I lie awake contemplating,
an insomniac stricken with
the explorer's mind
that wanders in search for exciting possibility;
the revolutionary heart
that fights for an unknown positive change;
an ignorant soul
that believes that all is possible;
and a weak man's body
that takes the punishment.
The power is out,
the heating is turned off
as a dimming flashlight flickers
like the light of a flame,
but such shimmers onto
white, blank walls
provide the backdrop
of cerebral cinemas
playing blurry features
of painful pasts
where lessons are learned;
of the struggling present
where limits are tested...
I lie awake, contemplating,
a stomach empty, rumbling
because of forced financial responsibility,
a body aching from mandatory life labor,
silence from those I seek
for help, for comfort, for a voice
to aid these ears that
no longer can simply hear silence
but instead the loud shouts
of a conscious trying to persuade
a feeble mind into conformity
using what the eyes see,
what patterns the memory recognizes
as refutable evidence.
Would it not be so easy
to live the life of a normal man
or live the life of a normal woman,
carefree, to enjoy the youth
in ecstasy, without care
of the future?
Would it not be easy
to instead spread out
each M&M; to small hands
around and instead
empty each piece into my mouth?
And if I were to see a woman
crying on the bench,
would I choose to sit and sew
the torn fragilities of human vulnerability
to risk punctuality...
Would it not be easy?
To live life to oneself
to one's own need
to one's own desires
without care of the future...
But during these cinemas
on my dark bedroom wall,
I see poverty within the past,
I see pain through the present,
and because of that I fear the future
that maybe the precious time
spent on these late night contemplations
will amount to nothing,
that in time the mind withers
and ultimately dies
blank as it began.


Yet I wonder, to act on impulse
leads many to mimic
society that surrounds
the observant eye
who has a mind, but is afraid...
Am I a man who is different?
Or am I a man who is the same?
Or is it that in this finite spectrum
of infinite possibility of these
two questions: I stand in the center
unable to place a point
and remain stationary?


I lie awake contemplating
of personal practicality
that if these thoughts will impact
any eyes, ears, or minds
as separate as they can be.
I hope that in time,
these thoughts will be refined
after being confined
and eventually redefined.
Maybe then these poems will make sense,
or that any of these arrangements
of words taken straight from thought
will translate to normal English
for it is not the curve of a "y"
that should matter in the marking
of a name, but instead the name itself.


As the films end
in memories' credits
where people are listed anonymously,
the flashlight flickers,
the stomach growls,
the body weary,
and the mind drifting
but the eyes wide open;
with few thoughts
left in the darkness,
a paintbrush childishly
draws an insomniac
who contemplates his past,
who recognizes his present,
and who is afraid of his future
but faces it even as
the flashlight dies.

In a random experiment,
I ask all to each bury a journal
about worshiping pandas,
thinking that in 200-or-so years,
when apocalypses come and go,
it will be taken from the time capsule.
And as they read the verses
I will hope for laughter
but fear them to believe it true.

Like father, like son,
baby Michael
had the habit
of leaving his empty bottles
all around the house,
crying as none
could hear his plea
for help.

Parody of Langston Hughes's "I, Too, Sing America"

I, too, speak “American”.

I am the yellow father.
They send me to entertain in accents
When company comes,
But I smile,
And learn quick,
And grow smart.

Tomorrow,
I'll preach at the podium
When company comes.
Nobody'll dare
Say to me,
"Listen to his accent,"
Then.

Besides,
They'll hear how articulate I am
And be ashamed--

I, too, speak “American”.

Many of the most profound pieces of poetry
May not have been dreamed and transferred
In particular manners professional,
And many of the most practiced writers
May not have been as noble nor indicative
As their readers would imagine and preach.
This concern thus produces a humorous conclusion
That through probability, possibility, and realism,
Many of the greatest and most inspiring words
Passed down to our misguided generation,
May have been conceived, scribbled, and explored
From the humble origins of atop a toilet.

The beauty of poetry
expands far beyond
the immersive imagery,
tongue-painted metaphors,
and whimsical similes
used to portray the artists'
vivid hallucinations.
No amount of consistent,
thorough editing,
no amount of precision
in thesaurus culminations,
nor the long-learned,
dextrous techniques,
fined-tuned throughout
fortitudinous refinements
undermine the essence:
the exact moment in time
where a poem is
experienced, engaged,
and ultimately conceived---
the epiphany.