Disillusioned youth all drunk on ideas of change,
passing around their ideals until we all felt the same,
or felt better about not feeling the same,
or felt normal by being surrounded by people even farther from normal than we'd ever claim to be ourselves,
or felt like we were in a safe space for the first time in our lives,
a space in which we could actually be ourselves,
or felt as if the weight of the world thrusted on our shoulders by our parents was no longer a burden we had to bear alone,
or felt sane enough for the first time in awhile to recognize how much we'd actually grown,
to have sorted out all of the ******* from the things we'd always claimed to have known.

God bless 'em, every one.

Oh, how we've grown.

"Get this **** cancer out of me." you want to scream.
      And I want to do it for you.
"This isn't part of me. I don't hurt inside like you do,"
          you laugh: in the face of death, to hide
                       the fact that you're only hanging on for me.
    And I feel like saying the same to you but...
I laugh along and...
                             we don't speak about it.
                                              Because we're men.
                                                            ­and men don't fear death.
                                                          ­                       we laugh in its face.

                        But also because
                                if we speak these things, they might
                                                           ­            become true.
             and so then,       what are we laughing at
                                                        but the truth.

All are architects of Fate,
  Working in these walls of Time;
Some with massive deeds and great,
  Some with ornaments of rhyme.
Nothing useless is, or low;
  Each thing in its place is best;
And what seems but idle show
  Strengthens and supports the rest.
For the structure that we raise,
  Time is with materials filled;
Our to-days and yesterdays
  Are the blocks with which we build.
Truly shape and fashion these;
  Leave no yawning gaps between;
Think not, because no man sees,
  Such things will remain unseen.
In the elder days of Art,
  Builders wrought with greatest care
Each minute and unseen part;
  For the Gods see everywhere.
Let us do out work as well,
  Both the unseen and the seen;
Make the house, where Gods may dwell,
  Beautiful, entire, and clean.
Else our lives are incomplete,
  Standing in these walls of Time,
Broken stairways, where the feet
  Stumble as they seek to climb.
Build to-day, then, strong and sure,
  With a firm and ample base;
And ascending and secure
  Shall to-morrow find its place.
Thus alone can we attain
  To those turrets, where the eye
Sees the world as one vast plain,
  And one boundless reach of sky.

little dark girl with
kind eyes
when it comes time to
use the knife
I won't flinch and
i won't blame
you,
as I drive along the shore alone
as the palms wave,
the ugly heavy palms,
as the living does not arrive
as the dead do not leave,
i won't blame you,
instead
i will remember the kisses
our lips raw with love
and how you gave me
everything you had
and how I
offered you what was left of
me,
and I will remember your small room
the feel of you
the light in the window
your records
your books
our morning coffee
our noons our nights
our bodies spilled together
sleeping
the tiny flowing currents
immediate and forever
your leg my leg
your arm my arm
your smile and the warmth
of you
who made me laugh
again.
little dark girl with kind eyes
you have no
knife. the knife is
mine and i won't use it
yet.

“Are you okay?”,
my wife asks
when I cough.

“No. I’m fine.
Yes. I’m not”,
I respond,

stumping her
in the poetic irony
of words that

encompass the
yes and no
and the in between.

She flips the finger
at me and I return
the bird to the nest.

We go back to our life
and our tablets,
the drip, drip of my chemo
and I wonder about okay.

“No.  You’re fine.
Yes. You’re not.”,
the bag stares in response.

Why do we look down and pity
Those who are content in their
Nothingness and suffering

Is it really right and righteous
For us to want them to have more?
It is both impossible and implausible
For us all to have more.

For those who had nothing
Everything is gained
For those who have everything
Fear of losing is more constant

When I was a child
I read that story of a man
Who used to be happy with
His limited share of goods
Then, he found a gold nugget
And the poison spread through
His mind
Till he was viciously suspicious
Of old friends
And remained sleepless
Fearing the loss of
His fortune
How unfortunate that
When he gained the most
He lost it all
Lost his soul

Those of us with so much
Are gluttons with ever
Increasing appetite
We are constantly trying to
Fill the emptiness in our
Soul with a fleeting
Satisfaction and
The joy of a newly acquired
Good

The happiness last for
Shorter and shorter
Periods of time
And then we are left
With the void

When we protest this
We are met with
“You are ungrateful”
“You are so blessed”
Are we really blessed?
When we gained everything
We lost our soul, our happiness,
Our upward gazes facing the sun,
And are now facing the field of ennui,
Or even, the dust of unspeakable shame,
For it seems we also lost the right to suffer.

When we are young,
Likes candies to a toddler
We crave for the sweetness of being
When you grow old
Likes the bitterness of tea
We immerse in the more tattered memories.

In Peter Jackson’s
“They Shall Not Grow Old”
Such horror was described
By the soldiers and veterans
That survived
You’d think they would block out
Their memories entirely
Yet, it ended with such a profound
Declaration
That
If they had a second chance
They would do it all over again

Same with my grandmother,
When you ask her what was
The best times in her life
It will always be the times
She fought the most
And was hurt the most

And my mother’s generation
Was subjected to much hunger
Yet, she is more regretful about
The blandness
Of life and fulfillment now
With so many of her and my
Peers trying to actively
Seriously, and dangerously
Starve themselves
Just to feel pretty

How the rice and fruits
Tasted so preciously
How my grandmother
Had tried to relive her
Less materialistic life
From her childhood in me
How I searched and searched
For those imperfect berries
That always tasted sourer
Than sweet

Such is the Fullness of Being!
Yet,
We are now blessed
With the Emptiness
Of Everything

I often feel so guilty
Being someone with so much
That I could leisurely
Just write poetry
While others try to give more and
More to those with
Nothing

Yet,
I see them much much
Happier than our materialistic
Society
We think are more blessed
We think we are in a better place
But are we?
While they are able to find
Happiness and fulfillment
In hunger and suffering
We are lost among
Our everything.

Do they need more, or
Do we need to learn to
Live with less, much less?

I can’t help fill hungry bodies
But can I give myself to comfort
Souls that are suffering in
The Blandness of being
And abandoned for
Having everything.