i wanted you to be
my home
turns out i was just
your cheap motel

the breakfast we never ate...
our bed still warm
waiting for the spoons to return

a voice  
     your little voice…

the table’s weight crashes to the ground…

none of this will return to what it  once was

your small tears can not fix this broken bowl

one song on repeat  

at least its a good one i think…

new bowls
other things to fill them...

how soon we have forgotten  
the bed that wasn’t ready to let us go

tears and laughter
we are broken

our day has just begun.

It’s morning! Finally morning on the even ebb of eve.
The tides! The marina’s tides are thick like wicker’s weave.

What sand has shifted? What news from Diego’s dawn?
From covers; the bark of seals sing like a bay yacht’s yawn.

Dinghy docks and pristine clamor; now I hear the bells!
No, not the toll it takes, but just the charm it spells.

I orient, I wake. I’m quick to smile; the sun follows suit.
Searching south; the daily buzz on right, and left: a bay that’s mute.

But the sound’s not snuffed, you see, motors have plenty to spare.
Because whether or not you knew or noticed, the navy never seems to care.

Compelled and called from my fruitful rest; muesli munched with jams.
These charts and graphs I take with me while I brew my grind of grams.

sunlight reawakens us
from our open-eyed slumber

things happened last night, i don’t know where to begin
partly because of the outrageous events that occurred
and partly since i can’t keep my thoughts straight

boy, i could go for some pancakes and tea
and a moving monologue of redemption.
actually, no pancakes, just the other stuff.

to be honest, i’m not feeling so well. dizzy, you know?
i mean, the sun is up and shining
but i just can’t shake the feeling that the night’s not over.

A breakfast on a train,
packed one as you normally find during a rain,
I had company with me of the kind that entertain,
it was an orchestra that will play again and again.

As I was preparing for my next stop,
noticed a new menace that was taking its hop,
landed on businessman’s nose at a hat’s drop,
his face was on fire as he hurt his nose with a plop.

It had whale of a time and a freehand,
not knowing where this demon would go to land,
unsure what the storm outside had planned,
storm in my teacup became the next landing target for it to stand.

With ears like a giraffe,
It gave everyone a good morning laugh,
I had to empty my water carafe,
to catch this strange yodeler flea on everyone’s behalf.

Apple or tangerine?

Apple or tangerine?

What should I eat this morning?

Is it important?

Will the wrong choice destroy my day?

Is there a way to tell the difference?

Is there a wrong choice?

Or am I wasting my precious
time casting doubts?

Or is this the path of purpose,
to see one’s choices as if they
matter in the details that make the
fibres and stitching of the grand scheme?

Have I figured it out?

Or is that my ego craving importance?

What if there’s-


Crap, I have to go.

Guess I’ll have the banana.


-
by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet

I see love.
But I think they are just married.
With their piled plates and their.
Pancakes there.
Squeezed faces and head flicks.
Head flicks away from the groom's groomed hand.
This doesn't bode well.
Despite the pancakes.
In the value hotel with their soft luggage.
Eating pancakes as they check their phones.