there must be ghosts
its what ive seen
how else do you explain it
all around I look
and all I see
is my old man's legacy

like the look I give
those ******* drivers

the caring stubbornness
my sister's own

quiet honest love of the man
my brother has become

his grandchildren and ours
are etched in his way
he will  live on forever
in our own legacy

The flood of weekend fun
has ended -- its deluge

Of waves and love and friends
. . . as waves.

Persists, propels a new inspiration.
Inertia.
Forward.

Back to reality, to work,
responsibility.

To simple morning coffee,
once again,

That reminds me, simply,
once again,

That all these forms are my reality

There is no dearth
Of reality

No dearth

Of weekends
Of mornings
Of coffee
Of work
Of responsibility
Of friends
Of love
Inertia
Forms
Waves
Reality

No dearth
No dearth

Just fun

Just flood

Only once has love ever opened my wrist,
Twice more with a rope, my neck has been kissed.
Three panic attacks on the floor of the shower,
Six nights have I wished to see my last hour.

The clouds are blocking the stars so
I guess poking holes in my paper
And holding it up to the lamppost
Will have to do.

I once sat here on my balcony
-around this time I think-
Writing songs out
Phonetically for you all to read..
Eventually I decided to just set
Paper and crayons
On fire while surrounded by
Those three dead bees my mother killed
With my chancleta earlier...
**** was brutal because she was
Yelling while killing them...
And I remember that I couldn't help
But laugh at her and her distraught!
I imagined her as a ******* vocalist for my band..
I think she'd suit a straight-edge band though..
Maybe some Christcore..
But she hates my music and we've grown apart.

But just as I was sitting here melting
And burning stuff, and writing stuff amongst the dead,
I was sitting with them, the bees,
For those past few days when they were alive..
I even took pictures and videos..  
I can imagine myself saying "I didn't want them to die"
Because perhaps I didn't want them to die.

"Go **** them! Death to bees! Take this broom! It's on the net!"
But I didn't do it.

I once sat here on my balcony
Around this particular time and
Wrote a similar poem..

I once, but in intervals, did twice
The movement of a single brisk breeze
For double the time of a considerable
Moment amongst the living.
It was deafening.

She holds
Between her small fingers
The spliff she just lit to sit
In the spot where
Surreal is just as real as the reality
Engulfing itself in splits of seconds as she sits,
Spliff in hand,
Expanding Secretly,
The Universe where mayhem spreads
Meticulously,
Devouring stars and planets to each note played
Catalytically in tune to her riveting grace
Where
Lines of spiraling moments entail
A life of the
Darkest,
Shifting,
Twisting
Whispers of troubling
Shadows
Latching to the misty eloquence
Of melodies that sing the harmonies of her
Humming soul
Within a cloud of smoke
That stays imprinted,
Forever
Un-moving,
In the midst of my lungs and grows, and
As we sit under the sky,
The suns light cradling her so hauntingly
With her red lipstick and,
Soulless brown eyes and,
A voice like the soft ocean tides,
I realized what I realized when I first met her.
Whether night or day or
Through curtains where the light sometimes
Bleeds those artificial shades,
That...

I used to have a little black book
Where I wrote this crap..
Out of sync with a flow,
Devoid of a rhythmic stroll,
Breaking centripetal circles
Like those long *** commercials..

Now I just write it in thin air and
Hope for nothing.

My eyes can only see so much.

here we are shaking
here we are

a slit to make your jawline,
i dig my fingers through
and find the blood dripping
down my hand to turn
my skin pink. the evening
i left you, the classroom
was cold and you said

at home my reflection is rainbow
spiked and glass sharded in the
bus windows. at home my hands
shake when i pass our streets.
at home i think of the way you'd
look dead and wish it'd happen
soon. your ink skin against paper
thin sheets is what i need.

here i am shaking
here i am

It whips you in the face
or carries a flighty leaf
like the tide of the wind
it varies

sometimes enshrouding
is its twisted volition
aftertimes a soothing caress
most times, which comes
amidst the debris
of guilt
and trepidation
and fear

and this is not a measure
of Richter but the abyss,
which is carved deep
and has the potential
to acknowledge
the possibility
fervently,
that this is not
an existential anomaly.

to be conspicuously happy
feels like riding a bike,
backwards,

you've been told it is fun
(and you assume it is too!)
but the mechanisms
are so faulty
your feet refuse to rotate wrong,
your brain is confused and takes long
to right itself,
and eventually its forward-backward again

because that's the right way,
that is how your feet have been trained.