My heart is not a lacy valentine. / It is an anatomic pump / Engineered evolution / Strong walls of long runs
I dreamed of you when I was young / Open wide, stick out your tongue / A degree instead of a strong, young man . A future with stethoscopes was my plan
Am I crazy? / I walk down the street and my ears fill with noises / And sometimes I run until my vision gets hazy.
You say that it’s my choice? / So therefore I can choose? / I just cannot believe, / Those words you just used.
Life is a collection of stories / Housed within us all / Pages of precious memories / Plastered upon our walls
A decision was at hand. Which trail would lead him where he wanted to go? The right or left? Both or neither? A simple choice. An impossible choice.
It was pink / like the flowers he buys his wife. / It was not uniform.
The motor commands that choreograph speech are a privilege to possess, though I frequently find myself thinking / about silence, / and the reasons for which I may choose to leave it unbroken.
Enthusiastic. Proud. Motivated. I smile sheepishly as I approach the coastal town of Pondicherry, nestled in tropical South India.
Jagged shards of lightning playfully dance across the horizon, / their shrieks of war struggling to keep up … / I hesitantly about-face and land my gaze upon his ethereal face.
There is pain on her face. / I’m walking on the busy sidewalk, / I don’t know her.
Open. / Open abdomens. / Idealized organs from Netter’s in the flesh.