I’m half-poet, half-moon.The mythology of women.I’m half-poet, half-sun.The mythology of men. I wanted to be a poetsince I first read Shakespeare. I wrote poems for dead poetsknees deep in other’s wordsit’s not so much a dead poet’s societybut more of a cult followingfor the living. I found another muse—myself. Followed…

she seeks refuge in pastoral,promises of a safer passagewhere planes still fly over–but this time, the target doesn’tinclude her. still there’s nosolace, not for a woman witha sweetheart left behind in secret. she pines in whipcord breeches,hands blistered from a harvestpulled by the root for winter, thesewomen strong, not as…

One day they rose             up                  out of the primordial ooze, the new primordial ooze             of the wasteland which we had left             strewn over the earth, from shiny tangled places             of tin cans and value meal trays, slick with oil, squelching             and rustling                        over the carcasses             of dead seagulls                        and poisoned whales. Their…

They say the blue is underneath the brownThat the brown is only a coveringIs it true that the warm soup within your eyesIs skyAmidst the wilderness of the universe,Do they notice if a star is less milky                     Or does its destination lieBeneath the dark,To the wolfs of the blue. ____________________________________________________________ Agampreet…

there are days I remember  better than others.  most of them are here,  in this place,                                     in this spot—                                     with you. late night chats  over cups of overdressed coffee. my hands shook from caffeine and sugar                         or maybe it was from you. the memories of us stay imbedded in window…