His guts swirl to the beat
of the marching band.

His hands are nothing
but earthquake rumbles
that he tries to control

and his veins turn into fault lines
pouring sea water onto his palms.

His name hangs on
the screen like a ticking
time bomb ready to explode
into bits—into tiny grains to spread
around the world.

Every step to the stage
is one minute closer to

another day coming to a close—
like an old book that needed
to be returned to the shelf.

Pearl crusted croissants moons
greet him for a consolation—
a congressional medal of honor
he’ll be proud of to hang on his body.

Sugar filled tears fall
like river—one tear at a time.

And finally…
            he can smile with ease…

There was no them and there was no stage;

it’s just the broken
air-conditioners’ noisy hums
that need to be fixed;

it’s just the annoying squeaking
chair that has been too old to be sat at.

It’s just an empty paper
whispering that
                                    he will die today…

His dreams still
                                                            hang on,

*but today…
                                    he is just another
                                    selfish prayer
                                    that God forgot
                                    to hear…

You always carry that golden baseball bat every day,
(and my glass chest will always be unsecured.)
And every day, you would swing that bat gracefully
into a velocity crashing against the invisible wall
of the wind—
                       —crashing against my glass chest
                          (and the shards just drop like rain drops).

All of this—
     just so you can steal my gemstone heart…

(and my mouth will flutter like a butterfly’s wings
to my everyday response:

                                         again?)

I finally knew what you taste like—a certain liquor and acid mixed.

After the last pour of ***** that I
licked along the cup,
wasted are the nights
and I still wonder how
your lips are, like if it’s
soft and numb enough.

Waiting till midnight had made me
own what’s left in that bottle as you were
now caught dead along the bar stool—
dead from all the laughter and alcohol
elicited in your throat, like
rough rocks spilled along your stomach.

Hummed the winds are songs that made you fall asleep—
overly sang by the empty stereo,
waning along the caves of our ears.

Sour notes all around us, like
overtaking cars screeching, like
faintly noise we cannot stop becoming like
turmoil in the air.

You cannot bear anymore to stand and go
outside and drive; your soul is too much
under the hum of broken lullabies,
rotting along the night as it stepped one second further.

Lifeless as you were, my eyes rove around
inviting lights, and I’m about to
pass out as well—
sleep is just one kiss away from the cup of *****.

After this night,
righteousness will step in and we’ll ask
each other, of what miracles happened that night.

When the telephone line screams
the headline of your love
tying a line of vow to someone else,
do not scream poetry lines
over the skyline;
do not write suicidal lines
that traces across your veins
and arteries that crosses your heart;
do not draw the linear bottle of *****
and spill your heart out;
go ride the train and count the miles
of parallel lines that made the tracks;
go down to the farthest station that sells
ice cream with rainbow lines,
with flavors running across the horizons,
trying to mimic the spectrum lines
of a cathedral stained glass;
draw out the silver line
of a spoon and dive across
the rainbow blitz of the ice cream;
and forget that person with each
fireworks of flavors exploding
inside your mouth;
cross out that person’s name,
like undesirable clichéd line of poetry,
let the rainbow ice cream scoop
spill over the last line;
and make that concave line
turn into a crescent moon line
that reaches ear to ear—
like train tracks reaching
both the far end stations—

Your name
is every piece
of headline
on every tabloid:

****,
car crash,
champagne,
******—

*You are the beautiful
blooming disaster
that I want to witness.

My mind is the body
of a dead raccoon
in a road ****—
the cadaver dragged by wheels
to the nearest street—
fast paced cars will spread its blood
along the pavements—
making tracks of Death
we’ll never see—
(for the land it stood upon one minute ago will eat what remains.)

We talked about you in the office
a while ago under the cold hum of the air-conditioner. Laughter spilled
like coffee on the table;
like a river of tears falling to a waterfall beneath my eyes—
yes, your name spilled along the cloth crusted walls
of the office and my tears fall along my dirt filled face;
but I know I’m laughing and just throwing sunshine
and marble smile along the table—
Of course they knew I was laughing but they wonder
if I was biting ******* my lip and mix blood and saliva
and spill… just spill…
Spill the day when the headline liquidates to a moist
in my head to cover my skull with molds and fogs I know will stay
like old rusts which no one knows how to clean.
It became a new joke that we’re trapped in and we would just laugh.
I even told them that I remember
how your lips damp wet
and the words that you would spill would just flow like rivers I know
should be down below but instead were floating
along the skyline and I’m trying
to think about rainbows for
every corner the sun’s rays would pass by is just
another crystal shard to burst out a million spectrum
I did not know exist.
I even told how you painted my world anew
when you took that flight and went off
with your everything—yes, along with the memories
we buried in that broken ceramic time capsule
in your backyard—yes, I know—I remember—I told
them. And yet, I know I should not be spilling laughter along
the table, making myself believe of one final joke—one final blow—
a punchline that God missed to hit me with.

Here I am—trying
to chew your name and the memories into tiny shards and making it
incoherent as possible—
trying to dismantle and melt
what’s left of you inside of my throat;
I want everything to spill like pop rocks in my mouth.
Because all I want to do is swallow
you whole like a candy gemstone
given to me on my fifth birthday,
but I knew my throat is so small
and I never knew it wasn’t a candy;
it was all glass and everything that splinters.
Now, I know, I shouldn’t be spilling blood along the table,
but even wounds take time to heal.