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This morning
Was a metaphor to my current way of life
For the first time in years
I woke up early enough to watch the sunrise
And I almost missed it
Because I had to take a ****

We ran out of pencils
which didn't bother us much
'till we discovered that
we ran out of words and letters
as well and

in the lack of words
there was nothing to ration
sheer terror and confusion
and those leaked out of storage
foaming, flooding, roaring
draining all other emotions and

thus the hunger settled in
oozing through the cracks
clinging to the walls
suckling like an orphaned boy
until, when nothing's left
consumed itself to null and

we were left with the absence
who's already small amounts
swelled, and inflated
filling our entire volume
entrapping the echos of memory
then, naturally,
diffused to the outside and

we were left
deprived of selves
only the void within preventing us
from bursting towards the void outside
we float
in no distinct direction
and on occasion bump
into each other's shell
a tap deprived of sound
unable to disturb
eternal peace

A picture of your mother
dull colors of a bygone era
a polaroid born faded
a memory bestowed upon you by another
a hearsay tale long lost in time
more far than you can count on fingers
she smiles
a smile reserved for the unburdened
you wonder when this woman is
she looks happy

A finger painting of your mother
all colors watered down
a reminder that you must
prioritize
some things carry more meaning
other need meaning poured onto them
cupped like water in both hands
presented to a lip-cracked child
some water saturate the soul
while keeping others thirsty
some colors are skin deep

Your mother, wrapped in blankets
in an almost vacant bed
her paint, dry and life-bleached
you sit with her
through all these final hours
watching as the outer coating
peels off and settles to the floor
solemnly, you sweep the flakes
an acolyte on hallow ground
choosing the most beautiful
pasting to a piece of paper
crafting the image of a woman
that once could have been
your mom

Today
I savored my own killing

I could've done so
at the twilight of my days
while I dose off
on a creaking rocking chair
my old lean limbs entangling down
my crooked joints melded to the arm rests
my heavy head resting on my collarbone
oblivious as I
mercifully approach from the back
gently stepping on the tube
leading oxygen to my dying body
watching as my breath become heavy
as my blocked throat wheeze in exhaustion
as my stressed lungs finally collapse
as I quietly yield to sleep.

I  could've done so
sometime tomorrow or yesterday
As I lay asleep on my back
snoring as usual
in an instant I'll roll over
and be on top of myself
clasping at my mouth and nose
pressing my full body weight
as I jolt awake, panicked and confused
my arm randomly flailing around
torn prayer flags swooped by a hurricane
my fingers digging into the flesh of my arms
attempting to pull me apart
until finally
my stubborn grip overcomes
and defeated I dim onto stillness
save for a twitch here or there.

I chose to do so
in my youth
as the texture of a heavy rope
grazes and bruises the skin on my neck
while I send a chilling smile at myself
from across the room
pulling a handle
that drops the floor beneath my feet
accelerating for the first time
relishing the hissing air
the absence of gravity
catching with my eyes my penetrating gaze
older than I am
full of grief, fatigue, and divination
cut by the cracking rope
torn like my snapped neck
with a hallow sound
much less revolting than I thought
watch me dangling like
a ragged pendulum
a grotesque puppet
an unripe miscarriage
feeling but a slight pinch of regret
for never knowing
this moment

At preschool last morning, when first class began
Our teacher Miss Fortune, has entered the den
And promptly asked us, the pure younglings
To write on the devil that make us do things

So teacher sat down, and we tykes got engaged
And committedly filled page after page
As we took up an oath, us the urchin, the youth
To speak the whole truth, and nothing but truth

So first rose the young boy Timothy Veet
And confessed all the text that he etched on the sheet
How last week he attended the birthday of Sheila
And got high on some hemp, and two shots of tequila

As he sat, quickly stood his companion wee Tom
And he told how he broke to the principal’s home
Where he gingerly snatched, like a cat burglar
A computer, some cash, and antique silverware

But who took the whole cake, was shy Rosaline
As she stood up and gestured to Billy, her kin
And with timid resolve, and an ear-to-ear grin
Said: “He is the devil that makes me do things…”

Miss Fortune, chalk white, and clearly distressed
Was rushed on a gurney, to the ER no less
Our innocence wither, like a flower well hidden
So why keep insisting on calling us children

The crowd squeezes me
back into non-existence
And the world, confines
the crowd
And the void pressures
the world into a sphere
And the universe prevents
the void  from spreading
wild and unchecked.
Ergo,
the universe is squeezing me
back into non-existence.

Like a ******* child
who’s diligent compression
might revert the flow of time
and compensate for
some ancient rash decision

And I
with all my puny might
push myself away from
the moment of conception
let out a mute defying roar
through gritted teeth
through arched back
and through a dripping brow
through trembling
and nausea
and bundles of strained muscles
that resonate
with ever shrinking frequency
until they reach
a breaking point
and crumple to a singularity

It is a battle lost each day
since universes, as they come
are infinite
and I infinitesimal
assigned a finite stay

For you, I'll make a nest
on top of the church spire
and fashion it
from plastic straw
and dangling colored wires
I'll cushion it with cold receipts
and pocket lint
and party flyers
and leave each morning
an early bird
to pluck stale crumbs
and rancid meat
from drifter's blackened feet
before even the buses
took to the street

You will feel at home

I will feel concrete

And in the eighth day, god has glanced
upon his fair creation.
He blessed the common of good sense
and reached imagination.

BY ME!, he said to Gabriel,
I think I've done it pretty well,
by inventing logic first
and afterwards the universe.
Well even though it's been quite tough
our world is... reasonable enough.

Now, I am worried since right there
is a little point that's out of order.
It is that little point of view.
It gave us trouble, quite a few.
Please, Gabriel, do fix the matter
and make our world work better.

God head assistant cried "Disgrace!"
"You little point! Get back in place!"
But when he got up near,
he found out something... weird...
From that point, when he looked at it
god seemed to him... a wrong a bit...

Two angels all equipped and set
were sent to straight things up.
"Are you not back in line yet?!"
"You make our boss seem all upset."
"Beware, or we shall call a cop!"

Yet...
When the angels closer drew
each held a different point of view
then roared a great loud argument
upon what point god really meant!

Oh dear, what shall we do with you?
Such little, stubborn, point of view.
A right solution was not found,
they had to let it stay around.
No one knows what for.
But since that day, we all can say
Life's all,
except a bore...

Not the stillness
but the never-ending motion
not on the head of a pin
but in base of the broad basin
not a perfect evenness
but the wealth of variance

Not two opposing pebbles
laid on a lever atop a pivot
not a balance
more
like a train car
arriving at the station
where people board and disembark
while their total never changes

Similarly
not good opposing evil
not black and white
or self against the other
more
the summation of the ins and outs
of all that simultaneously occur
when nothing ever happens

The first step is the hardest
the second, harder still
    a steeper step, I follow through
    my world, it seems, is built askew
     my goal, to clime that hill

     Yet not all treads are equal
        some forward
    some reverse
    a trail is nowhere to be found
  its easier to turn around
the valley ground, a curse

But patience is a virtue
  persistence is a key
   surmounting mountains is a must
   when voices urge within each gust
   escape, and you go free

     Those winds, they carry forward
         and inching steps amass
      a lifetime spent inside a ditch
            and suddenly the trough is breached
                     I reach the top at last

                     But legs, they know just walking
                     not how to stand and cheer
                    inertia pull, and I comply
                    across, and to the other side
                 it’s all downhill from here

It is a common observation
That things are either bound or free
And this gives birth to misconceptions
On nature’s own duality

Just like a boulder in seclusion
An object tied is never loose
It has potential in profusion
Yet nothing stored is ever used

In contrast, like a cuckoo bird
An object loose is free to roam
With nothing owned, and all things shared
Yet nowhere to be called a home

But how the stable knows of freedom?
And of the joys of taking flight?
For in the well, where he is hidden
The skies seem dark in broad daylight

And how the liberated figures
To perch and quench on rushing spume?
Since from the heavens, even rivers
Are thinner than a feather’s plume

The trick is repetition thousands
And millions, and some billions more
Each item through the options browse and
Decides to settle, or to soar

Then from this binary decision
The choice is neither ridge nor flock
And one can say, with some conviction
All compromise the bird and rock

Take heart, and listen to this lesson
In life you often have to choose
‘tween earthly form and spirit essence
You gain, but on the same time lose

A man is bound by his possessions
A man with none, will starve for sure
To thrive, one must apply discretion
And choose which path to him allures

Lo, such is life, optimization
Of energy and entropy
You minimize their combination
In hope that this will set you free

Life, just like before,
Collide with us non-stop
Pushing from and pulling back to
Our mutual starting point
And each time
We come in through the door
A little more fatigued
A little bit more bruised
A little less familiar
We sit at the same table
Drink from the same cup
And watch
From our never-changing spot
How the distance between us
Grows larger
Still

We are
superficial beings
densely packed on the fringe
of histories in contact.

We’re torn apart
by discord from within
and rush together
when pressure rises from outside,

The balance of the two
along with our emphatic bonds
encapsulates our collective ego
defines how full we are
of ourselves.

There’s irony
In our struggle to resolve
In our vain attempt to state
That if we decompose the world
And isolate
The properties of every element
We can construct it bottoms-up
In all its former glory

Yet nature still resists
For it is not made of the details
But of all that manifest between
It is not balanced on a needle
But emerges from the pattern sewn
From the answer, not to “Why?”
But to “Why not?”

If we just distance the objective
From the subject, that is subjective by default,
And take a glance from far enough
The universe unfolds
A whole
Much larger than its parts

The same way motion
Is not defined for isolated sole
Same as color
Is never measured by a single pulse
The same way poetry
Does not exist within a single word
Creation
Is not the grains, but the coast whole
That lets us know just where
The sea begins

We toil
And slave
And sweat
On  mundane tasks of day-to-day
In a trodden path
We pace in circles
Through a routine
Thicker than molasses

Our arm extended to both sides
And fingers spread as fans
We make the struggle even worse
In an effort to ensnare
Not matter,
But what matters
The idle chats when days draw to a close
A gentle, loving stroke
A smile, a laugh
A joyful tear
A warm embrace before the dawn
And sometimes
(if we're lucky)
Even a plump adventure

All of which we catch
In the sieves that are our palms
Bringing them
Closer to our core
Kneading
Forming
Sculpting
Into prisms of pure light
Shining like the sunrise
Placing those
One on top the other
While keeping on the go
Brick by brick
We build ourselves
A home

Tread lightly
as not to trample
the stalks of budding dreams
Let them sprout
in the gap between the toes
watch them sway
in the breeze caused
by the friction of your lifting foot
extended towards their counterparts
an endless step away

Choose carefully
with your sparse and
widening  steps
which flagstone  cracked with age
will  resonate  through
you
its  painful
song of  burden
its lifting  song
of  joy

Float  than
gently
push  the  air
repeal   gravity
with    jets    fueled
by     yourself
     that ' s      i  t
                y  o  u  
                       f    l    y

As summer unfolds
the scent of dusty roads
urges us to roam
the succulent fig
the crimson mulberry
overcome the mother’s call
to scurry back for dinner

Instead, we scatter
like sheaf thrown to the wind
and there is nobody but us
in this unraveling earth
for we are
ones of a kind

When winter comes
frost kisses with its lips
the sills of our windows
its curling fingers
grips the air without a touch

Then, we slouch back
and huddle like a flock
of penguins in the Antarctic
seeping heat one onto another
waddling in circles
flowing as a whole
a collective race

From without inwards
from within back out
we are
together, and apart

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

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

Once in a while
I move through you
spreading my arms
as though they were wings
hoping your sweet scent
will carry me far, far away

You are the one
un-remembered
that sweeps through me like a storm
a gust leaving scorch marks
on the cusp of sense and in-sense
Until you stop
on the tip of my tongue
a shape made of mists
waiting to be exhaled
and dissolve into thin air

And as you die down
I die out
My arms drop off
like spiraling autumn leaves
and the chill of sobriety grabs hold
condemning me
to life

Paint for me , in oil,  on canvas
as I  portray
a lush meadow
a curving stalk
and at its top, refracting light
a dew drop
a rainbow of all colors

Sketch for me, with charcoal, on paper
as I detail
the corners of skyscrapers
shadowing long faces
and short names
distant relatives, familiar strangers
emptiness
as a landmark

Color for me, in water, on water
as I describe
stretched all the way
to the horizon
the scents of a clear night
and tear drops
of pure moonlight
like tadpoles in a puddle
like whales in outer space

Each one I'll take
and balance on all principle axes
bredth
height
depth
I'll sit at the origin
and 'till the end of time
observe