a white man on the subway
forgot he was
and thought he saw.
In the black tunnel
an aborigional mural
shone in the lightning spark.
He closed his book
and squinted through the dirty window
until he saw him self
in the refleciton.

I spent a year (or two) throwing words around
tossing them like empty beer cans.
Now my shaking hands find it dificult
to hold them and mold them...
and not be jaded by their tricks.


Julia lost her mother last year
and misplaced her father
in all that traveling that followed.
It took me a month to get her to trust me
then it got too real and I left.

Anne wrote poems for a living
and well she lived
judging by the tatoos on her back.
‘To be a writer is to be a spectator in ones own life,’
I miss quoted to her.
She didn’t look up
to see me leave.