I do believe in ghosts,
And how they linger on street corners.
How they leave invisible kisses
On the cheeks of their mourners.
I do believe in ghosts,
Even ones who aren't dead,
Who are just ethereal memories
Playing tricks with your heads.
I do believe in ghosts
Who aim to help and hurt.
Hopefully I'll be one too,
When I am buried in the dirt.

Rotten milk spills,
Covering the floor,
The stench stays for weeks,
Til you can't stand it anymore.
Rotten milk spills,
It rolls out in chunks.
It makes your stomach curdle,
As it did weeks ago.
Even when you've cleaned it
The memory remains.
Rotten milk spills, my dear,
And there's nothing you can do.

The plump moon lights up my room.

My mind is now a flat graph
no desire no lust no dream

the cold winds from the rumbling sea
make no dent on me
I look at my palms
and see the cracked floor
gnarled roots of mangrove on the wall
blend seamlessly with all I have
like once I had her in this room
love together
taking wingless flight to the moon
but now I more like sitting here
prospecting no words to rhyme
not angered at the blankness
for in this vacuous moonlight
I wait without a hope of gain
without a despair of loss
unconstrained for time
contoured by fireflies
alone
recounting a new beginning
from the end.

Why do I
ask for more
When I do have
enough ?

Why do I
look around
when I know
there is no
happiness to be found?

Why do I
speak lies to myself
when I already
know the fact ?

Why do I
make my life
unnecessarily difficult
by expecting
a lot more from me ?

Why do I do the things that I do?
What am I trying to do , trying to prove ?
Nothing makes sense to me ,
I do not make sense at all on reasons ,
why I do things that do not help me .

Five years to the day your heart attack began.
Thinking of you, my own chest hurt;
I imagined pain in my shoulders,
Felt the weariness of years...
Even shed some tears.

April Fools Day, 2012, long on the shelf,
Returns fresh, cuts like a blunt knife,
Tears my innards; causes me to gasp...
The phone call of your imminent demise
Returns to mind,
Drives the blade to the hasp.

Heavy days, these April Fools'
Not the tom-fool days they used to be.
These are days to shake my core,
To stomp and worry my heart sore,
And ask if I'll live through many more.

Billions and billions
Of possibilities
In a restless, uncertain world.
Your eyes meet mine
And I couldn't think
Of another pair
That could make me
As certain.


-- Eleanor

a man cannot live on bread alone
nor upon his enemies bones
the marrow of which seldom makes
a feast in which he can partake
the flesh and blood
of his fellow kin
are formed from mud
and infused with sin
planted in the soil his feet
to which Apollo waters
and the master beats
on to the slaughter
hand in hand
and eye for eye
until we can't stand
until we all die
until we all die