against the wall, the firing squad ready.
then he got a reprieve.
suppose they had shot Dostoevsky?
before he wrote all that?
I suppose it wouldn't have
mattered
not directly.
there are billions of people who have
never read him and never
will.
but as a young man I know that he
got me through the factories,
past the ******,
lifted me high through the night
and put me down
in a better
place.
even while in the bar
drinking with the other
derelicts,
I was glad they gave Dostoevsky a
reprieve,
it gave me one,
allowed me to look directly at those
rancid faces
in my world,
death pointing its finger,
I held fast,
an immaculate drunk
sharing the stinking dark with
my
brothers.

You were supposed to be a stranger.
We were...
Strangers with a shared kiss.

My brain was washed with alcohol,
With the snippets of memories left.
I forgot your  name...
and how we met.

That one fateful night...
You were supposed to stay a stranger
Instead you traced my steps.

Alas! The world is too small for us.
Who would have thought that
you would find me?
You even got my name wrong.

Your description was spot on.
The friend of your friend knew me.
You should have just left it as it is...
A beautiful memory by the beach -
with a stranger.

Color of lemon, mango, peach,
These storybook villas
Still dream behind
Shutters, thier balconies
Fine as hand-
Made lace, or a leaf-and-flower pen-sketch.

Tilting with the winds,
On arrowy stems,
Pineapple-barked,
A green crescent of palms
Sends up its forked
Firework of fronds.

A quartz-clear dawn
Inch by bright inch
Gilds all our Avenue,
And out of the blue drench
Of Angels' Bay
Rises the round red watermelon sun.

My heart is a vacuum.
A void I refuse to fill in...
It's vacancy seems to be a lost cause.

Robbed by circumstances of the past.
Now,
I can't be touched...
I can't be moved...
I am detached...

Devoid of deep attachments...
I **** in emotions to nothingness.
It's inevitable I'll bring you to my emptiness...

Forgive me for my heart is but a black hole.

Shall I brag of my pain, --
for they made me feel?
Shall I boast of my sorrow --
when I discovered joy in the midst of mourning?
Shall I brag of my suffering --
when I have learned to fight?

Shall I take pride of my regrets --
now that I understood better?
Shall I boast of my injuries --
as I've learned to push, get up, and move
                                                        ­  even with a limp?
Shall I take pride in the times I quit --
because I realized to choose my battles wisely?

Take in my pain, my sorrow, my suffering
Death is not the end of me
It is the beginning of my journey to a homecoming
Where my Home is
Pain is no more

If freckles were lovely, and day was night,
And measles were nice and a lie warn’t a lie,
Life would be delight,—
But things couldn’t go right
For in such a sad plight
I wouldn’t be I.

If earth was heaven and now was hence,
And past was present, and false was true,
There might be some sense
But I’d be in suspense
For on such a pretense
You wouldn’t be you.

If fear was plucky, and globes were square,
And dirt was cleanly and tears were glee
Things would seem fair,—
Yet they’d all despair,
For if here was there
We wouldn’t be we.