I throw away
a tube of toothpaste
to discover
it was the last one.
In bitter defeat
I fish the toothpaste out of the trash
and attempt to squeeze out,
once more,
a morsel
of toothpaste.

If I could only capture
the moon,
stars,
ocean,
mountains
with blue peaks
and the green
of summer
on a
sunny day,

I could convey
the peace,
the despair,
of every absence.

To which direction
does the
wind blow?
How many have I met
for the last time?

I will always remember you
Just like
How an old library book remembers
Coffee stains.

The many shades of blue;

the ocean,

the sky,

the mountains,

the eyes
that,
with tenderness,
haunt me like
a domestic spectre.

In disheartened passion
my heart melts
like the sunset of a
spaghetti western film.

When faced on questions
of nothingness
one must ask
if meaning had been supposed.
In light of this,
even the greatest of disgraces
can be weathered,
the greatest of heartaches
can be understood.

Must one question
the implication of nothingness?
Surely, you understand.
It is something always present
and only uncovered,
to be learned
time and time again.

If nothingness breaks your heart,
you have presumed
that it was not nothing
from the start.
It is a matter of expectation,
one which could have never been true.

It was never my fear that, upon first seeing me,
She would deem me inadequate and reject me entirely right there and then.
It was the coming thunder,
When formalities are finished and our feelings are confirmed,
Where she thinks herself content with my company,
That shook me to my foundation with anxiety.
I cannot help but think,
That even in contentment,
A seed of doubt may find fertile soil in her heart,
And sprout a sudden longing,
A quiet panging,
Which reverberates through the days that grow longer and longer in length,
With each echo leaving a more and more profound impression.
And when this panging starts to get louder,
Until it is akin to church bells in her heart,
It will rouse her from her sleep-like state of contentment,
And have her find that something feels a bit off.
At first, she will not be able to put her finger on it,
But slowly she figures it out;
My images of her set in marble turn into plastic,
Lines of poetry begin to smudge as if written in cheap ink,
Letters begin to fox with its yellowing paper feeling dated to the touch.
And she suddenly realizes in the midst of others,
That this is not enough for happiness.
And then, by chance,
She misplaces a single glance,
Only to find something new
Something beyond contentment and I.
The skies begin to darken and grey storm clouds roll in,
And the thunder strikes,

Bababadalgharaghtakamminarronnkonnbronntonnerronntuonnt­hunntrovarrhounawnskawntoohoohoordenenthurnuk
Perkodhuskurunbargg­ruauyagokgorlayorgromgremmitghundhurthrumathunaradidillifaititill­ibumullunukkunun

This, I fear above all else.

Flashes of the past,
like light flickering
from a nearby stream,
are a tacit reminder
of all that I could have been.

Once more, I rewrite
a line of poetry
from one of the great poets
as one would meticulously retrace
the outlines of an image.

The placement of each period,
the choice of a particular word,
if one of these were amiss,
it would be all for naught,
but my!
How each word, each line
supports the other,
what beauty!

Ha!

What beauty indeed!
The more I know,
the more it burns
like celluloid!
Fuelling anguish in my heart!
And oh dear!
What a jealous heart I have!
Surely, others must feel the same.
Is it so hard to discern beauty?
Can we not read?
Yet why is it so elusive to recreate something
even a fraction as eloquent?
Do we not spectate the same Earth?
Such mockery!
To recognize such and be unable to recapitulate it!
All things of significance
have already been written.
All else is imitation!
And how much more it aches to know
that I am a cheap one at that!

At least just once in my life,
could I not write just one line
equal to this?
I do not ask for much.
Just one line!
Then I could proudly brandish
whatever mediocrity I amount to,
like a brand burnt into my flesh.

She is with
another man
but she is alive!
she exists!
to have found her
makes me feel as though
all is well in the world.

I yearn only to be
understood,
each action
decipherable,
each sentiment
understandable.
I do not yearn to be loved,
just understood.

A woman and I sit alone
On a train destined for a seaside cliff.
She is dressed sharply:
a tailored business suit with a matching pencil skirt ending just below her knees,
her hair neatly tied back in a short ponytail
and a hard leather suitcase dangling from her left hand.
To her right, I sit in the seat next to her,
I have dressed accordingly as her counterpart:
a cleanly pressed tuxedo, a jet black tie lingering just above the belt line,
a pair of black leather dress shoes polished to a high shine,
with two envelopes, imprinted with our names, dangling from my right hand.
We look prim, we look stoic,
We look accepting of what is to come
as co-partners in misery.

Occasionally,
as she gazes at something distant,
she starts to tear up
and a portion of her makeup begins to smear at the corner of her eyes,
falling as small droplets of streaking black.
I try not to look
but I slowly affix my left hand on her right thigh
where her right hand comes to meet mine.
Her shoulders shudder
My heart starts to flutter,
We both feel dizzy;
Co-partners in misery.

Doesn’t it seem odd?
We could work so much in just a few years
and achieve completely nothing.
Debt is an odd thing,
to what extent was she willing,
to which extent was I willing,
not that it matters,
all we needed was a good heart in the wrong place
and a co-signed loan,
one for her,
one for me;
all for him.
Debt is an odd thing,
The living may never escape it,
But it shall never catch the dead.

With each passing train stop,
we both get a little bit antsier.
She looks more unsure of our decision,
I look more unsure of our decision,
but the train continues.
Her hands start to sweat,
my feet start to tap nervously,
she begins to bite her lower lip anxiously
I begin to heave a little harder
as the ocean comes into view.
We both tempt each other with worried eyes,
But our clasped hands act to remind
that we are just so very tired.
she may want to go back,
i may want to go back,
but the train continues.

Her eyes are wonderful,
as she stares at me,
they ask a simple question:
Is death forever?
I stare back,
Let’s find out together.

The train stops.

Our hearts drop.

Until next time, perhaps.

My mind is made up.
For the first time in my life,
I will be aggressive.
I do not care about failure,
I am resolved to deal with it,
I just hope
it will be a private defeat.
Could I bear the humiliation
of both being
refuted
and known?

A wonderful set of coincidences occur one after the other,
Allowing a once in a lifetime chance to cross paths
But no matter how much they deserve to meet
These two must never do so.
These individuals litter bus stops and late night trains,
They aggregate during the rain
And disperse as the crosswalk signals to cross,
They find solace in solitude,
And comfort in crowds,
And would most likely tell their life story to a stranger,
But find it difficult to confide in a friend.
They catch glimpses of others through windows as they pass by
And, when found, are always focused on something else,
They trip on escalators when rushing for the next train,
They chase buses but give up half way through,
They lament a lost umbrella,
But rarely mourn the lost opportunity
Whisked away by a bus just leaving the terminal,
Or captured perfectly, like a portrait, in storefront windows.
They read books in transit and rarely look up,
They stare longingly in space, often focusing on another person’s face without knowing,
They eagerly await text messages
And check emails frequently.
All of these people are waiting,
And in fact,
Are waiting together,
Collectively, for someone else.
Although the circumstances that had brought them all together
Were nothing short of extraordinary,
It is just a normal day.
A quick glance around confirms it,
And away they go,
On night trains that someone else had just missed by a minute.
In this sense,
Cruelty seems unusually fair,
And thus why they must never meet.

I can only see as far
as the ocean's horizon.
Why despair
of things beyond it?

How uncertain we are of the future!
We will only experience the present.
And so I ask,
why despair of things
beyond the horizon of the eternal now?

If it is as a storm that brews off the coast,
we are powerless to stop it.
Who has stood helplessly at the shore
without taking shelter,
when faced with a great storm?
We may only accept it.

Someone quick, please come with me
The admiral’s been shot
The bandage did not stop the blood
That’s pouring out his gut.
I’ve tried two times, to sedate him
With whisky and some ***
Yet no liquor nor a sailor’s tune
Showed any pain it numbed.
The rocking of the trashing waves
Has sent him into fits
Of pain, of tears, of screaming howls
Despite the teeth he grits

Where’s the surgeon, where’s the first mate?
We haven’t time to waste
I fear for what is to come
If too long we wait.
Is there no sailor on this ship
With a free hand to help?
Why is it just I who comes to aide
To the Admiral’s pained yelp?

And why with hate you hold your eyes
When I beseech for you?
Why point that gun at me, my friend?
A member of your crew?
Don’t tell me, friend, you fired the gun,
That your scrutiny,
That the deed which you had done
Was an act of mutiny
I do no-

Simply
saying
her name
makes me feel
as if
I am
rising steam
during a
cold morning.

The curtains in a hospice room
Are nicely pressed and clean,
There’s not a hint or trace of doom,
Nor speck of hope to gleam.

A wedding dress, she will not wear,
Instead, a patient gown,
While waiting in intensive care
For her doctor’s next round.

You will not find her sitting there,
At least not as of late,
She must have left to go somewhere;
Forever thirty-eight.

Let them be
as petals of a flower
scattered by the breeze.

Between the moment that passes
and the moment to come
I am stuck
in the immeasurable present.

I peered into a sink
and a fish
glared
blankly
at me.

such dull
lifeless eyes
struck me with
a hint of
fatalistic humour,
as if asking me
"what is for dinner?"

A fish
that chokes
on water;
A poet
who struggles
with words.

There is futility
in this relentless
carnal
thirst
that paralyzes me
like a knife
in my gut.

i revile ***
yet it is inescapable.
literature is
littered with it
as if
it's something
worth celebrating,
to be written about
over and over again
with the same words,
with the same ****** phrases
that attempt to approximate it
to something pure
pristine
something valuable,
as if it is not done
out of utter necessity
to keep
that knife
out of their gut.

the intense desire
to put a ****
into a ******
or an *******
is worthless,
yet unrelenting.
it is as bukowski has said,
a dog from hell.
it comes like the tide,
it never leaves,
whether it is satiated or not,
it's always there,
creeping,
waiting,
throbbing,
what terrible stuff.

if to truly love
one must ****
then love is not worth it,
then love itself is futile,
to give is nothing
and to reciprocate is nothing
in the face of eternity,
i am so tired of it,
let it stop.

I sometimes think of a girl who wished to die at sea
The sea, I see, which saw her drift away so lifelessly.
Not long ago we had been doomed to die a death in bed
But now the ocean waves careen above our heads instead
She stole my heart, I stole a car, and then just like that we’re gone
We escaped from the hospital, our days spent there were done.
She would not last without her meds and I was getting sick
So to the coast was where to go, and we had to get there quick.
Along the ride, she said to me, in the year two thousand five,
“Looking at all the scenery, it kind of makes you feel alive”
At the beach, we both looked on and made no qualms with death
For there are no prayers to be said if you are out of breath
She smiled at me and I at her, and then it was time to go
She swam out with a happy face, that is all I know

The courage
it takes
to muster
a few words
on her behalf
have bled me
for years,
it seems.

I had
Adored
The plum tree
In my backyard.

I often think
What if I were
A plum.

I could be at peace
And rot away
Knowing
I had just been a plum.

I killed you,
Mrs. Mosquito.
In another life,
You could have been a dog
And we would have been friends.
But in this one, where
I am still me
And you were still you,
All that was different was
You were a mosquito.

As I stare at your corpse
Which is now just
a splat of my own blood
on my left forearm,
I only think of how meaningless your death was
and maybe how mine will be as well.
You were a mosquito
And perhaps I am one too.

All of poetry deserves to be written,
but so few of it deserves to be read.

The moonlight splinters through the blinds
To show in darkness one can find
The place where one might ought to be,
Yet absent, unbelievably.
Regardless of whom she spends her nights,
The same moon which reveals he
Is the same one which had shadowed me,
Painting us in equal light;
Strangers of the lingering night.
Whether from the covers of a stuffy bed,
Or in winter cold instead,
It matters not, as you can see,
It is for him, not me or he.
And softly into the night we sink,
We three, with all the time to think
With who it is we want to be
Wasting time thus carelessly,
As he and I dream up the same,
And she thinks of a different name,
The night deepens, the moon shines forth
A missing person, a missing fourth.

And thus it ends,
Essentially,
We always look for someone else,
Across the street, behind a door,
Around the corner, on the next floor,
It matters not, I must admit,
No effort which one may submit
Can change the fact of where we are,
He and I, him and her
Separated by a comma in a poem,
Separated by a thought in someone’s head,
Clumped together in a warm cafe,
Lonely in each one’s own way.
I am certain, I am sure
He and I are equals in nothing
Except worthlessness.

My ceiling is
an off white.

I do not dare
go back to sleep.

I am awake
and in the realm
where you are real.

Not I, shall claim, to know what is now next
After the summer sun subsides and sets
Below the roads which all scatter from here,
It is not I who knows, not I indeed.
Not long ago, a woman sat atop
A bed without her clothes, counting copecks;
A cotton shawl rested upon a chair,
And her kerchief neatly folded by it.
Her blue eyes hum a gentle song that day,
They swell in agony, as another
Man leaves quietly from her room with speed.
Her heart beats pleadingly, as if to ask
Forgiveness from her God, the supposed
Holy Father, who sees all his children
In equal love and, I should add, disdain.
How her chest heaves in despair over what
Had just transpired, she sobs as if to beg
the Almighty Father to look away,
Although her God could have delivered her
From such a life, He opts to watch instead;
How merciful He is, a God of love!
Outside she knows no respite from her deeds,
Her neighbours look upon her with such scorn
And snicker as she passes by in shame.
A sinner she is baptized as, as though
It had been her own choice to live this life.
In haughtiness, they may proclaim, that God
Gave her a chance to choose the life for her
And it was she who chose to be a *****.
Yet how could she desire to live like this?
Her father was a drunk and did not work,
Her mother died when she was but a child,
And her new father’s wife is consumptive
With three children to look after herself,
Not one of them can work, not one but she!
And what shall she do as her family
Cries out to God for generosity?
Shall she go to school as her mother dies?
And if this is the path to go, from where
Will she draw funds? What money does she own?
Should she ignore a child in need of food?
If not, what job, what place, would employ her
With wage to feed a family of five?
In fact, what place shall pay her more than what
She needs if she should live a frugal life?
What choices she has been given, look at
The life she has to choose! To live forever
Upon the cost of others on the street,
As beggars dressed in rags and dirt who will
Without a doubt, perish when winter comes,
Or delve in sin, in order to provide
What seemingly that God cares not to give.
What grand a choice dear Sofya now has!
The gravity of her next decision
Shall now make a martyr of a maiden
Or make now a harlot of a hero.
And thus she sobs, as she is robbed of heart,
Of soul, of hope. Yesterday she had woke
To such the same, and more to come,
If only God, and I do beg thee God,
That she will be delivered from such strife.
For now, for her, today, it seems, that the
Next day shall bring not but the same for her.
However I claim not to know what’s next
After the summer sun subsides and sets.

Instead of
sleeping
I spend my time
waiting.
Not once has
it paid off.

I rarely get enough sleep.

In Bukowski's poem
Nirvana,
the narrator leaves
a diner
where it was
warm and
beautiful,
with an allure
that would tempt a man
to stay forever.
As he leaves to board a bus,
he notices that
no one else had
felt the magic.

When I retrace
my moments of pure
happiness,
I find them so
warm and
beautiful.
But had they
felt the magic?

There is something terrible welling from within me,
Sudden anxiety and hate!
What a concoction!
It drives me up the wall!
I am compelled to act,
And yet to act on what?
I wish to retaliate
But it is as if I'm grasping for the wind!
An invisible enemy!
No matter,
If this is punishment, I accept it wholeheartedly.

I only wish to live honestly,
No secrets! No lies!
If it is as though I am nothing
then so be it!
I am nothing!
If failure is the price for honesty,
Then I will covet failure above all else!
I do not want for a sense of happiness,
I want finality!
If you are done with me,
Then that is that!
I will be no more!
As the morning mist is to daybreak!

How can a man wake each day
And find his image in the mirror constantly disagreeable?
Surely, there is a limit,
Something must move him to action.
Even if I am regarded in disgust,
at least I can come to terms with that,
but I'd rather know than to struggle with self doubt.
I am willing to accept myself for who I am,
However there is no mirror to tell me what exactly is my worth.

You may ponder, "but oh, what does he mean?"
I am embroiled in inner conflict!
I wish only for release,
Let me be worth something or nothing,
In the long run it does not matter,
Just let me accept myself for who I am.

"One fire drives out one fire; one nail, one nail;
Rights by rights falter, strengths by strengths do fail."

I often find myself
Retracing
Footprints
In the naked snow.

For a while,
I ponder of
The person before me
And the places
They must go.

I am as snow in warmth of dawn,
I cannot linger
for too long.

Because I am such a short girl
Perhaps you cannot see
That the love I have for you is true;
You are my destiny.

You said you only like tall girls
And I look like a twig
But where my height may lack, my heart
At least stands twice as big.

Those other girls are heartbreakers,
They’d never think of you,
They paint themselves as art sculptures
And force you to think too.

They’d never think of sacrifice
They’d never think of needs
All I would do is fall for you;
This beating heart still bleeds!

So with this rope, I’ll stand up proud,
And have it break my fall,
I’ll feel like I am on a cloud,
And happy to be tall.

I am troubled,
despite the fact
I feel as though I am
perched on a cloud.

Does a flower
announce its blooming?
Likewise should I announce
each happiness
and sorrow?
I am in such conflict about this.

Part of poetry is to
exaggerate through
omission.
Here, I can only
show what I had felt,
never tell.

I wonder if I have adequately expressed,
with the few words I have wrote,
that all my poems are about
the things I have purposefully omitted?

Tonight, my heart is a torrent.
I wish to use names,
but I cannot.
I wish to state my emotions,
but I must not.
Perhaps it is because I am
not truly a poet,
but all I can do is
emphasize absence.

Few things in life
feel as divine as
forgiveness.

To be told
that I am worthy
of a new start,
feels miraculous.

For all my mistakes,
I am not without hope.

I know only
how to dream.

The worlds
I have quietly
put together
are not so different
than my life now.
But there,
everything is laced
with moonlight;
a soft glow.

I am free to indulge
every detail.
How many times
have I imagined
how the wood
of a window sill
would feel against my finger tips?

I look at my poems
and find
that they are
worth writing
but not
reading.

It is a wonderful book.
It has not changed my life,
but confirmed it.

A paper wasp
Is stuck on my bus.
She is whisked away from her nest,
Miles and miles away.
I watch her,
Pensively,
As she crawls across my hand.
She will never make the trip back,
I think,
We have gone too far.
I look at her,
And in pity,
I dab a bit of juice on my finger
For her to drink.

It will be fine if I am here
It’s just a little jump
A sudden drop with naught to fear
That ends with a soft thump.

The ***** soles of our tired feet
Are pricked by broken glass
Our skin is burned by summer heat
And obstacles we pass

Our racing hearts will catch no rest
With night just on our heels
To make it we’ll have to do our best
Despite how hard it feels

How odd it is to run so far
So we could be right here
We run on foot, they chase by car,
But now, nothing to fear.

With one more step, we’ll be happy
The fall won’t hurt us much.
Upon a cliff, and by the sea
Wrapped in a loving clutch.

Again,
I listen to Chopin,
read Byron,
in search of
a reason.

awake,
i drift about.

the touch of moonlight
imbues all
with a haziness.

everything is dream-like.
it seems as though
to grasp for something
is to reach through it.
the world truly is ethereal,
what was seconds ago
may no longer be in a few moments.
do you know of those
who walked the same steps
that i now trace?

how loosely put together it all seemed.
looking back on it now,
to have been together
at the same place
was a chance of a lifetime.

i ponder,
how many more lives should i live
to meet them all again
in that same place.

i worry, the longer i live
the more of them i shall forget.
moments pressed out of memory
like the coming morning
erasing the night.

If it had been a heart attack
There would have been a chance,
But in its stead the news I heard
Had wiped hope at first glance.

If you were family, by that
I mean if I was fair,
I would have treated you with love
And been there in despair

I would have been a son to you,
I would have heard you out,
I would have cooked and drank with you,
I should have with no doubt.

Last week I should have stopped to say
Goodbye for one last time,
Instead I said hello and left,
Regret is now all mine.

For all the times I’ve told others
That family comes first,
It’s criminal how I neglect
The one who was most hurt.

I always said that I can wait
To say what should be said
But now, tonight, a hypocrite
I am to be instead.

I am the son you never had.
I’m sad, I must confess,
I was not what you had deserved,
But you loved me no less.

Farewell, so long, my dear Uncle
The words I should have said
Are hastily scribbled in
A poem to the dead.

She usually says nothing
but we get along just fine
sometimes better than fine
sometimes words are not needed

this morning
she stared at me
with such deliberate longing.
perhaps it's incorrect to say
she stared at me,
she stared into me
asking with her bright brown eyes
how did it come to this?

i tried to return with a stare of my own,
but i know it is no use
sometimes words are not needed.

I've
got to
focus on
the happiness
that I've got

Are her words,
not mine.

How is it that I should learn from others?

Shall I observe a drunk man
stumble across the street
and say,
"This is a poor man,
whose inner-self is in such turmoil
that he must nullify it with alcohol.
Somewhere, he has chosen wrongly in life
and may I not retrace the errors
that have produced such wrong"?

Or shall I point at a beggar and say,
"This is a poor man,
whose condition is so outwardly wretched,
even God seems to cast him away in disgust.
Somewhere, he has chosen wrongly in life
and may I not retrace the errors
that have produced such wrong"?

Although, such retrospective thoughts come with some truth,
it is also accompanied with great vulgarity.
Who is unworthy of love?
Thus, who can be deprived the chance for change?
We all must fail in at least one thing,
why persecute those with courage to live through failure?

The lesson learned from such men
is not in the now.
It is in the past,
which bears realities which none can alter,
and in the future,
of which any can change.
Is there a man more
admirable,
worthy of love,
than he who overcomes his past?

Are you aware of the pasts of those around?
And yet how quickly we can judge.
How many times have we dismissed someone
on the cusp of something great?
We are all worthy of love,
who are we to spend it sparingly?

To the drunk,
I bid him good cheer and good luck,
and to the beggar,
I will buy him bread.
These men are capable of great change.