We can grind our teeth
down to weathered tombstones

together.


Bound by love and sadness,
here we are
the rearguard of the desperate and the anxious -
holding hands
before an ocean
made of all the brakelights in the world.

There's no one I'd rather ignore warnings with
than you.

You’re so exotic.
He’d stare into my almond eyes,
one lighter than the other
fingers following the tangled waves
that ran down my shoulder blades.

What was exotic?
My father, blue eyed brute,
born into the Los Angeles slums
when the city lights were still
filled by browning fields.

My mother, unbleached hazel,
proud to say she’s been
an American longer,
than ever a refugee.

You should dye it black.
The tangled waves,
hues of coffee and amber
were never good enough.

You should dress more like them.
I’m sorry,
the pink and blue sampot hol
with silk ruffles and mandarin flowers
don’t match my ***** sneakers,
and for the hundredth time,
it’s not a kimono.
No, I don’t know anyone
who works at that massage parlor
with the women in six inch heels
parading around the golden dragon
out in front.

No, my father didn’t rescue
my mother from the nail salon
and what makes you think
I would know anything about
mail order brides.

Television has taught you
that I should be exotic
and neurotic.
Ready to submit
at the snap of your fingers.

Ready to present,
with a geisha’s poise.
You really expect me to respond?

What an appalling yearning it is...
I feel as my spirit will tear apart my presence
to fly where at the moment it would have to be,
breaking all the chains of reality
My life is addicted to you
What a hard conflict...
What a tough task...
Like a  patient in a deathbed
I need a 'lifeogen' mask.
I had to be moving to you at the moment,
After a while, I had to be sitting waiting for peace
And you had to be coming in
With your warm greetings...

Now, life is beginning there,
Vitality is filling empty spheres
with your blissful voice and laughter
But none of those existing dumbs
can feel it
Someone is sitting face to face with you
Where once I was sitting
Haven't you still felt the difference?!
Haven't you still found out the case?!
Anyone can take my seat,
But no one can take my place...

Can I forgive myself for my selfishness?!
I am sometimes very egoist and ingrate!
You are laughing, you are happy now
and you feel great,
that is the main point.
I scold myself and evade all of my cravings
You know me - I am the soldier of fortune...
Keep your shining and just only laugh, please...

I don’t regret much what I am.
How can I regret what defines me?
The way I am is an answer to how I feel.
I am my own universe, omnipresent
and yet a mere glimpse of insignificance
in others awareness or lives.
A blip in the whole of eternity.

You may think me ignorant
even cold, that’s not the truth.
Just a reflection of me mirrored
through the stained windows of you.
You can fall in love with the image
I transcend, the spark I ignite,
the pull of my voice
or softness in my touch,
but it is just as short lived
as fireworks, a spark of light
on the endless night sky.

I am not telling you
that things don’t matter
in a life so short lived
as a human life cycle.
I do not mean,
that you should stop loving
or that you can avoid hating
even that you may stop trying
to save the world.

In fact I am saying the opposite.
Make every moment count,
live them to the fullest,
make them yours.
Savor the actions,
the laughter, the passion
even the grief, heartache or anger.
You are a drop in the ocean of time
one of many particles and yet,
the one and only.

Life is short.
Eternity is not.

And try to light em underneath an ocean's worth of crude oil
      That is forcing it's way into my lungs
            My high hopes hung their heads in the past as they waited to be hanged

               But now the concept of life felt empty and displayed itself as a delay
        A casual lack of oxygen shut off all process in the brain

                 And we are on our way.


~spark~           
                            

                      in the depths
              And the darkness fades to grey,
           **A less ambivalent shade.

Gloved hands flex in umbra of night
a cot rocks, glittering in the rays of moonlight
baby coos, shaking its rattle
the leathery hands stalk the craddle
finding their prey, the gloves seek the neck
like guillotine, they reap
... they reap

Every idea meets this end
Every dream of mine every prayer
In infancy they glow then glow no more
throttled by shame, they break
chastised by fear, they fade
I would rock them, nestled in coaxing arms, close to my heart
the clock chimes its hour with pride and finality
at midnight, the reaping begins
upon the witching hour, my dreams are snuffed
and nightmares usurp their place.

Is it torment to expect more of myself?
Content to write poetry and leave epic tales of heroes and nemeses to doom and dust?

How many old lovers have I professed my dreams to
how many friends have I bored with my tales
how many family members smiled as I asserted my storytelling chops
only so I could stop, even before the period could halt the last sentence of the novel, thwarting its purpose.

How many heroes clambered upon my doorstep
begging, pleading for me to pen their heroism
How many villains woke me up with their cackling
In the corner, sitting, their eyes glowing in the void of night,
smiling teeth too white
or too black
feathered hats bobbing as their malice peaks
when they hold snaking knives to my throat
and with morbid breath instruct,
"For the love of God..." they say,
"Paint me in a good light, but make my misdeeds known, **** you!"
And I would lay awake, dreaming of these worlds
until the clocks knell
knell
knell
knell
allowing the ebb of time
to wash away my desires, my talents
and the glistening, far-off worlds fade to nothing...

In the end, indeed,
even my mind fades
leaving nothing but a husk behind
and all who knew come to watch
hanging a tombstone upon my rigor mortis neck,
it reads the words,
"He tried, of course he tried
but the devil has his price,
and this poor soul couldn't make rent."