I am the broken binding
of a tattered book

many times opened, never
finished

edges brown
from fingers, passing

no notes on my borders
few sentences underlined

creases, plenty
mementos of 'come-back-to-read-you-later'
thin brown lines
like palms
all ready to break

Enter the space
of individuals-not-allowed.

bodies merge
knee to knee
shoulder to shoulder
face to face
thousand hands passing the silver faces
feeding the dark
fingernails of grime and engine heat.

Spewing out smoke

a moving temple,
a makeshift market,
a piece of art,

my nation's identity.

heavy faces
like rainwater
on tarpaulin ceilings

sinking into the meaningless
prose of daily life

cliched, cafe, journal writer
asking for someone
         to answer

the why.

and everyone is wearing earphones
         everyone

's an empty magazine
cover
stories
photos
colors, forms
edited,
          taken
from somewhere else

          we are no longer

ourselves.

thin, fat,
black bars
trapped
in a white box
          we willingly enter

reluctantly leave
           to feel
the joys of coming in
           
again.

There is an emptiness
inside me
consuming my peace.

we are.

abandoned shoes
in the middle of the sidewalk.

rusted metal
car casings,
ribs
where the washed clothes
dry.

painted graffiti
in a hidden place,

whispered secrets,
bottled letters
to the ocean's waves

we are the ocean

the ocean inside the seashell  
discarded pencil shavings at the nearby starbucks.

Unsteady hands
coarse, rusty locks
we are.

the staring blank spaces,
the screaming questions,
the tired voices,

they who do not speak.

we are

Distant bells start the day
the sun casts strips on blue-gray walls
cobwebs hanging lazily above
not strong enough to pull bodies
from beds
of hard wood and tiresome sleep

on the edge of this pencil, a poem
lazier
watching specs of dust
gracefully failing to fly

Early rising
needing more sand than most

water
splashing on the banks of this urban river

another tropical rain
storm

puddles of rainbows
by the auto shop

foil fossils
plastic skeletons
trash cadavers
block the concrete mouths

gaping, open, waiting.


children's hands
bowls of chocolate liquid
thrown, given, shared

gifts of laughter and disease.

mosaic of colored umbrellas
limping
open
close.

rubber slippers
flopping
running
slide.

there is no shelter
there is only rain.

The road he travels is filled
with bleeding markers
wrought with the pain of a past
life

They described him to be substantial
and ****
like unfinished books
on coffee tables and subways
pages blowing

His future promised to justify
his parents'
fears

A wanderer
silently obsessed
with the road less traveled
with reading the American continent
like Sal Paradise

But he lived with windows half unhinged
never
really
getting there...