The sun glints on my mirror again,
and I wake up, make a cup of coffee,
wash myself, and eventually, I’d
wake up.

The door is locked again, and the key
is lost somewhere in the pockets of my
***** jeans in the laundry. Just a typical
Sunday morning. Today,
I am finding the center of my soul, but right
now, I’m in all the typicality of
myself.

Just typical to sit in the dining area,
arrange the set of knives on the table,
rearrange the plates, and clean
the table, erase the smudges of
the dried up spittle (or whatever
that liquid is) from last night. Look,
rise, go to the cupboard, and search
for things you don’t normally touch—
not like before—there’s the bottle of
pills, the framed pictures of your
beloveds, numbered them, dated them,
like arranged tombstones on a stifled cemetery.
Smile, gorge, bask on the images, memories
unfolding high and low; how they’d always
say you’re a sick person. Low and sick. Like the way
everything goes.

Now, look for the center of your soul,
find the sharpest knife on the set, and

prepare

dinner.

It’s a miracle again, to sleep
tonight.

Not another one of
this.

It comes to this like all the gift
bags during children’s parties:

too many surprise to abhor,
like candies that trick the teeth,
toys blasted into space, thinking
they are angels reaching the horizons,
marbles ballasted onto the ground
like the planets rolling on the cement.

Peaceful times when our biggest
problem is the darkness: how it
eats everything that we have,
afraid of the emptiness that
will be built.

Now, I found another candle to waste;
held to me is a new gift bag
filled with surprises, but this time

There’ll be no toys, no angels,
no candies. Only bandages,
syringe, an alcohol, and
a bottle of *****—

everything which defines

emptiness. (But that is not
to say I’m afraid of it.)

morning dew does not exist
nor does river-like tears crawling down my face—
they do not exist
on gray days that drizzles liquid gloom
over lively gardens
            (we hide)

The sky cries—
a million jabs to the ground
that lands with a thousand shards scattering
like fragile, brittle vase fallen to the cold concrete
            (morning dew does not exist.)

gray gloom shades whisper thoughts of melancholia
on dried eyes; we speak in visions—(dead language on the rise)

There is no difference between generous serving
of the rain to the abundance of my tears. (morning dew
does not exist.)

No sunlight peeks through gray blankets of matter—
the gloom of the clouds covered me.

The loudest crash I have ever heard was from a single drop
of water falling to the ground—(the crash of bones breaking and screaming mixed.)

(I never knew
if it was
just a piece of raindrop
or if it was already my tear
from my burning eyes—
I never learned
the difference—)

Morning dew does not exist.

He sits beside me—
10 seat a part: we are both
the extreme points of a smile: those two deep
points like craters marks on earth,

we are station to station:
            (ear to ear) yet

I see his eyes pierce through a thickened wall
of reality—thoughts flow like rivers
in them, gleaming with the golden burn
of the sunlight—he looks forward.

(his iris is a pure brown forest; I swear
I was lost in it while tracking a lost dream.)

In a distant light, I see him become
a slick canvass—coated with exploding fireworks—

a masterpiece—a painting of nature
—I haven’t seen
            (and might never, as well…)

It's been years since my skin was flood ravished
with red rust river, flowing through my body like God's tears.
I savored the taste of it all; they were my
only pills after all.

lengthwise slices dried up and connect
like constellations in space making paths I never knew existed.
(and they were patches with many hues
                                    that I love seeing every day.)

blanket of violet night  sky covered me
(like never ending net to grab and hold me.)

And tonight violent water drizzles over my limped body;
incoherent shards slides over—kissing
my tattered paper skin—once again.
                                                —Red river flows in the drain
                                                   along with everything.

this red fencing is the only remedy
            —a surgery I always *need.

By the time the sun’s rays would hit the pavement
to a shallow cemetery nearby, all of the flowers will wilt
and hide: the sunflower bed running in the meadows

of jade plastered glass are shattering like banged windshield.

(crystal ember paradise rises only after hours;
when the sheets are crumbled like love

notes hidden in the pocket and was never
given.)

Yesterday was oil. Today is rust. Tomorrow is ash.

(every day is a bullet strike though
the numb glass torso—

            bleeding insides to prove
            that God is dead
                        to prove existence lives
            on a ****** paper—a home.)

crimson locket hides under her breast
like past dusk sun, hiding in the bellows
                        of the hills.

*(we are always
                                    a                      misconception.)

Monday morning gloom expresses
its chilling breath
onto my frozen numb skin.
Monday morning shot
of hot caffeine would not melt the frozen sun
hiding in the grey horizon.
Monday morning blur
from the piercing shards
of vague reality, entering–failing–the dense cranium.

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(a new one I rebuild inside my head.)

A     g    h     a     s     t     l     y    voice whisper…

I opened my eyes and my world drops dead.
(reality’s rebuilt outside my head.)

Monday morning
stabbed me with a flickering smile
and broken stares
made of guilt and humiliation.