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Jedd Ong Feb 2015
A little boy and little girl stood
Quietly to the curb sweeping
At flowers that never really
Swept back. They gathered them gingerly
Like newborn saplings. Petals,
I may add, wilting ever
So steadily on cement floors. Blown
Off branches by wind and
Made to dance on thorny ground. They
Remind me of us. Flowers one,
All wilting on the cold hard
Earth. Fallen petals from home.
From home. Swaying each and every
One. Like little boys and
Little girls plodding hand in hand
In unison.
Jedd Ong Feb 2015
I can name you
The exact date
On which he was shot:
June 28, 1914.

Who killed him?
Gavrilo Princip,
Member of the Bosnian Nationalist
Movement: The Black
Hand.

Suddenly this montage
Of bullet chambers
And dead wars
Shift -

Hands. You. Me.
Your fingers,
Which I long to hold.

Your voice,
Which I long to hear.

Which I have forgotten -

Sometimes it is hard
To trace the annals
Of history. Our
****** pawprints

Make the trail of
Arms and hatred
Harder to keep straight
Than sin and so

We walk backwards.
****** trail of footsteps
Perhaps stepped
Into

By a meandering
Mao, or ******,
Or Tojo. Muddied further
By the presence
Of an Alger
Hiss -

Your voice
Is a whisper,

It sings to me in
Secrets - I do not
Know you but I
Am in love,

You are beautiful and
I don't know why
But there's a
War. In my heart.

A war of attrition. Subtraction
Of causes. And the Archduke,
Well the Archduke
Is glad to see you.

Hear his dates blur
Into yours -

History tests,
And love notes
Crumpled away folded
And stored
In the same junk
Folder.

I imagine his hands
To have folded
Quite slowly,
Searching for something
To latch onto.

Like mine.

Empty palms flickering
Amidst a trail of
Blood and dust -

Oh, and yeah
The history lessons
Of course.
Jedd Ong Feb 2015
heaven sent
graffitied
wormholes
to usher us
out - busts
of deified
physicists
presumed
dead, noses
chipped - like
paint on
old highway
billboards -
stacking
"Welcome!"
signs atop
Vacuum
Cleaner

advertisements.
Jedd Ong Feb 2015
fromabove
       itleaves
         youbreath-
less:
suspended

on the
             edges
           of theknown
           world aren't stars        
        cavingoutand
      in
but rather:

tree
tops;

    mountain
val - leys,
         jag-
    ged

cliffs

pegged.
eversoslightly
to the
earth

be-
   low.

    you.
Jedd Ong Feb 2015
Five AM.

Dawn is the one remnant of the 1800s left in all of us - the weather. And even that disappears quickly. The pockets of morning stuck between you and me, between this car, and that car, and Dawn's Appalachian highway slipping itself in between the SLEX and the sky take your breath away and slip past consciousnesses like faint dreams. You snap awake. ****** reminder that it's already

Five AM.

Faint strains of rooster crow and traffic whistle keeping you up despite your desire to sleep. This bus ride is meant for sleeping, rather. Your teammates lean on pillowcases shifting hues from black to gray to light pink to faint orange. You stare quietly out the ever shifting window. Somehow your eyes keep track of the streaks of light running alongside it. Somehow you're awake even if it's just

Five AM.

The sky is the one part of our cities that isn't yet covered in *******. Outlines of shantytowns and exhaust smoke belching smokestacks and piggeries and overpriced skyscrapers provide platforms for the sun's pink rays to shine upon but still it rises above it. With it. Through it. Over and around. Sunset mornings that glow with an innocent hue. Some say Apollo preferred the form of a young boy whenever he'd come down to Earth. Makes for easier running, I guess. The roads look wider at

Five AM.

The sky is the one part of our cities that isn't yet covered in *******. The time it takes for one photon of light to hit the surface of the Earth is eight minutes. Light is far. Light is distant and twisted and radiant. Light provides surface for the sky - paints the floors of heaven by which we gaze upon with bleary eyes and pray to. God walking on our ceilings. Humans knocking on our floors. Alarm clocks reminding me it's just

Five AM.

It's just

Five AM.
Jedd Ong Feb 2015
And Carl Sagan
Would have said:

See,
This here

Is us.

We are but
Flecks of dust
In this vast region
Of space and time

Or so all the astronomers
Gravely would
Have us say.

And who are we
To argue?

When God created the universe
We were an afterthought:
It is possible.

Breathed life into us
And left us
To float
And spin
And twist like tiny
Wind up toys

And see for ourselves
One day the
Irony of it all. See

Maybe past it,
Around it,
Bend over sideways
And squint
And leer
Over ourselves
And towards

The slit-narrow
Windows of
Our homes,
And look
Forward.

And trace the
Hums of colors
Hanging forth
On the edge
Of our galaxies.

And come forth
And marvel at

The magnitude of
Our inheritance.
Jedd Ong Feb 2015
Here. There is no
Sorrow. There is no
Suffering –
Here. There is no
Weeping. There is no
Crying. There is no
Mourning –
Here. There is no
Day time. There is no
Night time. There no
Them, us –
Here. There is no
You. There is no
Me -
Here. There is only
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