I hate routine
and even though
I hate it,
with all my guts
with all my life
with all my veins
and I have been
saying it
for as long
as I have lived
I am still
doing it
embracing it
enduring it
for almost
two years
I have been
out there
every single
weekdays
from seven to six
without fail
except for
those days
where I cannot move
or think
and sometimes
it stretched until
eight, nine at night
and there were
few times
where it stretched
to ten, eleven
close to midnight
and I have
to go out again
the next day
to do it again
to force
the cycle
and to force
myself
to jump over
the hurdle
just to get
a bowl
full of noodle
and I believe
it is the best
of all routine
that able
to be served
to the human
of all layers
of all levels
of all stratums
that are
desperately
in need of
a life.

So if you
ask me again
why do
I hate routine
please allow me
to ask you back
after all that
I have gone through
How can I not say
that I hate routine?

26/4/14

Morning, Nine-five,
To the tiny flowers in your garden,
And celestial ongoing bloom.
To the cadence of the sudden
Bird awakened in the noon.

Morning, Nine-five,
To a drop of light that slithers down
Down the smooth of shins and to your ankles.
Morning to the heedless way it gowns
Tips of feet unhid,
Naked toes uncovered by your blanket.

Morning, Nine-five.

Sartorial elegance

He always wore a yellow silk scarf around his neck
The type actors wear when in blazer having a drink on the terrace
Of a posh hotel, he bought his scarf at a second-hand store
In Cheshire, nevertheless, it was made to fit him
Oddly enough the rest of his apparel was purchased in a Chine's
This gave him an air of seedy elegance that normally comes with
Those who suffer no self- awareness

He was poor and lived on bread and marge, when not invited
To high-born party by people who thought he was an aristocrat
Sometimes I came too because as he said he was writing a novel,
And that made me interested in people with literary ambitions,
There are so few of them hidden in lofts and not spoken of-
His dead was sudden a rope and a beam,
he was missed by the locals
I have not had a proper dinner for a long time,
But I wear his yellows silk scarf for a book unwritten.

Be careful
I could not bury you alone
I’d have to join you in the earth.

Keep well
I could not hold your dying hand
Without a way to take the ill.

Be strong
I could not see you on your knees
I’d have to carry you from then.

Stay happy
I could  not blot away your tears
Without outnumbering them with mine.

Stay close
I could not end my given years
Without you at my side.
ljm

Separate beds and shades
Of reds. Intimacy is
A ****** handprint.

“Withdrawn from Salem Public Library”

“Salem Public Library, East Main Street,
Salem, VA 24153”
A happy book, thought-stained, and often-read
An anthology of Russian poetry

Salem, Virginia must be a marvelous town
A library stocked with poetry, and stocked
With poetry readers who have turned again
And again to favorite pages here and there

Long-ago poets murdered by the Soviets
But finding love at last in Salem, Virginia