May in your spirit I pass through
And in the ground reside
You hear my whispers silent
As the deepest waters carry
The lighter waters with no trickle
No drip in the pond or in the sea I wait
When waiting covers mountains
In snow and deserts move
As you move As the first seeds were
Planted in my ***** and the first huts
Were built with my arms I wait
As I pass as I myself move as I rest
From here to there I am to you fashioned
Jun 14, 2017
Jun 14, 2017 at 12:10 AM UTC
My dear friend,
I know,
In the desert, we have been friends.
Under the burden of the sun, in such sweltering design,
The chorus of reason has failed to reach us.
We have seen each other look for the same spot,
The exact same place. Where neither the searing heat
Of the storms, nor a hundred dunes can still our voices.
Where your love for your wife will forever resound in its perpetual longing
To be,
And where without heat or sand, there
My voice will finally hold still.
Is it not disappointing that in every question with even the slightest
Tinge of profundity, the only answer that pleases
The truth of our deepest insight
is yes and no?
The desert is unflinching in being barren, all the waters,
Few and far between,
Are only images of those which are not desert.
You strike to spell love, but where will you keep it
As to let it hide from the light of the sun and the howling of harrowing sand?
My friend,
It only piles up and up and up.
And when it can no longer go up, pray tell,
How does it feel to view the horizon and see only more desert, vast and infinite?
How would it be like to look down and know
That even now you are no safer?
Jul 13, 2012
Jul 13, 2012 at 12:45 AM UTC
“People are strange when you’re a stranger”
– Jim Morrison
I’m a freak of nature.
I have for my eyes
One blue, one green.
And my eyes
They talk to me.
They tell me stuff
Like “you’re strange,
You have one green eye
And the other blue.”
They would point to people
And say “see, see,
That is what normal
Looks like.
Deep black eyes.
Brown eyes,
Red.” Red? Where? That one’s
Definitely an addict.
Such strange eyes they are
Telling me that I’m strange
When they are the ones
In different colors.
Yes I’m a freak of nature.
I may not see the blue in things
Or the green. Colors, it seems,
Are mere prismic reflections
Of memories.
The green, the blue,
The blood-shot red,
The normal and the strange,
They are all in white.
The wheel never stops spinning
And the spectrum of voices
Are all mine.
Jul 13, 2012
Jul 13, 2012 at 12:30 AM UTC
Four days. Shadows now begin to lurk at the edges of my vision, my sunken eyes in a conundrum of expressions, my mind now only a fraction of that of the tiniest animal. Do you know that animals are polite? Yes. What’s your name? Yes. For four days my heart has had the stalking company of silence. It’s a nice day today. Yes. It’s almost like meditation. Would you like coffee or tea? Beer. What would I make of this peace? There’s no beer. ...Beer.
The evening darkness gives off a relaxing daze in the -ber months. That’s a doze off for everyone else. The beer runs endless here, its smooth chill on my stress-parched throat quenches my spirit, with spirits. The shadows look, they are envious. I offer them a bottle. Dude, you’re alright? Huh? I was here just a minute ago. ARE YOU ALRIGHT!?
My friend has been very nice. I called him to ask if I could go over to his place to drink. No, I can’t. We ended up drinking anyway. Beer-Yes.
Whoever says that cola bottles are **** has not seen a beer’s. Or they might not have yet the right tips. Day one: Statistics class: What is the scale of measurement for levels of aggression? If you seek, you are already lost. If you don’t, you will never find.
I have a feeling I’m later going to go on autopilot again. It’s surprising how the body can remember places the mind had lost to drinking. It’s a nice evening, yes? Yes. Day two: Day three: Huh? For a certain amount, alcohol would be pleased to accompany anyone. The shadows do like their drinks; their perpetual longing for things clutched to moments almost mirrors mine. I tire of beer, bring some hard ones. They like their tips. Yes-Yes, …Beer.
Jul 13, 2012
Jul 13, 2012 at 12:22 AM UTC
In a land where you exchange Mao
In his different values,
And get meals on Lazy Susans,
The aroma of tea
Filling malls and subways,
And people—
Ask for a fork and a knife.
Whirl your hands about
And attempt to communicate
In Chinese dashes of silhouettes
In air, while speaking
In another language you
Know will be lost to unknowing,
To this fine dining.
See the toothpicks, plain
And humble, and smile.
It could have been the same
As those in the Philippines.
Stress your hearing a little,
You might catch them say,
“Mao welcomes his brothers
From the working class.”
Back home, the only welcome
The working class can provide
Are smiles and turo-turos,
Free karinderia water
And a toothpick for the day’s
Only meal, the aroma of hunger
Filling people.
Jul 13, 2012
Jul 13, 2012 at 12:15 AM UTC
Would a blue ballpen without ink just lie
To die, like the children of our past needs,
The mouths of their thinning souls leeching
Our piety, our profanity, our tendency to build society
Off faces and masks,
Individual fragments of ourselves.
Would one give a thousand pesos to he who smears
Windshields with soap to take a few coins hostage
Or to she who exhibits a gaunt infant, an offspring
Of want, not wanted, the wear and tear of a rough
World manifest on emaciating juvenile skin. Would one
Give a thousand?
Would one commit a kiss?
When mere change can buy a pen with its full blood,
What then is the worth of the bleeding, the bearded
Blind on the somber sidewalks of forgetfulness where
Without ink, it ceases to be blue, and unable to write,
He has no need for a pen.
The world is writing his story,
He is only there to punctuate with his blood.
Jul 12, 2012
Jul 12, 2012 at 11:56 PM UTC