i see drops of water tracing the lines of your hair--
it's like you're crying but you're happy and i swear
even a painter couldn't muster the awe to bear
the sight of you under showering rain

i see nightlights peeking behind your silhouette
and the tones of your flustered blush try not to separate
themselves from the warm comely palette
of the shot of our figures in loving embrace

i see a blanket folded into your solemn sleeping shape
with curves smiling back; in a way, i wouldn't escape
had you had me landlocked within your pretty landscapes...


hug me tight
so that i might see
just how pretty you can be
under the soft glow of a burning moment

Have we all become mere automata
guided by the ring of pings and notifs?
The spray of lather from a sea of data
carrying with it wrung celebrity whiffs
have stung us with a certain aphasia...

The written thought was a lifetime ago
long abandoned by the times and all--
where once there was soundness to follow
nonsense amassed like a rising cymbal
whose crash sent reason to the gallows.

The news of the day presents a delectable entree
of a hodgepodge of this, that, and nothing much.
Wherefore we find our tongues compelled to say
something about the aftertaste or to prejudge
as if we were connoisseurs--it must've hid faraway.

Are we perhaps amusing ourselves to death?
I am by no means a Luddite to such a degree,
but I believe we have bombarded and blessed
ourselves a little too much to see...
only time will tell us reason's final breath.

the quick brown fox
jumped over the lazy dog
and spun a fancy tale
about the history of clichés

it beat a valiant bush
before burning a broken bridge
and kicking its own bucket
under six feet of foliage

now its dead like that horse it beat--
from counting chicks and party tricks
to counting sheep and hourly bleats
the fox is dead but oh was it quick!

If I showed you a still from a Wes Anderson film
I'm sure you'd probably have a lot to say--
a multitude of ideas waiting to pour forth from your mouth
and brimming off the top of your head...

I'd gladly spend as many hours as I'd need
waiting for you to empty your excitement
as you talk away about the things you love
in that adorable manner of wanting to say so much

Believe me when I tell you
your impassioned expressions
are more entertaining in their own cute way
than any feature film I can recall

Serve me a dish
of things I never knew
and stuff I could say
I only learned today

****!
no way!
im still alive?
im getting too ******* old...
anyway, what's for breakf-- "rent"?
****,
i'm old.

we wouldve waltzed then and there...
the sky and its thousand eyes
would bear witness to that spectacle of a moment:
a trade of footsteps and a synchrony of motion--

we'd wonder why
despite being lost in each other's eyes
we could render such a dynamic embrace
and paint the night a rosy red hue...

i say that perhaps then
the goddess of love
has taken the wheel.

Is substance abuse that grim:
the instant I use you lights dim
like they want my muse to trim
her figure in darkness--

Blow the candles out with a kiss:
show a dancehall how to fill a floor with
slow hands-and-all antics
while my mind sinks in you--

Take me deep within nirvana:
make me sleep in a hug sauna
maybe I'd keep in mind on a
frigid Friday night--

So bare with me if I overdose:
Be there lines that blow over my nose,
I care not if they slide me into comatose...

The high that is you,
an ingenue but of substance,
a drug to pursue...
**** me with an overdose.

she's a park bench witness
to my marked French kisses
and her pulchritude pulls me to say
not even Clark Kent's mistress
can push me out of her flames

I know what makes your burn
It's the dim of a moonlit night
and the saunter of lips up hills and valleys--
It's the crackle of cigarettes
atop our pleasantries
and the spill of sweet talk
made unchained by our mouths

To be covered in love until the following dawn
dripping drops of lovey-dovey morning dew...
To be terribly in love until the following dawn
drinking shots like doting lovebirds do...

******* hell why’s it so cold
i can’t tell whether the fold
my lips compel kiss the cold
or miss the swell of summers old.

my hands are dead
but moving still—
couldn’t feel lead
if they’d given a pill.

my hair is stiff
but flowing still—
even hands can’t sift
my hair’s bobbing fill.

my eyes are red
but seeing still—
the understated
“i’m not crying by will”.

but despite the dryness of the air
and the coolness of the night
the caress of the wind fairs best
without moments of respite—

even if the crescent moon dares
no pestering like the sun, i quite
get way less aware
my lips already needed a bite.

some say i think of you too much
but so long as overdose on thoughts of you is a ways away,
ill keep taking these memories with a cup of jasmine tea--
id rather count my days with you
than the sheep I see in bed.

i hate being uncertain about certain things
especially so when it's 'em hurtin things
but as a writing frenchman once penned

"Of course I'll hurt you
Of course you'll hurt me
Of course we will hurt each other
But this is the very condition of existence
To become spring means accepting the risk of winter..."

and with all winters
warm rosy summers lie ahead.

you'd lie on my lap
with nothing much to say
and there i'd bend
to meet your wandering gaze...
the rain, however light,
would feign tears on your face
tears i'd pretend
betrayed a sense of elation--
had they been yours
i would've cried just the same.

surely, i say,
that day's a purple aster
in my garden patch of greys,
a haughty little lamppost
along an awry little highway...

that day was
(and i'd say it again,
without thinking about lifting
the spout tipping my pen)
a lovely day, a ten outta ten

Might the years have betrayed me?
Not that I didn't know her but her
lights knew not the catches of my eye--

mighty concrete behemoths of mid
nineteen hundred something
littered my view in quaint newness while

myriads of roaring metal beasts
not without their own masters
lunged forward in a sea of people...

Mockup shops and street food scents
nudged my wallet into sharing a
little folded bill of blue, all while

market clamour played
next to the banter
lining the streets.

Alas!

More than a humble string of words
nailed on a poem the night hence are needed to
line her canopy of neon lights a

masterful description capable of
nesting all that was there in a neat
lingering thought!

like night misses day
It’s the feeling you get
when your eyes can't wait
to see the blessed sun
so they refuse to shut
lest they miss the wake of dawn...

But I know I should rather sleep
to pull myself faster to the break of day
than to stay up conversing with Cupid
about how she's been and what's gone her way...

I suppose my demons
have their ways of inciting the urge
by pestering my mind
with phantasms of her...

Why does the night have to drag itself so sluggishly?
I still miss her like night misses day.
If only the moon would give me the courtesy
of winding the sun every evening
so that it might never leave me be;
might she shine on my face forevermore?

We've all had turns throwing words off board:
a certain few drift some two shifts of blue
before swiftly sinking out of their own accord.
Others yet lift themselves in further pursuit
of barren waterways yet to be oared.
But a tiny handful have yet to continue
their ongoing flight to the edges of the world...
And still most words end up sunken--
as nothing more but lost conversations.

why do i still feel that hanging sadness
from when night falls on our shoulders to coax a "bid farewell"?
a lingering steal-of-thought that cross-stitches
itself in daydream

if i could stretch sunsets
i'd bleed them dry
'til we got tired of purple clouds and orange skies...
id sit through them with you
if only to hold your hand a little longer
before home called back a final time

i'm still in love; despite the occasional madness,
i am in love. even if time opens a cavern beneath
our feet and spreads us thin, i know it'd be best
i try to jump to your side and stagger to cheat
death...

but if fate wills i fall off the edge,
ill face the ground with a sincerity of heart;
not that id resign seeing u again,
but ill wait...

maybe one day ill find a rope
i could climb to see you one more time.

Time has fed a burning fire with dying embers.
A dwindling light in the winter wind, flickering
As the night sought to put it out but could not,
Resisted death and not once lost its light.

Still I pitied it. A candle hanging by a thread,
Waging quarrels with the wind, found no solace
In my cupped hands. The cold and bitter tears
Of these winter nights pelted its withering spirit.

do you know how much my eyes crave a mouthful of that simple smile?
if only video could spell emotions the way your lips do
i wouldnt miss the sight of that grin

but with the way you shoot me with flashes of laughter
im left hungered for a slice of that crescent smile...
and frankly, its a sight that merits a kiss every now and then

is it just me
or is the thought of shared death
a truly romantic affair?

and i don't mean
to die together
of old age...

to fall in each other's arms
following an overdose of *****
while we slip six feet under
listening to the smiths--

"and if a double-decker bus
crashes into us
to die by your side
is such a heavenly way to die"

i wanna die together
with our lips locked in an embrace
while we swing back and forth
across an empty ballroom floor

"and if a ten ton truck
kills the both of us
to die by your side
is such a heavenly way to die"

is it just me
or am i ****** up?

(at least then
you'd be the last thing
i see)

tis been quite a while since;
now that im back im at a loss
a loss for words, a little
clueless perhaps-- for some
reason i havent brought myself
to write til now. why now i
do not know. a calling-- no,
a brief revival, i say; a sudden
puff of air fought its way through
to the rusted innards of this
heaving engine… a momentary
spark, brief in its intensity but
eternal in that its light travels
ceaselessly; the legacy of a
blunt yet nevertheless discernable
moment of passion, barely visible
but somehow, just somehow, twas there.

she says im rather quaint:
and indeed it's true;
for i speak in quite an olden way...
but i mean not to say i despise the styles of the modern man.

id like to think i was raised
under the class of formal lex
and the slack of millennial typing--
ironic, but eh idfk.

i swear we're rarely at ease
with the way we push doors to new experiences
kissing on public property isn't illegal
but the nerve of the act thrills me just as much

parking lots are often not the site
for love birds deprived of merry lip locking
but we paint them red better
than an arsonist with a burning passion
can shade his buildings black

i wish i could watch that night
play itself once more
on a lofty screen just for us
while we do it perhaps again--

the way i took your form
and made it rest against a certain sedan...
the way i kissed you then
while my body leaned on yours...
the way we held that kiss
despite the bustling of the city night...
the way you looked at me
when we paused for a moment's sake...

i could tell you were so ******* high
(and im sure you could tell i was too)

i’ve seen a lot of men jump off bridges
hearing their ironic screams from across
many of them were heartbroken *******
because people don’t jump without a cause

you seek consolation in a desert
where things themselves touch thy sanity
where the small shining sun stings skin and dirt
is there hope for thee? there’s no hope for thee

i regret all that has and would’ve been
(i apologize for the pessimism)
i’m a stupid man who’s gone by nineteen
(i apologize for the nihilism)

but oh am i greatly sorry—alas!
it seems there ain’t tomorrow, my fellas

I don't think you know I used to listen to Chet Baker.
He's likely sung me to sleep once or twice by now,
but I lost him to time and blues, hidden upon layered
snowfall flung from new ears and new sounds.

So it came as a surprise I'd see him again
elsewhere somehow late one night before bed.
It baffles me you listen to such songs
when most people would rather hear a track from Red.

Our tastes may not align a hundred percent of the time
but at least your palate is something I admire
despite its wayward crimes and objections with mine,
for all its, let's call it, bona fide desire.

However, in the many instances they shake hands--
when they share stances and break lines in the sand--
those moments make me proud I met you.
Not many people can juggle in tandem.

After all, it takes two to know tango is best
when both are aware of exactly how either
would break the rules of the dance
to bend the movements to their own fancy.

fate ***** with a lot of possibilities
but if you choose one to beset yourself with--
a certain mirage sizzling over the horizon--
might the fixation of that end drive yourself towards it?

So I say liberate herself from one down the line:
fate ought to flirt with the tread's-worth of lineages
growing within its forest of prospects.
Decide where to take her and meddle her acquaintances
rather than choosing one to wed your kismet.

It’s been ten years, long but short nonetheless,
But these last few weeks seem most valuable:
With the many tears, shed but shown much less,
With what was and still isn’t; days, countable,
Unwind the deep depths of my mind, as I press
And **** what memories I have left, unable
To realize, much more see, how near sunset’s
Come. For me, it might be time to buy a shave.

I’ve got a lot to look back to, much more to look at:
Those days I cried because I couldn’t fight and
The days I’ll fight because I wouldn’t cry… That,
That and why things are the way they are without
Having to ask “why?” are the things my mind can’t
Help but think of. It’s my time to wake up now.

Sunset nears, but there is no need to fear the night.
All nights pass as if there is none; hence, sleep is time
Travel. Sunrise will come just as soon as sunset; right
After the sun waves goodbye it greets us with light
So brilliant. Indeed, it is time to wake up… Tomorrow
Is just like any other day, just that it starts another
Ten years… of pain and joy, of sorrow and laughter,
Of new things and old habits… I’m not even halfway there!

I have died a thousand times, yet lived a million more
Swept in the natural flow of whispers through the night,
Evolving ever so slightly through the passage of time.
The mind’s colorful fruit slowly fixing my frayed fibers.

I am immortal, yet nevertheless dynamic, but still unchanging.
I may fall with the leaves of autumn, only to return the next year,
To haunt the minds of peoples beyond, and coat their lips
A golden hue. Shall I tarry any longer in pen and paper?

because they hit like ****** on a friday night.
when my blanket has had enough of reassuring my anxious mind
it's your lovely phantom that hugs me then:
a figment of my pleasant longing
for your hands and the way they hug mine.

sleep with me.
maybe we'll wake up sat on a for-two caddy  
parked across the hanging end of a moonlit prairie.
we'll toss the keys to our locked embrace
until the sun finds us and throws them back.

Ephemeral melodies emanate from my dear car radio—
songs too cliche that I despise them.
I only hear today’s charlatans
and their monotonous redundancy of new yet familiar beats.
But there is hope...
The eternal relics that elate my soul, having lacked innuendos—
tunes of back-in-the-day entice me
As I, a desperate old soul, turn the **** in angst,
in search of stations bygone.

it's the end of the world!
silence will rule my ears
for the taste of ambience
is not a taste i admire...

the airport bag scanner ate my earphones!
the best ive had in a while, might i add...
the airport bag scanner widowed one of my precious earbuds!
alas, i shall lay these kindred friends
in a foreign trash bin burial grave--

perhaps buy a new pair
as their reincarnation in some foreign elsewhere?

No paper has no folds. Look closer and it will be apparent;
A crease, hidden beneath its purported smoothness—
Though blatant once told of, a fool, sir, will not see it patent,
And seizes within a denial of but his faulted blindness.

No paper is of even thickness. Feel it and it will be known;
A bump, then a sudden thinness somewhere on it—
So whether his benevolence hides it, he hides it from his own,
And dumb as he may’ve been, will never confess of it.

No paper is of ideal quality. The fact cannot be denied;
No man can ever craft a sheet of paper beyond half-perfect—
And thus, sir, do accept readily, for it has to be resigned, that
Likewise, no man is of perfect character, nor hasn’t defect.

I’ve come to think about it; at times it may seem blatant—
why it’s a fact, but indeed we were all children once...
Children: then the innocent; but with time flew the pleasant
gems of the past. I could no longer recall when ‘twas.

Yet somehow the distinction presents itself quite clearly.
All are born without prejudices; they grow to learn
them their own. If anything, sentiments are born merely
from those around us, ‘til one day they can’t be unearned.

Thus I say, when men are born they are without character:
a racist man is not born but is made; likewise, a gentleman
is forged from the furnaces of virtue and integrity. Might there
be some way we can just try—to be children again?

We were all children once… it seems we forget this;
whence comes our innocence, is but a bygone fantasy.

Seconds fall, dripping one after the other in an unbroken eternity.
Slowly as they accumulate, the past becomes a formidable mass of years,
Before which we stand, unintent of heeding the whispers of such a behemoth.
Yet in retrospect, we shed tears and laugh greatly at the moments bygone,
Reliving memories as if they were happening, only to realize we are trapped—
Forever destined to never reconcile with the past. A tragedy,
And yet an inevitable truth which limits the resent of all men.

for years i thought i knew myself
but the wind has blown me astray.
with tears and scars i pleaded in vain...
but the current of time has driven me too far away.

i look back but not a patch of land.
beyond the water was a fading ship
whose waving flag whispered farewell…
and the dying light and frigid sea cast me further and further still.

these solemn nights drag on without pity.
i was alone, adrift in blue that blinded;
carried some place i knew not where…
who knew where i was headed (but deep and dark despair (?))

to hell with it! I leave it to the wrath of the gods--
i am blind to my kismet, like a sailor in foggy seas.
the first patch of land i find--i couldn’t care more
what it was! I just need to find myself (a place where i’d be me).

I don't like haikus
I feel they're overrated
or maybe I'm bad
.
.
.
.
.
.
at using one too few words to render an idea in sweet humble conciseness without the justification for verbosity and yet nevertheless words spill out my mouth like a flash of water inundating a poor little faucet with needless ramble I have to fudge my mind for in conjuring the words I so much desire that a jaundiced outlook on certain Japanese short forms was borne...


**** haikus but of
course I'd appreciate good
ones every now and...

****, I ran out of syllables

the ill-tempered autumn wind does little to sway an evergreen

whose timber column rings thus of doggedness unseen.

there may have been moments when leaves would wither here and there,

but its blanket of foliage has fought to keep its verdant hue--

whether caught in snow or shaken by pelting rain,

whether trampled undue by the trudging of time

or battered somehow by a certain bane...

the fact is, he's been here for so long:

he's taken after the colors of her writing pens

like mixed laundry bleeding its red unto a wash of white linens--

alas, sometimes I find myself lying beneath the boardwalk

drowning in her songs and sifting through a gallery of her smiles.

this has been the most meaningful three quarters of any year

i have had the privilege of co-authoring with someone so dear.

And yet again I stare blankly at the screen
as the cursor blinks, waiting for my fingers
to speak my mind's thoughts. Perhaps within
the night's sluggish hours I will find the words.

A phrase—but of meagre stature and stance,
of small voice and weak impression. Alas,
I revert the page, blank once again, empty
and without. Time drags on without pity.

The words have evaded me for far too long.
I have searched in vain for what to say,
all attempts futile thus far, with wrong
turns and countless detours along the way.

Maybe my mind wishes not to express itself
without my knowing, or maybe these
monotonous nights have reduced my
poetic capability close to none.

Either way, an hour past midnight is never
the perfect time to write a poem of any sort.

A Liebestraum and two Arabesques
stood there holding me
between the ears
one mundane evening…

The indoor storm who knew could deject
one so boldly
cleaned its final tears
and left me be…

A new wave calm eschewed ‘til present
flooded in me
serene and aptly dear
calmness…

For a moment I felt a sense of clarity that had neglected me for ages.
My sullen blues and anxious reds faded to black,
and all manner of emotion had been evicted from my mind.
I could think about things in straight lines and deep focus
for an entire ******* moment.

Then Spotify had to ruin the moment
with an indie rock montage in my queue.
I cried.

i looked at the mirror, but i still could not see
what many have pointed out time and again…
i looked once more but not a change;
‘twas just me, a self looking struck as it happened he could not see--

i looked at the mirror, but i still could not see
why men and women have said good things…
i looked once more but not a change;
‘twas just me with ruffled hair and eyes still too blind to see--

i looked at the mirror, but still could not see
why many have envied my name…
I looked once more but not a change;
‘twas just me with--OH wAIT! i see it now… and it's as cLEAR as it can bE!

A weeping soul asleep in bed— a teenage boy in dreary lament,
Seeks solace in riches dreamt. To live overseas in superfluous luxury,
Is all the boy knows he must have as a have-not. His heart, bought by
Awry thoughts and prospects, yearns for golden years and silver days.

Yet he knows not the life of the rich man; a life of misery and pain,
The king, who sits on his throne, a lonely soul known by all men—
An irony of knowing all men but lonely nonetheless. A glut of gold
buys but bliss and love, for we miss and love what we have not.

Hence all men are hypocrites; wishing riches in their days of youth
And wishing youth in their golden years. The young ask the old why
They are not happy, and vise versa. Neither understand their reasons,
And men will always long for selves whom they are not. Satisfaction—
Or rather disillusionment; always there, yet never met.

I wonder whether we'd see ourselves
on a dainty handheld hologram
stuck between bookends
with titles of worn-out type
one sentimental winter afternoon
many moons from now...

Perhaps then we'd have outgrown counting months:
we might as well count the years
like they do the stars on a tranquil night,
naming the myths and figures
they've burned into our insight;
we'll dream of constellations—
islands of starlight that stood out
in an already pleasant sea
of living life with you.