I didn’t earn a useless degree.

I do important things for future generations of researchers.

I help plant the seeds by describing 

the materials I see, hear & touch.

My brain is filled with random information, where words & sounds used to roam freely.

Now all the information I gather

is instantly absorbed,

internally floating in the deep,

dark membranes.

Poems are no longer a dime a dozen,

or touched by gold—

they creep up weeks later, infecting like a friendly virus.

The modern dancers of my work’s project now take center stage.

I can’t think of anything new—

AI and politics are making a mockery of the world,

& family members are dealing with both physical & mental challenges.

Better to stay quiet, 

to pull the covers close,

to note all sensations silently 

as all the nutrients of the weekly experiences

continue to be absorbed & consumed,

without much added comment.

Even when exhausted, 

dripping wet

& glued to the screen,

maintaining easy breathing—

I wear lavender,

hot pink & navy blue,

& I smile at every drag queen

on the TV screen,

as the supporters march 

onward in NYC.

My heart is with everyone 

who’s come out,

who’s not afraid to be 

who they are, 

& those still not sure,

& those protecting themselves,

& those tempted by flesh,

& those afraid of the world,

& those who thinks about their freedoms 

& those consumed by family.

This is never a quiet day,

no matter how it is celebrated 

or used—

show us the rainbows

before the rain comes!

I’m not planning to stare directly at the sun.

I value my eyes more than most anyone.

But co-workers egg me on.

They complain:

“We should have seen it in Mexico!”

I have viewing glasses,

but I’ll be in transit,

moving on the 7 train

these days have been insane

but I am still excited—

until I was on the roof.

After 3 minutes seeing the partial

through my magic glasses,

I freaked out 

& ran downstairs,

watching heavenly blue coronas

form on NASA.com

in both Detroit and upstate New York.

That’s enough.

After the eclipse,

people on the subway

are quiet, kind, patient & generous.

Spooked too—

I walk slowly & deliberately,

keeping the newly-born Sun

upon my back.

I want everything to melt soon, this “forever white”

snow, a new embankment formed from the mountainside

so that no flood waters flow. Pages of white-

lined paper are my only amusement these days

after the sudden avalanche. The winter’s white

light looks bright as summer’s, but it’s bristly cold.

Caught between two hard places, this white

track is too dangerous to go unaccompanied by foot.

Stuck here until it melts, I dream of white

flowers, their intoxicating sweet scents

taking me out of bed, until I see the still white

paths glistening in the sun. Not yet–not yet.

Published in “Looking in, looking out: an international anthology of poetry and short stories” (Willowdown Books: November 2023)

Mind’s swirling 

with New Year’s resolutions,

the Earth is now

closest to the Sun.

Will everyone

benefit from this 

fortune today,

even those who are scraping by?

Why all this suffering & struggle,

pretending to live fat,

out of our means?

Let’s bow towards the Sun,

breathe fully, eat better, exercise,

save $, pay down debts,

make better decisions.

Little by little, 

our circumstances might improve

even in a chaotic world like this,

it turns & glides around the Sun

like it was born to do.

We are all born into pain,

we carry traumas within our skin,

organs & bones; Joy is also possible.

Joy is an elixir—warming us

in a cold January day

like sunshine.  

The Dead,

never forgotten,

roam the streets & countryside freely

on November 1st.

Some of us can clearly see who they are—

During the Hallowed time

we protect ourselves 

from being taken

from this world,

when the veils of perception

between the Spirit world & ours

are the most faint

by disguising ourselves

to be anyone else

than what we actually are—

& the Dead

want to join the party.

They want 

to be welcomed,

to be embraced,

to be loved,

to be remembered.

It’s a pleasant, 

cool November morning.

The Dead

relish being almost alive again,

waiting to sit at the family table

& to sit down at the family graves.

The living

who are brave, 

they paint their faces

& light candles,

wanting, remembering, being.

She wished she was born in September, 

crowned by Aster  

& Morning Glory, 

wearing skin of alabaster. 

But it wasn’t her story— 

Her eyes were like sapphires, 

with cosmic lights in her Afro. 

She lights up rooms wherever she goes, 

people wanted to feed upon her fire. 

But she thought herself unworthy, 

another cute groupie at the show— 

when Kool & the Gang played their hit, 

she got into it, 

swaying to the music, to & fro. 

She didn’t know  

she had the power 

to make her dreams come true. 

So come along, dear September: 

Let’s see what you could do. 


I want to die in a bookstore. 

Don’t wake me up if these volumes are dreams. 

Words are beautiful. 

I feast upon paperbacks 

as if I am eating my last meal, 

all day long, if I could. 

I don’t care if I get hay fever 

from the dust & spores of delicate archivals. 

Pass me more fabric gloves & face masks. 

Give me a comfy chair & an end table 

with lots of light. I’ll spend the night 

on my last day on Earth 

reading away, growing blissful. 

You may not notice I’ve passed on, 

cradling books upon my lap, 

my legs crossed, laying back, 

smiling, eyes still open, 

in absolute wonderment. 


My native Texan OU roommate 

prefers to die 

in a Sephora—craving 

a timely, pampered end to a brief life. 

She dreams she will  

finally expire 

after dripping wet, 

dipping skinny from the 

Nancy Best Fountain 

In Klyde Warren Park, 

then towel-dried,  

lathering her face 

with free samples   

at the Galleria in Big D 

then, the big O 

(oh, finally!!) while vibrating 

on a massage Barcalounger, 

all at once, having the feels, 

feeling so beautiful, 

cared for & relaxed 

before her final breath. 

Two baseball diamonds lay waiting

on opposite sides of the East River.

The one in LIC Queens is ragged,

unkempt, graffitied with dark lines.

The one on Roosevelt Island

is finely manicured,

like neat tiny potted plants.

They are worlds apart,

these awaiting diamonds

for Summertime players

to make their own moves

on both sides.

The Queensboro Bridge 

can hold the whole world 

at once, from all

walks of life—

we dreamers & schemers,

rich & poor

we all move ahead.