Mtskheta, Georgia

The passing of time,
bleeds like an open wound,
refusing to clot, to still.

The moments come and go,
insignificant things, and
yet pregnant with import.

Bleeding, leaving behind
carcasses in desperate need
of transfusion, transcendence.

For this operation, there is
no wait list, no billions
that will stop the flow.

This oblique river stops
for no man, bleeding on
unchecked and without remorse.

Od Centrum


Ararat, Armenia

I stand firm,
on these rocks
on this dirt

content in the
centrifugal contents
coursing through me.

Saroyan wrote
a thing or two
about folks like me

cast about the earth,
strewn somewhere.
away from here.

He wrote about
small people,
in a big world

a civilization
locked into its
own past

never to be
unleashed and

until they are…

But if they
never did, no
less vibrant

would they be.

Mało wiem

Yerevan, Armenia

I know not everything of this place
such have the die been cast,
scattering me and mine far away,
but the memories of some last.

A taste here, a smell there,
deep breathes of memory.

The smell of grape leaves in the air,
the taste of dough that sings to me.

I know little of the details,
my memories few and far between.
But I know that love prevails;
love for this place lives in me.