The curse of my life:
I, the man who seeks
to learn and educate
the intricate world around,
tends to channel
such impulsive energy
into meaningless apathy,
where efforts only mold
into clever epiphanies
that only entertain ears
who may listen
for but a second.

I fear that my insight
will be interpreted as "deep"
and in a sense it may be true
since I can feel the loose dirt
being shoveled over my head
by critics and hypocrites
who passively preach
while staring down:
that to be a normal person,
one must close their mind
and rather than retaining
creative ideas,
they should bury them.

Time, as the bookkeeper,
who is perfectly punctual
yet pays little attention to pace,
often lets sands fall quickly
in the eternal hourglass.

This patient negligence
turns material possessions to antiques
occasionally handled but not bought;
turns shrinking bodies to ash or dust
that settles beneath the infinite grains;
and turns short-lived words to quotes,
vividly and enthusiastically chattered
by our fragile grandchildren.

If a single sand could beckon to Time,
which would it beg to preserve?

Her love thoroughly coats
like cat hair on a black jacket:

encompassing from front to back,
tickling playfully underneath armpits;

overwhelming from tiniest to long,
armies of glistening lines on dark planes;

catching gazes close and far,
stigmatized for being so noticeable;

sickening to envious and hallow hearts,
allergic to solemn, broken souls;

and yet despite the nuisance
that comes with such fashion,
it is relieving, comforting, and pleasing
because it reminds me
that the house isn't empty
and that I am not alone.

Despite all my efforts:
of scrubbing off the oils
settling on my skin,
of dousing heavy colognes
to cover away the perfume,
of covering in ice water
to mask away the warmth,
and persistent use of alcohol
to sanitize germs left behind,
through every physical method
practical and possible,
I could not easily erase
the trace of your hand.

Out all of the
handful
of pistachios
that lay in the
empty crevices
of my palm, you
are the saltiest
and most bitter,
of which takes
the most effort
to crack open
that pale, thick
almost impenetrable
shell,
to obtain your
sweet nourishment.

A Haiku:

A child saw a man
dead, hanging from the gallows:
"He missed a letter."