O brother, tell us where you've been!
What is the world like beyond these trenches?

Is it safe to crawl out —
we heard the wolves were just 'were-' with a sweet tooth.
Won't you help us sniff out the lotus from the roses,
their thorns so cleverly hidden…

Sisters, we're tired of hiding in the dark,
our eyelids shut by the nurse's damp cloth;

To our champions: were you blessed in your travails?
Did you find the loving,
the caring,
the fabled Happy People that
Nashville balladeers croon about?

brave children, remember to return;
we dreamed of setting foot in a place of our own, too.
does one exist in their world ||

// NOT THEIR WORLD
NOT OURS EITHER
BUT ALL OF OUR
UNIVERSE //

Memories of an old friend's drum;
rejoice as your paths intertwine
and leave an emerald mark,
like a ferry towards safer shores
to guide you between kin's ways,
planting the roots of clarity
where you'll grow with the rhythm
of a ready wan light.

Pods routed back and forth
Inside
Cells linked to the central nervous system
Soulless

The cry of a sapling
Lush, primal sounds
But deaf to the neighbours
All distracted by a stream
A tweet

"Doors closing..."
Repeated beeps
Launching sprints
Rivalling Olympians
But not all pass the finish line

The end of the line:
School
Work
Leisure
Three modes activated
Upon the opening of pod doors

A hurry
Never stopping
Never hearing
Never open
Of hearts
Wallets

A song from yesterday
The flower withers
Pulp for pennies
The flower withers
Only so much could be done
Outside the system

They built me, standard-grade,
But with one crucial chip missing.
While other models are made
Programmed for social networking.

Laughter and jibes, except
This variant groping in the dark.
Much signs to intercept,
Machine simmers, overheats, sparks.

Every version upgrade,
Alas, still just one step behind.
Patience in every trade;
Stranger, if you could be so kind...

The nights are long but the days are longer
Only in her sleep does she exhale
The rest of the world loosening its grip

She thinks of false promises and shallow hopes
Things all too familiar by now
And swears to do better for her child

The baby on her back now a young woman too
Still her precious light and hope
"My only sunshine" in the dark

She feels her bones and flesh aching from the race
Her heart beats stronger than rising tides
An indomitable force pushing at an irrational object

And so she wakes, smiles at the sky
Fixing sunny side ups for her kin
To get by in spite of everything

is sometimes the bravest act of all

i'd like to say oh hello like mulaney
grab a pen and craft stories like ashirogi
sing from the heart like chicks from dixie
and be the top percentage like young joey

but when i look at them
i just want to be
all that i am

and drop the hat
the wisecrack
grab a chair,
listen.

Pretty pester
The fist-bumping champion
Schoolyard jester
My all-time fixation

Classroom walls shake
When you guffaw and laugh
Makes my heart ache
When every tease’s a bluff

Beneath your grin
I long to find your glow
But it’s a sin
So says your burrowed frow

My heart wishes
In another lifetime
Pranks to kisses
With your hand locked in mine

<𝚍𝚞𝚍𝚎 𝚞 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎>
...
<𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚝>

Only a few short days...
We were laughing away on Friday

You seemed happy, not flinching
Even when our friend replied with

An Emiya Shirou meme
What killed you homie?

<<𝚋𝚛𝚘 𝚞 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎>>
<𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚑>
<<𝚒’𝚖 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚕. 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢’𝚛𝚎 𝚛𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚠>>

Sunday, your seat’s empty
Our friends all at church

Like He finally heard us
Your mom, she needs our prayers

Her spot on the front pew bare
While she holds your hand at the ward

<<𝚍𝚞𝚍𝚎... 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜:>>
<<𝚒 𝚠𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚒𝚗>>
<<𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚒 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚝.........>>

<<𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚒 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚞 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚎 🖤>>

google was my babysitter
not a very good one i'll admit

perhaps more like a cool uncle
with infinitely scrolling treats

the more i tickled his algorithm {
search queries = seo && [freewheeling whims];
}

OR ||
stray thoughts seeking foster homes
just fronts for attention farms

reaping curiosity off the vine
while overclocking the study room

being held to father's chair like a vice
if only to keep me safe in a web

spun by a child's simple thoughts
and a sentient robot babysitter

A boy, sketching

         His friends, fellow neighbours, skinny dipping

This is not the first time,
      but what is indeed new are the imprints
                                  of streams, droplets;
                                        yelps, giggles;
                      the force of a tumbling body,
                                   or limbs on limbs,
    shivers and waves in his very young heart.

       He finds his nib forming strange contours,
               fingers tracing the imprints as much as his
                  eyes could picture,

          only to tear the paper, later,
             ripping out a flat, grimacing tangle of lines,
                   his friend, grotesque on canvas.

     Night beckons;
              his sketch, made anew, alive as
                     he lay within burgeoning wants
                           that he never wished
                                        before

squelched between bodies spiralling into escalators,
my trained eye couldn't help hovering a little left

right there, coming into view at the watch store,
though never caught dead anywhere near M·A·C

but neither should my stares, blatant without restraint,
fixed on a trio chattering like keys jangling

to the beat of a million other stolen glances,
only for them to slip away for some froyo.

rather than melt into a fruity confection myself,
I steel my eyes back into the spiralling masses

blocking out three gym bags marked 'WATER POLO',
my untrained heart pulses still for their suntan

and the bleachers of yesterday, the sight and sweat,
jocks jangling for position in glistening waters —

only then did I dare scream my lungs out,
safe in the crowds of a high school roar.

I.
    don’t.
        don’t cross out yourself. is
          what he’ll say if
           the stars actually aligned
         and the corridors emptied
       like magic,

         he dreamt
        of a place
          where fairies weren’t female
         or prancing like he did
        in his hard hat
       a steel wall from words
      better left unsaid


II.
     skin.
       upon skin upon skin
         upon fragrant how’s and wow’s.
    he never cared much until
      a glance, a look,
         a stare for far too long,
   slow burn in his heart
  while his cheeks
         red
  handed from a look in return.

    a wink? a glare?
      anything at all?
   the other he stares
  at the soul who dares
    not to reveal
   to unconceal
       a tender yearning
             of minds too raw
              to compute the
     facts, but also,
     the shared values.


III.
      deft.
          that’s what it’s called,
        in the dark and
         in the calm.
    vigourously,
            scrunched up in a
      kaleidoscope   of
                                   dreams,
                     lapping it
                                up
                           ­       sooner
     than he almoste̶d̶ wanted.
          blame the other he,
              his “other he”.


IV.

Time passes.
Fact or fiction,
question or conviction?
No one locks his heart away,
not his hands,
not his arms,
and not even his mind.

His mouth does all the talking,
keeping mum on what
    the heart dares to
but siding with dad
    when time takes its bow.


V.

Can I say something?
    Forget him.
            Or her and him.
As light comes
        to truth tells,
    what do I own,
          if not these takes
            on a single story
              or married multiverse

         or divorced demise?
Stars tell no lies
         At least in La La Land.
    If one could only dream
   that I had never
  deftly —


VI.
fullness,
            clearing of the breeze
          the gentle clutter of nothingness
                        done right by
                                  the slate.
        no one has
             depleted
          no cell has
                 raised its hand
if only equilibrium was truly consistent
                                  don’t we all
                                    
                               don’t it all
                                  
                         — don’t you?

I.
He used to be troubled in
                        his thoughts.
One day, he decided to
            talk about it,
                        write about it.
With each stage came
            understanding.
Now,
    he dreams only of peace.

II.
Though fear never leaves him,
    he hugs it so tightly
        like a lost boy finding
            his dad.
With every soul he touches,
    he sees not beasts but
        blossoms.
Each with their own
    fragrance and thorns.

III.
Coming from a lifetime
of detours, the
forks on the road now
ready to be mapped out.
Choosing to embrace
them all: caged
hearts of loved ones,
caring more with every
burden freed.

IV.
At the end of all ends,
he lets himself sink,
a former wanderer at
home with the earth.

which cards will you draw today?

lethargy is a fickle friend sometimes

so i wish for moonlight within the clouds

of marble floors, rolling paddies that

commerce plows swiftly, masked

soldiers marching zigzag between

        the glare of pink slips

and streams of granulated sugar

They said you have to
    be a man.
Tell me,
    did you ever feel small
    driving your motorcar
        to that bank?
                ~
We came from the clouds
    but not for you.
Still,
    we hope you saw
    your children
        fly

He takes his last breath
for the night. The music
from exhaust engines
tire themselves out. Inside,
petty advisors punch their
timesheets, setting aside
solicitations for flowcharts
and returning to their ever
shrinking dormitories.

Good. Now we can begin,
the sugarplums declare.
(or are they centrefolds?)

It begins and ends like
every other cycle, not
that consistency matters
at all. Swivel, sway and
trot, or so is often thought.
Troops of the troupe
clean up nicely without
noise, nor is assembly
required. Soon enough,
the stage is ready.

A very handsome entity
(perhaps) pirouettes. No
matter if the platform
dissolves, for the performer
had rehearsed it between
routines. Now how about
the audience? Has the lone
ticket been sold? And the
theatre, well-unlit?

Yes. The prelude—or truth
be told—distraction bows
itself out. Stagehands,
raise them curtains up!

Eyes have no interest
in foreplay. What is in
play—skydiving?
Wakeboarding? Nudes
to the beholder?
—can only be
temporary. No actor
overstays their place.
Always, an unannounced
but not unexplainable
cameo, a kindred
spirit seeking presence
in the now, only serves
a sense of urgency,
of misplaced longing.

And then,
you wake up.

I wish I could
make a bouquet
out of words
left unused

Mama always said
not to waste food
well
why not words:

the unit circle
The Boy with
// W47 “The Boy //

red lull doze loose slip rush touch
web play warm pulse stretch flow wet
jolt
        weak cold wake clam wash clear
trod tense tight hold heave help
        sprain kin strain keep
        shut gross press pore
                           wings whiff wade win

clue ask nod green
        joust laugh jump red

life from the crossroads,
meeting a blood clot
already thickened from
running sweat, a stone's
throw from a ***** four
letter word: P-A-S-T

in another stream (one
wayward than my own)
i would be he, shivering
and possibly unrepentant,
emphatically gone too
far beyond anyone's
morals.

yet in another, i live out
the dreams of the father,
or 'sins' if pure honesty
had its say. what i wouldn't
give for a beautiful wife,
obedient children, a gold
standard like this stanza's
length; prosperous--

preposterous. in my own
uncharted stream, i would
live out troye's dream. free
on the inside, eons removed
from demi's 'sober'. what
choice does one have but
to make pop stars their
patron saints? maybe
mr. a-z has the answer?

scribes and stagehands,
satirists and spirits so
wishfully kindred, i smile
in solidarity. each line a
flame of pathos, each tap
a letter in loosening of
veins, like makeshift gifts
of a medium we inhabit.

to my girl, a lady-to-be
of such unwavering faith,
love someone even when
the party's over. keep
your billie eilish close by
like a bluebird in my heart;
highwayman to highwoman.

but most of all to Him,
patient with my inevitable
candidness just as he would
if my bargain held up. if we
were in love, I might just
learn to trust myself again.

A:
I am lucky
to have friends
who at least
tolerate
my *******

B: That's nice. I just hold my peace.

part of my brain thinks you're a phony.
the rest of it knows we're just the same.
~
what if i were a pastor
comfort in the fear of an all-loving god
would i be hapless like a prospector
tailing the gold rush, seeking
sour grapes instead?

child, i do not pretend to live your pain.
though if i were to drop this cross and collar
all that they thought i was
would you let your story be heard?