dissolving;
the shadows of a faint memory
are left behind by palms of a stranger,
grasping ahold of the glassy walls of my heart;
but your eyes drift away as if to tell me
i never held a moment in your eyes,
as if i was just a muse,
the briefest study
in your work in artistry;
so please
meet me back in five
if i matter

to you

there was a time when tripping on asphalt
rewarded you a kiss to the broken skin,
a bandaid & a warm hug. the air
often smelled like rain & cut grass
after lunch in the cafeteria

and i always wore
a helmet and knee pads when
i went biking with dad. i felt funny
up until the moment i’d
squeezed my brake too hard
and fallen off my bike.

a thrilling game tag in the front yard under
orange skies of august was
soon quenched by a cold sip of caprisun.
dad sat on a lawn chair
grilling only what could be hot dogs,
meat patties, and bell peppers that i told him i
never really liked eating.

indigo blue only meant one thing:
a long day in the pool
clad in our arm floaties and
goggles and diving into the blue
like we would be doing this
forever & ever.

there was a time when i’d sit
on the pavement
wearing my ballerina sneakers,
watching how kids looked like ants
as they climbed onto the playground,
throwing woodchips at one another.

eating a bucketload of candy
was easier than eating dinner.
when the shadows grew at night
i’d leave the light on for too long
but watching superheroes
over a tub of ice cream was just the cure.
we’d build pillow forts &
take naps in them.

there was a time when the colors
were clear & bright, when movies
made everything feel like magic
and mom’s face was wrinkleless
and dad could stand in the garden for hours
and my brother was busy studying
and i only knew
summer & pillow forts

it’s been a long day
so i’ll just turn in early for the night;
mint toothpaste & detergent & lotion
mix in with the smell of my blankets
as the afterlife waits for me

and i like the way my sheets
wrap & cradle my beat body
like a mummy, tender heart in a jar
basket of eyes & bowl of liver.
the afterlife waits for me.

but i do not rest easy
as i spend the minutes turning
over in my grave,
vision spinning in the darkness
unbound & chaotic

& i can’t help feel the hours
seep into my flesh & bones;
the energy that i want to lack
changes into radio static,
unbound & chaotic

& as i watch the light
out my window change
from black to blue to purple & pink
i wonder if lavender oils
will really help me fall asleep

or the maybe it’ll be the sound of tapping rain,
or maybe if i change my pillow cover
or what if i tried to reset my time
or what if i tried to close my eyes
if i really tried to fall asleep

i can’t help but think
my room is a beast in itself;
electrical hum & emerald blood;
& when everyone sleeps, i am
alive & awake & breathing

the quiet i so desperately lack in the sun
i hate so desperately in the dark
because when i sit here
the world is asleep
and i speak with the moon,
awake & alive & breathing

the words i wished
would come out
of my mouth
tumbled out like
luna moths
and died the
morning after

the roses you got me
on valentines day
at the bottom of
my wastebin
in ashes

i can trace the space
where you were
once hugging me

on a chilly saturday
evening, on a
walk i caught the
whiff of a lonely
cigarette

i can’t help to
be reminded
of you

now i gather your
sweaters in
a laundry basket
your cologne permeates
tears

so when i wash them
i am left wondering

where did your scent go?

A series of numbers in which each is the sum of the two proceeding numbers. This is different than Pascal’s triangle.
The formula is as follows: Fn = Fn-1 + Fn-2, where n >1. It is used to generate a term of the sequence by adding its previous two terms.
Solve the following examples.

1. flowers
    little people in dresses
    dancing in the ballroom
    the world is on fire;
    we bend faster
    when the wind howls
2. hurricanes
    the ocean is quite
    warm
    i let myself
    sink
    the sky rips
    apart
3. pinecones
    in the bed underneath
    a mother
    her children gather
    snow for breakfast
    breakfast in bed
4. spiral galaxies
    the naked eye
    beholds the beauty
    of hands we no longer see
    blinded;
    we are drowning in light

the drive was
one hour
& ten minutes
not including traffic
& accidents along the way

the drive
went through a giant hill,
larger than
a hundred houses
stacked on top of one another

the freeway
lined the jungle
like a strip of lace
on a trim of velvet
only it wasn’t as lacy,
just as pretty as that

& the jungle
looked beautiful
and really took
my breath away:

all the green
and all the trees
lazily looping
about the
whole thing

emerging and then
we were creeping
toward the shore
which was a straight
jagged cut
to the ocean
like where the hairline
& my mother’s forehead
meet

and we cruised
right along the water
just a little
slow at first,
because my mom
is horrible with driving
anything not an suv

and i watched
the great blue
turn to green
against the
great brown
of the rocks
and the terracotta houses

sat right on
the shore
like children
too scared to
go in but like
dipping their
toes

“they’re all
in risk of
a tsunami hazard”,
my mom said
and i simply thought
that maybe they
chose it
for that reason
because the risk
offers a reward
so let them exist

that being said
— i’ve only ever known
land
but i was on the edge
& i wanted
nothing more
than to
leap in.

doors & how they swing so far wide
like the gaping shadow
of a pair of lips waiting...

i wonder if you realized i felt the grace
of your arrow -- brushing so lovingly through
the flesh of my *****
& i couldn’t help but to smile

take it away from me, the flutter in my chest, the
residuals of your golden essence
sitting on the rim of modelos
& passenger seat of my monte carlo

when i watch the neutral tones of grainy film
seep into your oily features
i wish you would smile just a bit more

two lovers draped over this canvas
cast their passionate shadows over bedsheets,
pleasurable touches & a recipe for a sickly afterglow,
burning like the delicate backs of fireflies
bursting like a pearlescent bubble
chased by bitter aftertaste of longing

how i wish you knew
how much you made me feel
how my paints drip like honey
& form the lines that become you

when i breathe again the essence has vanished
like paint thinner on acrylic. honey replaced
with a spoonful of sugar
& i cross the street to meet you

suddenly the memory leaves no trace behind
& i can’t help but to trace the spot
where you once stood

this summer, i witnessed my first thunderstorm.
a flicker of flight or fight and a soft flutter upon the frames
on your skin, i share this moment with the sky.

drinking this can of coca-cola, i am reminded of you
only briefly, as brief as the bubbles fizzle to the
surface, and catch a glimpse of a life beyond their own

”do we ever catch a glimpse beyond what we know?”
like taking in the first smell
of freshly washed laundry. breathe it in with me.

i know it lasts as long as we know it. eating away
until it becomes a void in a carcass; i begin
missing a piece of myself in someone else.

if only you had told me what you’d been thinking,
what had been missing in yourself.
we are nowhere as close to what we miss in one another.

except when i see you again, the shadows in your eyes
are replaced by the sound of your heart, pounding with gasoline.
i watch you drift away in the sea of bodies, finger on the trigger.

yet i can’t take that away from you so my own greed
fills the place of my heart, reckoning without reason.
we held the world in our palms, infinite and true.

was it because of your fins,
much too brittle for this ocean,
became too soft for me to notice?

please;
let me tell you, dear friend,

i wish you
would have been
more selfish

those shadows under your weary eyes
that change with every passing night;
line them like dreary curtains, hiding your many plights.
your head still plays that one tune;
and your shadows are like the dark side of the moon.

never the same, as if it were night in a field of rye --
accompanied by the pearly lights of the midnight sky.
the inky blackness of your conscious hemorrhage,
drenched in freezing waters, against the depths of your memory begin to effleurage.

which at once creates a hazy fog in your great ocean,
too still and opaque to make a single motion;
and those dark, glimmering eyes open with the golden sunrise;
warm and blooming, syrupy and glaze

swirling with auburn and chocolate haze.
i can never forget, and i will never regret.
you speak, you ramble; you and your cares;
and you breathe, breathing a mist into the cold air.

you wake, from your slumber in that freezing past,
stuck behind that window pane of shattered glass.
i love both of you; you and your other half --
the reason i break out in a severe laugh.
the dark side of your moon --

the sliver of light that breaking through.
your heavy-lidded awkwardness, a
shy smile, as you grip your coffee -
this winter chill in your bones, your meek and quiet authority.

the rose blooms in your face, when you quicken your pace.
the other is teeming with vigor. he is filled with a profound rigor;
eventually he will intrude,

forced to pay for his life through servitude.
he wakes in the dead of night to do what he believes is right;
he wraps himself in white armor, becoming the knight.
with crimson on his hands and
plum bruises on his knuckles, he retreats,

and so the hectic process repeats.
his trauma heals and dawn arrives,
and the other wakes up, believing the muddled disguise.
you lose track of your sleep, the days, the time;
your pain, the month, your mind.

your insomnia grows at your windowpane,
like a flowering *** of healthy nightshade.
and your crinkled, dusty flat,
along with your wrinkled kitchen mat;
is perfect for a lazy evening chat.

and though you may undergo many changes,
i will still love you and your many phases.

vhs flickers, tv static, i blink once
and my whole world has disappeared.
i lean into the feel of your hands that call
my body “home”, but they do not feel me:
tell me what you want.

i watch the men mingle with women; touch
sandwiched between skin and the slick and
for once i cannot breathe because
it suffocates me.

what is it like?
to be given so much that you must take?

like oil on canvas, a vivid depiction of a love
we shared in my fantasy; i’m chasing after
a passionate night
still haunted by a graphite shadow.

gray winter light & umbrella for the rain;
i sit in my disappointment because this coat is
much too thin, so i begin to wish
that it is warmer for me in someone else’s arms

so much to give yet no one to share with.
it’s a tragedy, i know— i know love is born in the flesh,
yet swallowed through our bodies intertwined,
sweat & the afterglow of our parting lips
long after we’ve kissed

when i hover, heat of yours melds to mine;
skin warm, replaced by the gentle grasp of
wishing i had been— then your irises are raking
through ink of a book. breaths bated, arms
brushing because finally you do not see me

i step out into the rain bare,
breathing in satisfaction,
touched only by the purity of rain.
i can’t help but to smile as i let
the gloom kiss my skin

night bleeds indigo and gray, and
a california chill seeps deep into bone.
white hot spotlights melt through my joints
as I watch you through half-closed eyes,
ignoring the ache that creeps into
the chambers of my heart.

among strangers, only your face remains clear
while my vision dims like dying lightbulbs.
for a moment i forget my lines;
but i am not an actor.
then we share this golden-lit bus, you & i,
skin sticky with sweat & iced tea.

five steps between us feel like miles.
knees bump over gravel...
bump, bump, bump...
through cuts of moonlight and lonely cigarette trails,
i wish you'd turn my way.

and my tired eyes will wander the aisle
while the voices between us fade like old leather seats.
footsteps mark time passing
on this midnight bus ride.

shadows will dance under streetlights,
and the words i want to say catch in my throat
like dewdrops at the sound of your laugh.
spring feels distant now,
and still i'd wait for you.

brushing arms leave trails of fire,
hands running through tangled thoughts.
my body resides between Newport's shore and sea.
i remember a friend's words:

"what else can you do but admire from afar?"

days later;
missing the midnight bus ride back home.

they’re everywhere,
in the cupboards of the kitchen and
underneath the dining table,
in our voices when we speak.

the exchanges between my mother and i are always
lasers, ****** care, whatnot, money —
leaving our words on the stairs
like bricks in hopes the other might trip over them
& asserting ourselves like a flash of lighting first
before the thunder.

i drive a hard bargain with my mother
I wish I didn’t know about
because she tells me as a daughter I
must not get involved with the boys of this world
I am easily more expensive
to nourish, to dress, to please —

that it is all because
”we are silent but angry women in my household”;
and this is true, i know
my sister likes to leave a disaster using her door
when she slams it shut to let everyone know yes,
she’ll do the dishes but maybe not tonight.

my mother likes to poke fun like needles —
her teasing turned daggers when she half complains,
half laughs at the sorry state of our stormy household
until I breakout into pimples. then she bursts into a gust,
disappearing until she can prowl again.

and then my father, who does not speak to me but
so passionate with the wilderness of his youth
left behind under the monsoons back home, his feet stomp
on carpeted stairs when he is full of my mother’s words,
ready to charge like a water buffalo in the rice fields spooked by a snake
and I can’t help but wonder how our home is still drifting,
barely intact on this boundless sea
and i can no longer see the horizon ahead of us

because i, on the other hand so full yet so empty about myself
all the time, keep to myself like a stray cloud -
so I carry his fire, first candle of his flame, like all the ones before me.
see that my heart is laden with a churning thunder, though I have no right to be;
perhaps it is the love offered in our unloving words
that are exchanged like gifts at our family gatherings, building

quiet storms.
they are everything that i am
that i will do,
that i will become.

there’s a clear distinction between getting what you want
and wanting more than what you can get, she says,
kneeling in front of a piping hot kettle and a small bowl
accompanied by a humorously small bamboo whisk.

Bug-Eye looks at me. the meaning of a sentence is lost in the hexes of her wings, her spindly thin abdomen, the way her fragile limbs twitch.

she tries to smile. she doesn’t. i turn to the murky pool in front of me, losing myself in the way the petals relax on such a delicate surface. the air is thick with heat. i collect more than enough sweat upon my forehead.

you need not ask for more than what you have. nor ask for less than what you deserve.
but why? my reply lingered between us like an afterthought.
why ask when you could have more? the clink of china, the unsteady stirring irritates me with her ungraceful, jerking movements. Bug-Eye relaxes. silence. the grove is clear.

she turns the cup in her hands, once, twice, thrice; her spindly fingers tracing the grooves of a world not yet explored. her eyes watch me closely. all five hundred of them. i turn away
to watch how the koi fish do not swim through the water, but
become stagnant in a place the water feels best.
we kneel on the grass, sipping the green tea as quietly as one can. that is all i am left with.

perhaps this is the reason why i do not ask for more;
nor deserve any less, because
we simply are given with all that we need.

it is said that
“when once you have tasted flight,
you will forever walk the earth with your eyes turned skyward,
for there you have been, and there you will always long to return”
& i have never felt the same way.

the sky: broad & open as it is,
her great blue beauty
will never have the same grit &
smell that dirt gifts me.

i’d rather kneel on the pavement beneath me
than suffer the misery of clipping my wings.
because i’d rather seep into the soil
than have the stratosphere melt away my freedom.
i would have the earth eat my bones
than dissolve as a fleeting cloud

if i ever die,

please turn me into a blade of grass,
amongst mud & rubble,
perhaps in a cemetery
or a meadow.
maybe i’d become a sapling
growing in a park
or a rock, unearthed.

i’d be more at home with that;
tethered to this world
rather than a fleeting moment in the sky
in the air,
in the wind.

this world is mud-luscious &
puddle-wonderful
so the sky cannot be the only
limit

valentine is a martyr. or is it ‘was’--
because he fell in love with the jailer’s daughter
imprisoned for caring about the marriages
of his soldiers...

the present, feb 14, valentine's day
    
where the couples celebrate
and kiss one another with glee, lipstick and wine
staining skin, like roses,
rotting in the pretty glass vases of this house that
have become the symbol of the addiction to
a lovely shade of lust

and where do the single people go for sanctuary,
to hide away from the flocks of married men and women
& teenager couples
with their fingers interlaced,
the celebration coursing through their veins;
    
love really is a losing game
full of gambles
    
i think i finally
feel like valentine
    
forever &
loving