began a decade later,

No meeting, no beginning, no end;

That’s how we will remember it.

Décembre 2016

Sitting in the shadows

Of the Tour Eiffel.

The world seems small,

Accessible and fair!

Flags rest in windows

Reminding that it is not.


on death and dying

If I should die a death untimely,

You must take another lover;

Have a family, live in the sun.

In doing so you give your gift of beauty

To this errant world,

And carry on a part of me;

For my soul lives with you.

where to shout

Shout at the dinner table

Shout at the edge of a mountain

Shout underwater

Shout to a piano

Shout in traffic

Shout with a paintbrush in your hand

Shout with your partner

Shout in the dark

Shout until you cannot breathe

Whisper while skydiving

observations of city life

I’ve seen a hundred people today

And haven’t yet been truly seen.


No one knows me like the owner of my corner bodega.

untitled no.1

if you stand at the edge of a crevasse and scream into the abyss below "I AM A WRITER"

you are not.

if you gaze out from a stage upon a crowd of eager eyes and proclaim "I AM A WRITER"

you are not.

but if you whisper your secrets to a page and hold it up for all to see:

then yes, you are a writer.