Behind those times,
My mind travels in thousand miles.
Behind those pretty eyes,
Are my tears that came from all those cries.
Behind those bluish skies,
Are symbol of loneliness which I try to hide.
Behind those rides,
I don't even know what my life defines.
Behind those advice,
Is myself that can't still make it apply.
Behind those white lies,
Is me that is still waiting for your reply.
Behind those fake smiles,
I'm still trying to look for the positive side.
Behind those sighs I make,
Are sleepless nights that keeps me awake.
Behind those closed doors,
Is me that no one will ever adore.

Unlike the body,
consciousness does not age.
I realized this today
when I saw an old man
dragging his dying flesh
to the table
and dropped it off
on the chair.
He then took his newspaper
and a small flash-light
and started to examine
the words.
Consciousness is never worried
about the dying body
because,
it is very much aware
of its own eternity
which oudates all objects.
It is
the energy that
brought about everything
and around which
all cosmic events orbit.
It is the consciousness
of the cosmos,
the only God there is.

Your face is still
The most beautiful
To me.
Your scratchy voice
And dimpled grin
Had me wrapped
Around your finger.
I wish I’d known
Better—
Those things
Are not what sustains
A relationship.

there is no new, only renewal:
the space between brain and mind

the harder shell a skulking humanizing container,
the neuronic heart cells,
brain stem and heart bloodstream
scented/stented,
deny the newness of no new claim

the tower of ourselves built on the babble
of old images and read readings,
songs in seconds recognized by just the first two notes,
the point is this when do you become a grownup,
when new is but renewal, with a hint, a pinch,
of a new insight maybe recognized

now, how will you know me new when your eyes
search the iron bank cellar, where,
by voice deep, by fuzzy photographs, what tissues will connect
when the new sight knows me from too many old poems/songs?

!when the babies gather round for lifting up, sky scratching,
when the old man grand father, carries three upon his back,
a nonpareil horsey ride,
when the doorbell rings
I’m older than now, you’ll say,
read your wild mercury back pages,
taking the grays of our mutually curly
Medusa locks as a renewal gift offering
that will someday
match mine!

I took a sip of my beer
and then I said
to the monkey on my back,
“Nothing has ever hurt
so much in my life.”
He took a breath,
then a sip of his beer
and said,
“Ah, it must be love.”