I haven't told anyone--
but I know that my neighbor is dead
because when laying in my bedroom
separated by my wall and his.
I no longer feel him there as I usually did.

He always listened to "Horchata", by vampire weekend
on repeat it played as he slept.
I imagine he wanted to dream of tropical islands
to be back with his wife and child in the Philippines--
every morning it seemed to disappear
at the same moment he could no longer dream his dreams.

Each day making sure to wave to my neighbor
the largest smile I've ever seen was this mans,
with off pigment teeth that speckled in the morning sun
tarnished yellow from all the coffee I brought him;
it was a lovely smile, wish I had it framed to see it still.

As I usually do on Mondays I made my stop
popped open his door bringing his surprise,
some variety of coffee that sits idly on my counter--
inside hung the man I admired,
with a simple note saying "Thank you Young-Man"
and in front of him a scorched photo of his pregnant wife.

placid were his hands in mine--
setting aside the gift, I gave the only thing that I could.
I set the photo in his shirt pocket, "he deserved to be with her"
and putting his cd on repeat as "Horchata" filled the silence
slowly did I depart and head to my own bed.
After calling the police I hoped to fall asleep
and dream of tropical islands of where my neighbor is...

I try to explain the world--
the deeper meanings to my mumblings
all of it a frustrating mess,
an artist canvas splashed with too many colors--
that it becomes impossible to depict which is what.
Is that blue or is that aqua, I don't even know anymore.

When it comes to understanding my thoughts,
it becomes a psychotic break from reality--
where I imagine my fingernails scraping
chunks of flesh from my neck.
I plead for my hands to place themselves around my throat,
"Please suffocate yourself please just let me out"

Begging for someone to understand the mess,
that the khaki colored object actually means something.
Each splotch a representation of myself
every detail aligned to explain a greater idea.

As arguments end, they scribble deep within
a sketch book of sickening black ink;
Marks its place in the drippings of my thoughts,
making those colors lost in translation
so not even the painter knows how they feel.

A broken heart is a dropped mirror against the bathroom floor
each shard scattering across the linoleum,
fragments reflecting the hidden parts
to something they thought they knew, oh so well.

The lining around the toilet really needs some hands on work--
behind it the sand dunes of the Arabian Desert.
Clumped up hair trying to mimic the humps of camels,
and a lone razor blade as frayed as
a lost wandered amongst the sand.

Wooden panels enriched with the holes of last times termites--
corners splayed with the webbings,
of those **** daddy long legs,
and a pincher bug trudging their way to a hole in the corner.

Picking up the pieces, was something to learn from.
This common room they thought they knew, oh so well,
actually had a hidden world just beneath their view.
Maybe the heart broke just like the mirror,
to open the mind to all the other things near by.

As I sit next to the driver seat--
a small leaf is stuck on the windshield of this hearse.
Focusing on the half alive and half dead nature of it's blades,
I begin to lose touch with the reality around me.

Wondering how this thing is seemingly in a struggle to free itself--
I know the wind is it's true master,
but I can't help imaging an inner struggle,
for it to make a timely retreat to the tree it has fallen from.

Time has etched it's deathly remnants even into this greenery--
sparse edges that I assume were once rounded are jagged spikes.
Each one resembling some torment this leaf has been through,
as the world consumes fragments of what used to be true beauty.

Dangling by it's stem is the last connection
between filling my mind with the nature of leaves,
and other possibilities that have not yet come.

There's a sudden jolt, and the luminescent leaf
takes this final gasp of breath to spring itself from the trap,
perfectly sinking its escape with my own exhale.

As I exit from this car
the realization comes to me
I'll never get to see that leaf again.

When is your birthday
I only wonder when so I can wish you the best--
each  year you may not ask me to show up at your door,
but I will gladly surprise you with a cupcake and a smile.
Maybe a card that randomly says way too many things;
muddling the message that I really was trying to say, you are special.

Not only today is your day, but today is more your day than anyone else--
That while I celebrate when you came to life,
I also celebrate your struggles and I celebrate your victories.
Cheering, screaming, and chanting for the public to know, today, is yours!

I will gladly burn down any building with the candles from your cupcake--
Because you are getting older, but **** it, it's tradition.
I have to pack that cupcake with 24 candles,
even though they stopped looking good at 16,
I could have gotten smaller ones, but I keep buying the same pack every year.

No matter who you are, I will bring the cupcakes--
just accept that while I attempt to ****** you with diabetes
I'll also be showing you to the whole world around us,
so don't be shy, because it'll only give me more ideas for next year.

A silkworm burrows through the building
creating narrow passages for the many to follow.
A path designed to teach them how to live,
as it slithers through each hallway
it spews out gray compost for the people to thrive on.

Mindlessly this creature repeats it's pattern knowing no better;
each corridor the same blend of dreadful and brain dead.
Beneath it the muddled mix of moss green and **** brown tiles
symmetrical caverns line it's domain as feeding homes for the children.

Third stage monstrosities recycle what they have ate for the young
what they seek is what they are losing the longer they feast.
Their lust for creativity and a sense of humanity fades with each nibble
minds that were ever able of change become part of the cycle.

Ripe with potential until swallowed by the worm
losing their limbs: Hands that could have sculpted new halls,
feet that could have spread the news "to escape while you can",
and their minds for the future can only relish in repetition .

They themselves become part of the system of life--
where rotten fruits of thought are absorbed and digested by all.
The struggle for survival of the fittest
becomes the fight to find your own knowledge,
keeping your mind fresh and alive.

We never met, but we've done more than most do in a life time.
Traveling around the store picking those little greeneries
Our own little adventure, tuning into the show as I pick the bestest apples
While at the same time you can only find sour grapes
My store named Ralphs and yours, you tell me, is called Mandals
As I joke about how those are man sandals, you just laugh at me.
Worlds apart for others means, in a different town
For us it means a different time zone
Our hands may never touch
But our mind's hug and kiss each and every morning