My closet is agape
And on my bed
All wrapped in nylone
My old self, neatly folded
Like some forgotten prom attire
My hands unzip the bag
And clime out of
My naphthaline nest
Unfolding legs with careful thought
Brushing off the hollowed torso
Gently stroking the creases of my face
I unravel, and climb into myself
And after all those years
A perfect fit
My skin is barely streatched
My breath, just a bit heavy
My eyes, just a bit clouded
My voice, still mute
Hello old man
You aged as well
I wished we've never met
Jan 30, 2021
Jan 30, 2021 at 7:59 AM UTC
Keep sanity close during this
when the path from the bed to the couch
took the shape of shuffling feet
like trodden animal trail through the grass
from the lair, to the waterhole, and back
when the hand reaching towards the fridge
knows the full weight of the door
better than the arms of nurses know
the weight of the newly born
when the pots, and table, and sink
fill up, and empty out, and fill up
just as waves and tides follow
the periodic pulling of the moon
when day and night, and night and day
and night and night and day too
and not today, and is tonight and
not
and you
the backbone of existence
a hidden picture on display
you are,
there
when all the dishes stack to dry
and the refrigerator sighs
and the couch cool down
and the bed is full
and the hug is warm
and sanity
kept close
Apr 27, 2020
Apr 27, 2020 at 4:11 PM UTC
You told me then
that in your dream
my belly was a dark cave
made of niches and crevices
with walls overcrowded with
cages of bent wires
and inside those, cold and still
the corpses of dead roosters
We sit at the same table
but not together
sharing a meal as though
it was bequeathed by a dead relative
present from the corner of the eye
uttering short words
that circle us like vultures
playing chess
not willing to spare the pieces
I stuff my plate with hunger
chew on my resent
swallow down the truth
and have the leftover silence for dessert
all go down the hatch
melding into me
fermenting, swelling
making my stomach bloat
and my insides turmoil
and my guts rumble
and from my pitch black abyss rises
a foreboding omen
a wake up call
Jan 8, 2020
Jan 8, 2020 at 5:54 AM UTC
LOST BALLOON
crawling from the crash
I couldn't have died
if I tried
I had a son to save
laughed
spat in death's face
pulled him from the flames
I forbade him to die
he disobeyed
the car exploded
burning the edges
of the night
I survive
without him
a death in itself
my reflection
does all the talking
I just stare in the mirror
Christmas now
I feel like a lost balloon
sticking to the ceiling
Nov 11, 2019
Nov 11, 2019 at 10:21 AM UTC
What’s small, is small
what’s big, is big
and all that’s in-between
is also, either small, or big
never both
But isn’t it strange?
for a louse that strolls our head
the scalp kisses the horizon
whilst for us, each brow is arched
and the earth we travel, is flat
but not for Atlas, which from above
see’s that it is curved, while his shoulders
carry the infinite plane that is, ironically
a celestial sphere
which pushes this conundrum
all the way up to god
and possibly beyond
And all things are small
and all things are big
always both thing
never in-between
Thus, we should strive to remember
when the world is heavy on our shoulders
how small, it really is
and how the universe is hidden
in the tiniest of details
And then there’s us, amidst
duality of no, and every, thing
a cusp
of zero, and infinity
Nov 7, 2019
Nov 7, 2019 at 7:32 AM UTC
I
am the sum of my parts
and my parts
some add to myself
others remove
some too narrow to contain
others as broad as daylight
common
or rare
salient
or silent
my ups, my downs
all lines that coalesce
to form my image
You
are the sum of your parts
but those are, after all
the same parts
different only in
frequency and amplitude
details, and elements of character
that infinitely accumulate
Same lines
and still
you are more fine
Nov 6, 2019
Nov 6, 2019 at 8:35 AM UTC
The world is speckled
pairs and pairs of soulmates
those torn from one another
even before they first encountered
Some are separated by a single step
others share daylight
only when the sun rise or set
yet each one calls the other
and their lament is carried on
a somber song
thickening the air
rising, falling, interfering
diluted and again reformed
into a cacophony of desperation
like Cicadas bustling at dusk
like flocks of birds that greet the dawn
Poor them
wondering to and fro
in this pining thicket
searching for a common song
blinded by longing
lying awake at night
aching the insulating gap
encompassed by the constant murmur
singing
singing
Nov 5, 2019
Nov 5, 2019 at 9:39 AM UTC
I sometimes ponder
of a phone call that will never be
of silence stretching between two receivers
of a heavy sigh that exhales
years’ worth of air caged in the lungs
Yes, I’m still here
How have you been?
How is life?
How many laugh-lines did the corner of your eye accumulated?
How many past mistakes still drag around your tongue?
How many days since than have drained onto your windowsill?
How many nights were spent sleeping at the foot open front-gates?
Am I as you remember?
Are we where you imagined us to be
back then, some years ago
when both our paths diverged
when all we left behind
was dust and a sense of waste,
and a pair of phantom us, gazing onward
that shared the same time and space
Yes, I am here, but different
which may describe you too
no wonder, since passing time
kept kneading us like clay
and all our efforts to keep straight
were all for naught, we are astray
But
sometimes I still ponder
if thing did not transpire
if times unraveled could be wound up
and knotted, at that single point
then moving forward, just maybe
both of us were different now
but different altogether
Oct 21, 2019
Oct 21, 2019 at 2:14 PM UTC
Know from where you came
and to where you are going
and count each step along the way
but keep in mind, that steps
are not exclusive for the trail
and that your feet
crave the lush greenery of meadows
long for the caressing touch of seas
yearn for the embrace of freshly plowed soil
Do not be shy, indulge them
break often from the path
survey the land instead
bruise your toes on stubborn thistle
go back, and then continue forward
get lost, and lost again
with zeal reserved for pilgrims
And finally,
as you fall weary to your bed
the ache, and speckles of your blood
adorn your makeshift cot
sum up, all of your steps
and you might find
they total at the square length of your way
smile
your journey was ideal
Sep 23, 2019
Sep 23, 2019 at 2:44 AM UTC