Valentine poem

roses are red
violets are blue
St Valentine was martyred in the 3rd century so
his girlfriend couldn’t say…
“Oh stop being such a martyr, Val!”
because he actually was one











what I wish I’d said

 Jack Kerouac—

“[…]the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes “Awww!”









jungle bus

we snap our fingers on the jungle bus
we are Charlie Parker our
lapels are wide blue blue
blue note in the window seat
consequentially leaving
a hand print in the condensation
looking out through the palm fingered aperture the
red red reds singing roses sing holding phrases
in our fists there was something short in a magazine
something nearly 700 words 700 words on
Ornithology the Lullaby backstage the
Camel tasting reeds food for storms the
jazzbook of the dead we
snap our fingers on the jungle bus
we are Charlie Parker










what the voices say


there are whispers at the window
bubble stitched faces the brave ones at my desk
saying over so near to silence
that my coffee is a cup of dragons I
look and it is I’m the colour of crowns there’s
trespass in my coiling fingerprints
there’s a place in the park tonight
in the starry smoke that no one will know