Paul was very tall
and now I have his skull
that’s not what this poem is about at all
Relax it’s a replica
given to me as they were cleaning out the office of a surgeon
did it really belong to someone?
Paul is that you?
He wears my glasses as I write
at times I’ll glance at him to the left of the laptop screen
pretend he’s watching
interested in what it is I am writing “Care you hear about this line?”
I’ll ask. No reply. He keeps to himself, or is simply ignoring me.
Deep cavities stare out, jealous of the mug or can,
more often than not containing caffeine, some sort of personal buzz,
the elixir for the page,
Hemingway’s tactics aren’t for everyone,
is there anyone famous for tea yet?
Paul has perfect front teeth, on the top at least,
he’s missing a couple on the bottom
along with one of his molars. What happened Paul?
Did you not brush enough?
A sweet tooth is a hard habit to break, it needs to be quenched,
much like the helpless need to fill the page day after day.
Classical music always plays during the sessions,
Paul likes piano almost as much as alliteration.
If he still had his hands I imagine
he’d have a million views by now,
just as many likes,
but still working a job outside of his passion to pay the rent,
much like everyone else. He’d come home from work everyday,
around five or so, sit at the piano, one given to him by his grandmother,
left to him in her will,
he wouldn’t get up from the leather covered bench
for hours, to him in the moment those hours feel like seconds,
from that bench he’d create masterpieces, rhapsody in every color,
the type of music people listen to while creating other forms of art,
the background to the inside of their minds.
There’s a replica of a brain inside of Paul’s skull.
It can be removed and taken apart, you can see where Paul kept his memories,
his passions, his regrets.
Being only a replica it’s clear, made of rubber, it’s all there though,
everything that made Paul Paul.
From your Hill in the Sky
You found the light
After black, white and water
Everything became right
I've never met you
But you've made me cry
Even for me
Everything will become right
Trials and falling
Do not define the man
The man is defined
By his will
You are proof
I look up to you
I follow your example
Your wisdom will be put to use
From an angel in training
To one who is at least a step further
Berderap tegap nyaring bersuara
Saat pertama ku pajang jakun menutup pundak dan dada
"Universitasku universitas Indonesia. "
"Terangkum dalam frasa 'buku pesta dan cinta'"
Sayang hanya dalam nyanyian belaka
Isi kisahku hanya buku, tanpa pesta dan cinta
Jangan kurang jangan lebih jua
Pesta dan cinta punya takar unik pas tuk dicoba
Seperti kopi kelebihan kekurangan gula
Ada takaran pas 'tuk tiap lidah yg meminta
Kisah uiku kisah pesta
Pesta merayakan kebahagiaan, kejayaan, atau mungkin lepasnya keperjakaan
Kisah uiku kisah cinta
Cinta teman sebaya, cinta maba alat pelampiasan atau cinta kakak tingkat kece mempesona
Jika kisah uimu belum ada pesta dan cinta
Maka jangan paksa diri menyeret kaki lepas dari skripsi dan tugas yang ada
Entah malang atau baik nasib akhir kisahnya
Jangan mau lulus jika belum mencoba
He looked like a mixture
Of my last ex-boyfriend
And the boy that
Passed my senior year of
The perfect balance of
One of my mistakes
One of God's mistakes.
But the book he was reading screamed
And I hadn't thought
About Dan since June
And I had hoped
To keep it that way.
But here I was opening the flood gates.
And I couldn't get a proper grasp on anything.
And my handwriting was so shaky it was almost illegible.
If the shackles of the bouldering social structures collapse then the stores are closed for winter. Sandy can wear last month’s Louis.
If the whole world allowed us in then you shouldn’t have procrastinated poisoning the fluorescence.
If you open the worn pages of time then you won’t die alone.
Not enough, huh?
Steely Dan the doctor Frankenstein.
“I cried when I wrote this song. Sue me if I play too long,”
Compost dreams so not long-gone?
If you have to kill yourself, then Paris becomes your drug.
Why would I intervene an ungrateful brat?
Don’t know if your veins will end up my perfect quill but if I have lose musical chairs to my father I will get you that spotlight goddammit.
Anxious flashbacks in the back of your Cadillac, with
The window half down to drown out the drones of
Mom’s mouth, ten years old and I’m anxious to
Fill what I lack, but now I’m dying alone in
The back of a stranger’s hatchback and I
Wonder, will God let a junkie through
The gates? Because Mom said the
Chance of a bum getting into
That place was as good as a
Camel strolling thru the
Eye of needle, or
That, I don’t
I do know that Aunt Ruth said I was a needle in a stack of hay, so
I can’t die this way, because God would never make a kid shine
Like truth just to burn out in the soft glow of the flame against
A spoon, that’s just logic. ‘Cuz God, I tried to tie a thread
To my spine and swan dive into the fabric of this Earth,
But all I got was a couches’ bruise, a pillow filled with
The feathers of a plucked bird with its tongue-tied
And words’ lynched, destined to haunt PSA’s and
Statistics, now I’m itching for a way to lay
Or place to sit to die with a sense of
Purpose, so I stretch my arms out
With my palms up like Jesus,
But the Police will see the
Lesions, a haunting
Image of celestial
Intent, But God
Will only see