I'm walking armless in the dark

nervous unrest my only companion

My heart beats inside me
like a watch
inside a crazy man's head

threatening
threatening

to explode

The truth is
I've got no more face
to face you

I've been such a ****
and when I look into your eyes
all I feel is shame

your face
with its smile
and accepting eyes
has become a mirror
of all the times I put you down.

I am not avoiding you
because of you
I am avoiding you because

of me

it's the whole cliche'
of "it's not you, it's me"

but maybe it is you

the fact that you
do not hate me
or condemn me
or even as much as recognize my shame

you're drowning me in guilt
and your open arms
are worse than the prodigal son's father's

so when I say
goodbye,
know that
it's not you
it's me
and my insecurities
and my self doubt
and maybe my depression
and maybe my fear

so I'm not gonna like you
I'm not gonna like you

even if I already do

plastic
tables and chairs
pinks
blues
yellows

leftovers lie on the table
paper plates stained with chocolate syrup
beside the foam
fossil of a milkshake

brown
fingertips and corners of lips
dinosaurs and tiaras

table napkins wipe away
giggles and smiles

wooden table
little words etched in
hearts, crosses and names
jagged lines through the middle
random doodles
curse words

stained with grease, an empty pizza box
soda bottles all over the sticky floor
a single can
of beer, empty
touching a hundred lips
curious little sips
awkward conversations,
air thick with secrets and lies
confidence and cockiness

*clean white table cloths
long-stemmed flowers
crystal wine glasses
silverware

no one quite fits into these

knees always banging
and cutlery always clanging

no one quite fits into these

apple

did you imagine red?
so did I
which is weird because the apples I eat are kind of yellow

asia

I said asia
not China

I remember the time
my history professor told my class to imagine asia
I thought of an exotic
country
with arab sheiks
and snake charmers

the Chinese
the Japanese
chopsticks
and the orient

it was then that she pointed out
"haven't Western ideas just messed with you?"

and it was then that I realized
"Wait; I'm Asian. I've lived in Asia all my life."
how come I saw it as something foreign
and strange?
I've never even seen the things I imagined.

I remember when I watched Big Bang Theory
and the four friends sat down to Thai food
Raj made the mistake of asking, "where are the chopsticks?"
which led to Dr. Sheldon Cooper saying
(in this paraphrased version:)
"they don't use chopsticks. They use spoons and forks.
The fork doesn't go into their mouth.
They use it to push food unto the spoon, which then goes into their mouth."

I sat there thinking..
well that's weird

when a couple of months later as I watched the episode again
I realized
that's how my people eat!
that's how I've always eaten..

the houses I picture in an average neighborhood
are two story
concrete structures
with shingled roofs

cul-de-sacs
and oak trees

my own house
is one story
of brick and wood
it is beside a highway
and surrounded by guava trees
and coconuts

I don't even know what a picket fence is.

My favorite music is imperfection
the little breaks
the husky
inaudible screams
the short breaths
the ahs
the un-understandable pronunciation
mispronunciations
the weird rise and fall
and awkward syllabication.

Like a cd that's got just enough for one last spin
rough
scratchy
perfection of imperfection

My favorite music is imperfection
off key harmony
and drunk, smoked-up throats
the hard breathing
the sharp little pitches
the accents
the sudden switch from singing to speech
the guitar that's just a little too loud
the drums that are a little too fast
the back up singer that forgets the lines
or the lead singer too drunk to remember what his own hands wrote
prolonged Ssssss....
off time beats
and ****** up base lines

Imperfection's my favorite music.

Another song
another poem
and all I read,
and hear
is myself.*

I borrow other people's words
because somehow they're better than mine
at expressing my inside

maybe the thing is
that no matter how alone we feel,
there's always someone out there
writing
putting down
capturing what that alone-ness feels like

love you.:)

when deep inside it's
'I'm not sure'
fake electronic love
vague posts of
'this is what I want to tell you!'
yet *you has no name.

in person a plastered smile
wearing masks of
'everything's fine'
'no of course it wasn't you'
words hidden
ambiguous
easily retractable

secret

was that post for me?
well then this one is for you

answering vagueness with vagueness
in this fake electronic love

with hearts beating
to nothing but cowardice.

I loan my heart
to anis mojgani's hands
thin and perfect
with a wideness that can hold the moon,
the earth,
a word.

their quiet rising
and falling
their cannot-be-bottled-
up fidgeting

mesmerizing.*

that I too may learn
to express
myself
no shame
no fear
no doubt.

just me.

certainly.

with conviction.

my heart's beat
will thump
thump THUNDER!

I don't care who stares
It won't shut up,
I won't let it.
let their brooms bang on the ceiling
send for the cops!
call my parents!

I don't
care
I'm gonna shout *******

I"M GONNA SHOUT!!!!

I bury my eyes
in shane koyczan's voice
feel the folds of the syllables
rolling off his tongue
in there a whole world could fall
fit
and burrow in.

I close my eyes
see nothing
but his fireworks

the tornado
the hurricane
the spewing raining lava of his words
as his sentiments color my insides
and paint the soul
of my soul*

I blink
squint
and rub away the clear cut
edges of my box
to finally
properly and openly
               
see.

I press play

he sings
I cease
speaking.

I hang my voice on julian casablancas' lips.
I am mute
as he breathes on the microphone, quiet
as he speaks
hums
and
frees his thoughts

he stops.

and for a moment
in that moment,
that pause until I play the next song
he's told my story

all of it
everything.

and I let out
a whispered

"thank you"

I. first memory of him:

in a bus
bodies were squeezed in like crayons
he, at one end
I, at the other

I remember him looking into my eyes

peering
sinking
seeing something I knew I didn't have

I felt nothing
wondered
what the hell did he see?

I looked away  
forgot.

II. the second memory of him:

curtains
covering a broken window
opening to a basketball court

thump thump thump
the ball went
alone he played

I turned my head as the wind blew
our eyes locked

looking...

       looking...

                 looking...

III. the third memory:

me
running away

IV: the fourth:
my anger
letting him slip

V. the fifth
waving at each other

smiling lips

and polite

empty

eyes.

today as i scanned
the people who liked
read
and commented
i came across a girl
who seemed to understand

i sent her a 'thank you'
simple and true

because when i thought i'd come across
a wide lonely land
she stood there beside me and then held my hand

and as i stared at the white block
with the send message
button,
i wanted to tell her

"see,
this is the boy i love"

and i knew that she'd listen

"i've never met him"
i'd add with some grace

"heck i've never seen his face
past the black and white box
beside the comments his placed"

then i'd pause for effect and wonder a bit
but there's no doubt in my mind
it's a feverish fit.

"he has a way with words"

i'd tell her some more

"when he speaks about love
it's like it makes up his core"

love 'im never met 'im
and i let out a sigh
(though she will never hear)
and i bid her g'bye.

As I snake my way past crowds
I bow my head
and hope
that no one I offend

I say sorry for every contact
every brush of a sleeve
I'm sorry
so sorry
pardon me
exhaling so many apologies
it's the air I that I breathe.

I'm sorry that I am flesh and bone
physically present to touch you
sorry for my body's contact unto yours
sorry I am here
sorry I am occupying your space
sorry for the footsteps I leave where I stand

so sorry I exist

go ahead
push
and shove

"I'm sorry"

I am in love

with the life that pours out of every slam poets' lips
the life that flips out from all my books pages
the life that pounds out of a good rock record
the life that flows in a contemporary dance folding with the music

the life you breathe into my lips
the life from the warmth of every hand
shoulder
and arm
stuck in awkward hugs
and interlocks.

I am in love with the life

lost

when the heart breaks
when the magical tree is cut down
when childhood fades
when the loved one dies
or lives
away.

I am in love with the life
stolen
by anger from hurt
by difference
       ...in names for the same God
          
                       ...in color from the same box of crayons
                
  ...in definitions from the same thesaurus
                      
                                                       ...in beliefs from misunderstandings.

I am in love with the life
we breathe
we swallow
we cry

right now.

The ****

muttered under breaths
of exasperation
is the language that you speak.

your life has become a series, unanswered
questions, curses, solitude.

you walk from dead end
to dead
end
crossing dark roads in between

as cars shine yellow eyes behind you
your shadow shrinking
swallowed by your footsteps
disappears
with the red taillights
fading into the distance

you are
lonely
yet
want to be
alone

you're angry,
angrily searching
for peace.

smoke rises from your parted lips
trembling
forming the lyrics
of that last rock record

it probably sold millions
your pain and frustration
caught in it

yet still

                                  no one understands.

You're the only one I've ever known to stare
at the face of the clock on your wrist,
carefully following the

tick.

tick.

tickin.

just so you could brag about
what every two-eyed person missed--
catching the minute hand move, in its slight little twitch
or maybe it was the hour
I fail to remember which.

Saw it with your own two eyes you said to me while
smiling
and i shook my head in disbelief,
amused at that tricky timing.

I looked at you and thought some thoughts
of how your you-ness has always been
a what you get is not what you see,

your patience forever a complexity,

and your determination, the perplexor
needs its own personal illustrator
.
You've always known where you were headed
but you also made sure that you'd take
the longest, most
                                                
                                             loopingly,

                           w
                                 i
                  n
       d
                           i
            ng-est,
                                                    weirdest path
to get and eat life's cake.

I knew I couldn't follow you
but well I gave it a try
and when you finally put your wings on
I was just happy to see you fly

happy birthday to you
happy birthday to you
happy birthday...
happy birthday...
happy birthday, to...*

Today I felt like I was born as a much saddder person
I feel sadness because I feel lost
the country I lived in all my life decided it was somewhere else
and the people I called countrymen and friends decided to go with it

nothing looks like it used to
nothing feels like it's supposed to
and even nothing has changed
to become this everything.

the sound of laughter escaping lips
needs subtitles
and the messages from my best friend's eyes need decrypting
a knowing look no longer knowing

where my parents house is
where the giant tree, with kites stuck and tire swings
is planted where I spent my years growing
my old toys lie in attic space  

I do not know what happened
I don't know what went wrong
but I just want to hear again the tune of that familiar birthday song

happy...bir....ay
ha...pybur...

now, how did all that go?

Here's my plan
I've thought of it long and hard:

First I'll collect every beautiful word on the planet
listen to every song that contains you
and photographically memorize every child's eyes
every mothers' warmth
every cool breeze
and every single scent of every single field of every newly cut blade of grass
basically, everything that captures the way your fingers feel
when they're wrapped around mine
and I'll take all these and fit them into one cardboard box which I will wrap and prettify
and morph into a poem
which I will end
with stars.

I will then give it to the mailman, who'll read it and know
that it's all about you
and he'll travel the world
searching, going into the places where I failed to go
and find you sitting
the way you do
with both feet up
on the stool
your knees bent
and your face contorted the way only your face can ever be contorted.

He will hand you the poem and you will read it
and know that I am still here,
and you will be moved
and fall in love with me again.

Then you'd begin searching for me though I already told you where I'd always be
and once you remember, you'll find me
and tell me that you've read my poem about mothers and their tender hands
and children with their bright eyes
and the grass which already says it all in itself
and also,
stars
and most importantly you'll tell me that you want me to write the rest of it
because there is so much more we can do together beyond the stars
and I will look at you as you tell me this
and try to familiarize myself with the face I've never had to familiarize myself with before
and I'll stand there watching your lips move
your chest heaving from each breath
and notice that they've changed and somehow I will seem to know that my mouth would not know how to fit into yours
and my head will have to move about a bit to find that nook on your chest it used to be glued too

and I will read that poem back
and then I'll see that just like your lips and your chest, all the words have changed
and that the person that I actually wrote it for
has already failed to exist the moment I penned
the last word

and so I end this poem
with stars.

I offer you this poem,
or an idea of what this poem could be

because all I've got is 18 years in my back pocket
and that really ain't much life yet

I'll add the beautiful things I notice
but I feel I'm becoming too old
to notice beauty,
that's child's play

am I too young or too old?
usually it's both.

I'll probably stash the things I don't want to say
in the way that can be understood directly
because I want to sound deep and mature
and also because I want you to think
like me, for a bit
to borrow my eyes
and maybe you'll find what I mean
and maybe you'll find something even better
and maybe we'll finally feel that someone out there understands.

maybe

I want this poem to scare you
into doing something about some things
you've always wanted to change
or things I've always wanted to change but have always been
too scared, too young, or too stubborn to do.

I want this poem to move you
to write one that's even better
because maybe your eyes are like glass
so clear, you forget that it's there
or foggy
or blurry

but surely
new

but I have yet to find the words

I haven't looked through enough eyes
I haven't opened enough hearts
and I haven't read enough poems like this

though I don't mind spending my life searching...

but still I offer you
the idea
the possibility of a poem like this
because I'd really much rather like to believe

that it exists
          ...out there

as opposed to the alternative which is just too sad to ponder.

you never held my hand
    I was always too shy to let you
    and you respected me too much to try

but you held my shoulder
grabbed my arm every time I was about to fall
you always let go after
afraid that saving me was too much contact already

     you never tried to kiss me
because we never got that far
but your lips with all its talking has always been enough

I never got to touch you
as much as I would've liked
but you gave me more than that

     you gave me your words
let me into your ideas
let me touch you in places no one else had
and I let you feel

my fears and my dreams

    maybe it was too brief
and maybe we were too young
for it to have been love

but as far as I know I miss the way when we walked together
how you'd always take the side of the sidewalk where the cars sped by

and in that way I always felt
you risked your life for me and I never even got to say

thank you.

I breathe in the life that surrounds me
listen to the million conversations
people utter and forget when words leave their lips.

I grab at them and keep the ones
that cage my formless sentiment

I tuck them into the folds
of my eyelids,

I close for clarity,
night comes, and the world becomes my eyelids,
escape, fly, and play in darkness
the words

but in this freedom they need to be put down
with guns
fire need and purpose,

restlessness.

my hands tremble as the words seeping
from my eyes to the lines on my fingertips
spiraling inward.

they need to be
put down or they will leave and fly away
run the course of being eaten and said
eaten
and said

mouth after mouth
chewed
spat out
and finally

lost.

never to be more than gossip and hushed murmurs
of could be
poetry

caught between the life you want to live
and the life you're already living

everything collapsing
your dreams dissolve
on the smallest of smallest of ponds
while the ocean you were meant to swim  
lies just over your fear

hiding behind someone else's shadow
because he was here first
because he is not afraid

yet your mind runs deep
your ideas just take longer to collect
that's all it is

for our greatest fear is not that we are

inadequate
but that we are
beyond
for to be great is to be different
and to be different is to be
alone

I dreamed of you
again,
a  longer dream,
(if you will)
a full feature,

I must admit however,
there wasn't much of a story,
we didn't even talk

and this time you weren't just
the one liner extra either,
you were the leading man.

It was just you
and me wanting
to talk
yet avoiding
a meeting,

It was just you and me
staring
at each other
from afar,

it was just
you and me
hiding behind our
friends, hating
yet somehow wanting their
teasing.

basically,

it was a reflection of you
and me
in reality or rather
perhaps
of you
and me

in the past

because at present
i don't even see
you
anymore.

I have used up
pages
pages
pages
to reap
only frustration,

crossed out
word
after word
after word
phrases sentences stanzas
not knowing

why?

forcing verse to rise
from the dark waters of self doubt,
time and effort coax and tease
and tempt
and tug
and pull

yet pencil lead continues
to disappear
empty
on pages
nothing

but thick hard gray scratches,
second guesses
angry strokes

Voices hum from the towering trees,
inspiration hiding in a corner
running
mocking

and I listen
to myself
saying
                 
            I can't.

And all the poems that could have been
fold like smoke
tumbling
twisting
swallowi...

She watches a drama on the television
calendar pages flying
from time’s prying fingertips
showing her,
reality is
slower,
trudging ,
dragging in its pain;
she paces quietly,
wandering down
lonely stairwells of her memory,
her feet shuffling,
slipping
on loose tiles
of broken promises.
the floor is covered in his tracks,
decaying leaves of fickleness, letters of blotted ink, thick gray scratches; 
his unsaid goodbye, lingering
heavy and stale,
the air
filled with the smell of him,
scents of his self doubt and insecurity.