13th October, 2016
To all this will concern:

I sit alone.
I just sit.

When I breathe, I try not to stir the air
and make sails out of cobwebs.
When I breathe, I urge my chest
not to furrow my shirt.
When I breathe, I almost die
so that I'm barely breathing.
For who should want my breath
to be more than a whimper?

If I breathe,
butterflies can take the day off,
for my breaths will churn hurricanes.
They'll cause wars in the far reaches of the universe.
They'll make God sneeze.
"Oh, I'm sorry... bad breath."

If I breathe,
I'll be presumed alive.
I'll have to work.
I'll work for big tobacco,
or BP
or the mafia: whichever one.
My ecological footprint will be the bodies
of your loved ones.
I'll do this because, if I work at the grocery store,
who knows when I'll sell food to the local
serial killer.
I'll be aiding and abetting the 9 to 5 of Freddy down Elm street!
Who wants that?

No, no. Yes, I'm right, it's better this way.
And if you push me.
If you so much as touch me.
Millions, perhaps billions, of infinitesimally small parasites will swarm your body. You'll sneeze.
"I'm sorry. I haven't showered for thirty days because: the oceans, you know?"

Action has consequence and, after so many years of trying not to be a burden and, somehow, still being a bigger burden, I'm convinced its time to go.

I've decided to be a sack of compost... Grade A compost.
I'll mail myself to a respectable farm (non-GMO mind you).
I'll pray to all the gods and living, semi-living & unconscious entities beforehand to straighten things out that I'm signing up with Jesus: nothing personal, I just don't think the rest of you have good benefits (you have to be cordial. After all, I'm going to be something important one day. Grade A compost isn't cheap.)

The last step was to write this letter. Digital, of course. Don't want to waste paper mailing this to everyone. Yes, I'm not stupid. I paid all the different energy companies in the world the exact dollar amount per second it would cost someone to read this each time the page is accessed until... well, the end of this website. Have to be practical.

This is a strange suicide letter, I know, but bare with me.

My method of choice.

Well, I don't want to leave a mess, so I'll just wait until I'm dead.

How did you think this was going to end?

I sit alone.
I taste the bitterness
of my tongue
and somehow
life is more bitter
than this stale breath;
more empty than my cold bed
less comfortable, than my bleeding heart
more drowning, than nonsense
and less appetizing
than my own
rotten
mind.

Now I sit in two.
I whisper to my friend,
or,
what he desires to be called...
I tell him:
I wonder if there is
a primitive man
somewhere
in another world
absent
of the
vainglory
of future man.
Primitive man sits, nursing a wound
He stares into the night sky
and dreams of my life
he hopes his wound would be
as superficial as mine.
He imagines the weight of my wounds
as mere foundations for greatness.

All the while...
I dream of him

My friend chuckles.

I say:
Imagine how I see him.
Imagine his mind absent of media,
as if the universe
cured him of some life-threatening wound.
I tell my friend:
He was made perfect, you know.
I tell my friend:
That man could cure the world if you gave him a chance.
He would be a god.

My friend gives me a sideways glance.

What?

He offers a gesture of non-confrontation.
I relax. I sigh. I simmer in my somberness.

Imagine him! I declare.
The things he could accomplish in my life and me in his!

My eyes glaze over.
Instead of a deer, I'm an insect.
Instead of a car, it's a train.
Instead of headlights, it's the sun.
I'm not frozen, I'm petrified.
Because:
maybe, at the end of the day, he and I are the same.

That primitive man.
He would bumble around society. He would be consumed by the media before having the answers. It would devour his perfection. In the wake of its *******, the carcass of his potential mastery would be a mere ornament in the media's MTV mansion.

And I, society's specimen of advancement and culture?
I would be devoured by that primitive man's natural world. I would be reduced to moaning and wailing, crawling like a stuck pig, hoping to find a highway, all in vain. Why don't I just lay there and die?
And that nature? It wouldn't leave a carcass. It's too efficient. It's too...
Monstrous.

The primitive man. He's the god of his world.
While I. I can dream of being a god, if that helps.

But will the void mumble.
Will it turn in its sleep?
Will the god, in some slumber, whether dream or nightmare, ever
ever
dream
of being me?

Well.
Then it's in for
a rude awakening...
so to speak.

Box

Shared visions and promises
Written on yellow papers
Invisibly marked....faded, broken promises
Endearing terms...endearing moments,
Old postcards...old photos and letters
Time-colored...marked souvenirs,
I kept them inside....all stored in a case....
Unexpectedly, the Heavens cried in anger, one day
I rushed, to hold tiny currents at bay...to save
The memories...but the box was no longer there
Those gifts, letters, souvenirs were nowhere
Almost a lifetime...stored in there
But...monsoon rains took them all away...forever
::::::::::::::::::::::::
Got to find myself, a new box....


Sally

Copyright October 15, 2016
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan

All the sins
washed away.
So was wrought the grace.

Wings, like lovers arms, enfold.
White as light.
Healing flames.
Passion pure.

Such was the kiss of forgiveness,
upon this newborn soul.

The dregs of insanity
don't fade.
They linger in the drain,
bubbling viciously.
I watch them choke the
innocence
from the stone.
It seems to blacken
and I wonder:
"Was that my flesh?"

It is still my flesh.
I am still a sinner.

Yet, by the power of this...
bankrupt insanity.
I float over the past
to embrace the future.

Without such tarnish
to strangle my soul
I smile...
it is a child's smile.

I hope this strikes a nerve in you
To tell you that yes
I have blood in me too.

Someone was shot today
Execution style on their knees
Weak and unable to live on their feet
For fighting for what they believe.

All anyone ever wanted in life was peace
If you close your eyes like Lennon said
You'd see more than you would with them open

Black
White
Asian
Hispanic
Russian
Cuban
I don't care what you are

We all bleed red.
If it's blood that is  needed to be spilled to show

Then take it from the history books.
War shouldn't be all we know.

One day I want my babies to feel safe
And have friends of every race
And love the color of their blood,
Not just the color of their skin.

I want them to love the person they love
Because their personality is colorful.

I don't want them to care about equality
Because we're all God's children
He put us all here.
Isn't that equal enough?

I've always thought
I would go completely unnoticed
For most of my life,
As though I were
Rain to a body of water,
Or the slight change of the wind
In a tornado.

But it seems
For some reason,
To you,
I am much more drastic
A thing.

And I won't put
Words in your mouth
Or try to find what I could be,
But you seem to take notice of me,
More than I take notice of myself.

And I've found
That I matter to you
In ways
I don't matter to myself.

And maybe
I need to take note,
But I know
You matter to me
Like the sun that warms my skin,
Or the sky that brightens my mood.
Or the rain that brings water,
And the green of the grass
Or the lively sounds of the birds,
You are all that I can fathom,
And that I desire.

Remarkable , the guile of migratory
birds for they willingly travel home by memory alone
The diligent October wasp with certain death
awaiting behind some unmarked door
The sunlit , short shimmering life of piedmont morning
dew brought to prominence by it's eventual killer
The curve of the Earth indignant to the lurid passing day
Morning Glory swan song riddler , April flurry Winter bereft
The resolute breaker commanding the shore with it's
dying breath

Autumn views change much like the observers
A little worse , a bit better , in some ways a little sooner than later
Soft skinned , running to a fro now replaced with hard shelled , set in your ways , pre-planned afternoon walks  
Elder hardwoods finally reveal their true colors , passing the torch down to their green , full o' fire young-ins , drawing from their scabbard , fencing for all their worth , forever pushing forward while old folks like us can finally relax and learn to enjoy the forest* ...

From the very first time
I felt that flutter in my belly move
I knew the best gift of life
and that gift was you
My son
My gift from God
You are my happy place
Nothing brights up my day more
than when I see your smiling face
I will do my best to teach you
and raise you right
Always say please and thank you
Know what battles to fight
Do not worry about love, son
You will find the right woman
When you have become the right man
Don't take for granted this life
that god has given you
Treat people the way
you want to be treated
and always see things through
We are not promised tomorrow
So live it well and seize the day
and ride the sun the entire way

'Twould do any young person well to step into the muddy boots of a farmer for a spell . *** a field the whole day through , milk an ornery goat , pick a row of okra or two ..
Clean a hog pen , run the dogs at the crack of Dawn , build baskets and set tomato plants in the hot Georgia Sun ..
Pick your meal in the morning and eat it at dinner , cut firewood in the dead of Winter . It would most assuredly do a teenager well , yes it would