Delicacy ©2016 by Marc Alexander Valle

(Published on The Drabble.)

He’d wanted to kiss her all summer. He looked at the worm, squirming.

“Eat it,” she said. “I’ll kiss you.”

“No,” he said.

“Then no,” she said.

He looked down at it.

“It tastes like nothing. Go ‘head.”

He thought of candy, then picked it up and swallowed it. He turned to her.

“Yuck,” she said.

He stepped forward and closed his eyes. His lips touched hers. He felt nothing in return. She pulled away and jabbed his stomach. “Gross. I’m not kissing bugs.”

She walked away.

He held his belly, wondering what boy he’d get to tell first.

The Dunbar Number ©2016 by Marc Alexander Valle

First published in The Lehigh Valley Vanguard  ©2016

If you keep your mind open and listen to someone’s view, you can believe anything.

People on the ‘left’ always seem right, logical, thorough. People on the ‘right’ always seem right, thorough, logical.

Clinging to their views like a cat to its master’s when it’s about to go into a tub.

You second guess yourself.

You figure it out again,

you come up with new points, arguments, philosophies,

you tell yourself that your view is free from the influence of experience,

you tell yourself that you’re not free from the influence of experience, but still must be right.

Like you happened to have fallen out of a womb that landed you into the right time, place, race and class in history.

But have you ever met someone that admits to having the wrong point of view? I have. The person’s name is ___________. The person has asked to remain unidentified but has this to say: The momentum of cause and effect acts on us all, acts within us, acts without us. Don’t listen to me. Don’t give up. Don’t ever give up.

3 Poems and a Photo©2016 by Marc Alexander Valle

These are three poems of mine from an untitled series. They have been published in Beechwood Review (, a minimalist online journal. The attached photo is also mine.  

Branches, buddings, purple wrens,
landing, chirping, bouncing,
over battlefield trenches

Desert, moon, white, dunes,
sand, blowing,
unearthing limestone ruins

Thick mist clears,
hot air balloon armada
blots the atmosphere

All poems and photography by Marc Alexander Valle ©2016.

Phenomenon ©2016 by Marc Alexander Valle

*A poem that I wrote 10 years ago. Also the image is mine, taken this year. 

Cowards are those with nothing beautiful to share

except the scent in the air

that represents something

running our life in the ocean

despite this great notion

that we are all one

sitting inside a small sun

that’s void of emotion,


inside of our hearts,

thinking how life really starts

without a beginning

and without our proud sinning

which makes us real hard


from the fact that we gasp

as we run real, real fast

on our toes

and come to respect all our lows

in the past


and curt when we learn

from this yearning inside of our mind

that we tend to remind

ourself in concern

firmly, but curtly like a flower

since we’ve only the power to blurt

all that works

like when we say in these hours,

“Cowards are those with nothing beautiful to share.”

Wormhole ©2015 by Marc Alexander Valle

A poem that I wrote almost 10 years ago. Another piece that I do not care to publish since it’s not on par with my current work.


Sometimes you have to call a day ‘a day’

before the day

is through.

Feelings of uselessness follow everything we do.

Yes, there are days

when even dogs get stressed.

I guess there are days

when even God can care less.

But my plight

is not one of morality.

It’s the sight

of my own mortality.

The fight

to control reality.

What’s right

when the heart knows no formality?

Because time is an usher

leading us to its exit.

And, oh, how I wonder

why must I stand next to it.

So what should I do when ‘to do’

is a mask to what’s new?

And what should I think when ‘to think’

will just last through a blink?

And how should I feel when ‘to feel’

is the last of what’s real?

And what can I be when ‘to be’

just gets passed by what’s seen?


And that would make it easy.

But then I’d be fronting

when something better needs me.

Cause movement moves

at its own pace.

And all you have to chose

is how to wait.

But guess at a certain age

you see that only ‘x’

amount of stuff will ever occur.

So you flip the page

and do your best

at every turn.

So, yes, the future is our harshest critic.

The rest turn to narcissist at the sight of what they’re living with.

So what I’m saying

is to please just hold on.

No way of taking

what we leave when we’re gone.

For the wormhole is wide

as it whines all its ‘whys’

as it’s wise as a rhyme

as it whips all in white

as it winds throughout time

as it eats you alive

as it ekes and it grinds

as it beats in your mind.

Life is sweet when you’re blind.

Cause ‘How?’,

is just a lie that’s denied.

So thank Tao,

for this cry deep inside

to fight the word ‘my’,

and never frown,

because the dark night always fades into the blue sky.

by Marc Alexander Valle ©2015

The Bargain by Marc Alexander Valle ©2015

A piece from 10 years ago. I don’t see myself publishing it as I don’t feel that my work from back then is strong enough.

The Bargain

If what you see is what you get

and what you feel is what you fret

then what you’re dealing with is death.


But first,

I will say it twice

that karma is the weight of the universe

wearing a mask called ‘your life’

that knows there is no worse

than living on the blade of this knife

that is a gift or a curse

hanging on the roll the dice.

Second, back to the top:

The human heart’s yearning can not be stopped.


Cause we are who we are cause we are who we are.

What more do you need to see the stars?

The ones beyond the wrath of Mars.

Is it possessions you need

or to see someone bleed?

Is it to want what you watch

or is it a life without a blemish. . .a blotch?

Is it a dignified name?

Maybe to drive your foes insane?

Is it to justify your grudge?

To justify the verdict of who ever you judge?

And is that all we’ve got?

A complex knot,


saying how life is good with a lot?


But let’s suppose, just supposing,

that we were meant to go neither fast nor slow,

wisdom is loving what we’ve yet to know.

Let’s suppose we are toy soldiers

to gods, who push feathers and boulders.

And gods are merely metaphors

for a meaningful life when the weather pours

the world’s illusions after begging for more.

That would mean, greed is betrayal.

It’s what you decide to become when you fail.

to set sail

on the sea of your dreams. . .so you bail.

But this is what you call a hypothesis

and I am just an obnoxious twit,

who still believes that a Superhero-type God exists.

So I am not looking for converts.

Believe what you must and what you feel works.

But if you take any heed to this unproven theory

Then there is one more thing that I want to state clearly:

Choice is an extension of individuality

that, of course, comes with its own duality

where the world says, “I am your life’s totality,”

and the true self whispers gallantly,

“Know your heart and you shall know reality.”

by Marc Alexander Valle

Mixed Media Artwork by Marc Alexander Valle

Ghost by Marc Alexander Valle ©2004

This is a poem I wrote in 2004. It’s my own lyrics to John Lennon’s Imagine. This isn’t my best work, but I’m not inclined to post my best as I might want to have those more recent pieces published one day.


Knowing that you’re never here

makes life hard to bear.

You are the one that sees things clear

even though you’re not there.

You are the one I dream of.

I find you anywhere.

Knowing that I’m torn apart,

I’ve had to make my due.

You sit inside my broken heart

and that will have to do.

You are the one I think of.

If only I could find out who.

In my eyes you’re a hero.

You know everything I should.

You make all the tears go

and you see I’m understood.

But this dream is so heavy.

If I could give it up,

my life would be so ready

to be lived and won.

You are the one I know of

that sits above the sun.

Why must I let these years go?

You are only my pain withstood.

Cause I’ve never let my fears grow

and I’ve done the best I could.

by Marc Alexander Valle