On Saturn's day, his body quakes,
the lights go out, and the craters form.
He drinks the rye to ease the shakes
and watches as the cicadas swarm.
His records are warped from cellar air,
his walls are stained nicotine yellow.
The night creeps in from beneath his chair
to taunt and **** this charming fellow.

Fifty years of motherless meals
and fifty years of loveless mistakes.
Fifty years of seasonal wheels
and fifty years of screeching brakes.
Fifty years of challenges met
and fifty years of swallowing pride.
Fifty years and not dead yet,
and fifty more before he has died.

He draws in deep from his old cob pipe
and exhales the smoke toward the fan.
Once the orchards are good and ripe
he'll go outside and tame his land.
Until that day, he's mighty content
with sitting back and wasting his time.
These are the last days before his descent,
there is no call for reason or rhyme.  

Fifty years of unpaid rent,
and fifty years of tall tales lost.
Fifty years he can't repent,
and fifty years of permafrost.
Fifty years that won't come back,
and fifty years of worn down soles.
Fifty years of catching flak,
and fifty years spent digging holes.

hurry boy, don't doze
etch the words before they perish
as the situation once again alters
coiling around your wrist
tugging you to that place
sleep every moment
dwelling in the blankets
soaking in that stale security
false impressions attached/removed
like velcro ripping in the silence
masks on masks on masks on masks on masks on
could spend days pruning in the seabed of potential
while the salt collects on my eyelashes and the days vanish like eons
there are days where the stillness in me quakes my feet
into the fervor of rabbit under moving tire and
I pound the walls for a train to pass and shake the foundation
but the tracks are too far away now, and the stillness creeps
dust collects on the fan blades, then the plastic grating, then the intake
the thing rattles all night now; loose ***** in the front
hardly a substitute for that rumble in your dreams
from an archer daniel's car rushing by at four
the bed is a lot better at this place though
king size, though I'd rather be in california
where the water is warm and the memories catch your falls
I've never been there and the idea is always better than the outcome
kicking sand like a beach bully *** flexing in strut
sun burns within seconds of shirtless self-reveals
the salt is being washed off of the cars
from an illinois winter that the plow conquered to the dismay of
the kids down the block who still waited
at dawn for the diesel yellow groan
the heat is swelling in the season
chirps return with the sting
of rolled up passenger windows
magnifying the clean white light
ninety-eight million miles marched
to a single point on a pale dot
burning that poor gal's cheek
but the medicinal effects
of the smooch are more than known
to generations of the summer awakened,
free-falling, reality born.
here we are again with showers and flowers,
here we are again with cyclones in the alley,
here we are again with cocoons and buffoons,
here we are again with milk in the valley.
this heart pumps as the snow goes rising
to the funnels and pillars east-stretched
where the baby boomers buy plots and
the love begins to reach for an even share.

Time became a part of us ever since we learned how to read it
We put it on our wrists, nail it on our walls, and hold it in our phones.
It is an entity we gave meaning to, we gave importance to,
And we're either chasing or wasting it.

When I was a kid, I had a hard time reading time
I got confused if the short hand pointed at the hours or the minutes
Or if the long hand pointed at the minutes or hours.
Eventually, I learned and realized it's not much of a big deal as it was when I was learning it.
It became a part of  my life.

Love and time have some things pretty much in common.
Love became a part of us ever since we learned how to read it,
what it meant,
how it felt.
We put it in our hearts, we nail it in there, we hold it with our body.
It is an entity we give much meaning and importance to,
And we're either chasing or wasting it.

And we're all little kids still trying to learn what love is,
what it means,
how it feels.

Funny thing is, love and time also differ from each other.
Eventually, we learn what love is,
what it means,
how it feels.
And some of us would realize it was a big part of our lives even after we've learned it.
It became a part of our soul.

You then learn that, unlike time, love can be waited.
Love doesn't have to be always chasing or wasting.
It can be waited.

Swallow those tears.
Turn your face away.
Blame the allergies.
Smile.
Show some teeth.
Laugh.
Put away all the insecurities.
The thoughts the demons whisper in my ears.
The terrible heartache that claws at your chest when you think of him.
The urge to yell and scream,
To burst into tears and punch a wall.
To be mean to everyone.
To prove that you're a *****.
Just stop.
Smile.
You are fine.

Pretend.

Fake it till you make it, right?
:)





























































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no one cares anyways.
don't burden anyone.
don't let them come close and see the mess that you are.
you're gonna hurt them anyways.

I have a fairy by my side
Which says I must not sleep,
When once in pain I loudly cried
It said "You must not weep"
If, full of mirth, I smile and grin,
It says "You must not laugh"
When once I wished to drink some gin
It said "You must not quaff".

When once a meal I wished to taste
It said "You must not bite"
When to the wars I went in haste
It said "You must not fight".

"What may I do?" at length I cried,
Tired of the painful task.
The fairy quietly replied,
And said "You must not ask".

Moral: "You mustn't."

In her closet next to a shirt
hangs a concertina pleated skirt
she slips it on with grace and ease
the tiny pleats are there to please
like a million shimmering crystal shards
all tightly pressed like a pack of cards
as she moves they sway and dance
upon her legs they tickle and prance
the feeling makes her smile and shiver
which makes the pleats start to quiver
they skim and flatter her  hips and ***
like the majestic rays of a rising sun
such carnal delights found in a skirt
as she hangs it back next to the shirt.