I belong in these pages
Of the books on my shelf.
I try to find the answers in the words printed on the paper.
I try to prepare myself.

I belong behind the words that I write,
The stories and characters they transform into.
I search for the answers through art.

I belong at family dinners.
With my mom, my brother and dog.
Together as one.

They are my compass.
Guiding me on.

Now,
I travel across the waters alone.

I try to navigate through the fog.

My parents warnings and lessons sing as lullabies,
That play softly in the whistling wind.

They aren't my map,
They can't guide me anymore.

I have this boat around me.
But the choppy waves never stop.
They batter the hull.
As salty sea crashes over.
I take in gulps of ocean as I try

To navigate my way back to shore.

The day will start with some coffee
The best type, bitter sweet, hot,
Drinking it ‘neath the morning sun
Heading out, Fall, cool breeze blows,
Colored leafs dance. Sit in the park
On a bench, the birds flying south,
Writing the happiest verses-  poems.
A lovely girl will pass, smile,
Eyes look into eyes, love making,
'Twas but a second. Whistling
Strolling back to a small diner,
Lunch, something fierce, dessert too,
Music playing, a cool sax tune,
Jazz for the background, waitress
“Will you have anything else, sir?”
“Coffee, black, and the check. Thanks.”
One last cup before taking leave,
Sipping, thinking and with joy,
Great tasting like the earlier drink.
The sun’s going down, sky’s orange,
The loud cars honking on the street.
Back in the apartment tired,
The notepad on the bedroom desk,
Sitting on an old armchair,
Looking out towards the city,
it’s all full of life, sleep creeps
near and I slowly doze off.
And this is how I wish to die.

Search. Search. Seek. Seek.
Cold. Cold. Clear. Clear.
Sorrow. Sorrow. Pain. Pain.
Hot flashes. Sudden chills.
Stabbing pains. Slow agonies.
I can find no peace.
I drink two cups, then three bowls,
Of clear wine until I can’t
Stand up against a gust of wind.
Wild geese fly over head.
They wrench my heart.
They were our friends in the old days.
Gold chrysanthemums litter
The ground, pile up, faded, dead.
This season I could not bear
To pick them. All alone,
Motionless at my window,
I watch the gathering shadows.
Fine rain sifts through the wu-t’ung trees,
And drips, drop by drop, through the dusk.
What can I ever do now?
How can I drive off this word —
Hopelessness?

We're gonna make it one day
Gonna go far away
To a brand new start.

Going to open up wide
Let you step right inside
And take a piece of my heart.

When you tear down the walls
That my memory recalls
You tore down once before.

We're gonna make it one day
Babe it's not far away
To a brand new start.

pull yourself up
by your shoestrings
lace them
tightly
we're going out
we're going to stomp
on this town
like godzilla
shawty is
a killer
i don't need a gun
to pump you full of lead
you were already dead
before you hit the ground
the sound
of the door
clicking shut
was enough

Being lonely
He beats the gong again
The guard of kabiya.

        * kabiya: cabin in which kabi (fire to frighten noxious animals like stags and wild boars) is made in autumn.

====(==O==== )

I saw an old soldier at the nursing home today.
He was sitting in a wheelchair, slowly making his way down the hall to play bingo.
Judging by his age and the tattoos on his arms he had been in WW2.
This was not a frail man, he still had some muscle tone in his arms.
And as he gently put his hands on the wheels, he looked up at me as I walked by.
I saw in his face, the face of a soldier determined to climb that last hill into battle.

###====(==O==== )

I have smoked
the bud
that was in
the stash box

and which
you were probably
saving
for after work

Forgive me
it was dank as hell
so dank
I'm faded