You share with me your memories,
Of places I've never been,
Sharing experiences I've never had,
With people I'll never meet.

I am so grateful that you share them,
They put a pep in my step,
Make me tap my foot,
And make me turn inward,
To the man I wish to be.

Carry me away on gentle guitar pluckin,
And take me to your world,
To where I wouldn't have to be me,
To where I can be the man I wish to be.

fleeting feelings, fleeing when i arrive
'fraid of facing me and
my somber sobriety and violent sighs
the night stays by me all the time
when he, the sun, chooses to hide
fleeing just as i do, my footprints 'gainst the soil
squished soles in the marshlands of may
the remnants of me on mother's display
a whisper of rain befalls me, just as i fall
with my back towards the world
putting these fleeting feelings behind me
as i burn with the promise
of summer on my mind

and im sure
im so, so sure
a ghost like me
needs not to explain
my escape.

The house was filled with flames
For over 20 years it was a blaze
It stood on broken pillars and burnt floorboards
Slowly different parts started charring.

It started in the basement
With cigarettes and lost hopes
A child’s potential misplaced
A parent drowning in smoke of his own creation
And the house lost a child because he escaped
We don’t know how bad his burns are
Because he doesn’t come around to tell us.

Then it jumped to the second story
The flames only lit up one of the rooms
Where 2 children lived
One who started fighting
And one who never stood a chance
The first child who stayed close to the ground to avoid the smoke
She took quick breaths to keep her lungs clean
Who followed every rule about fire
And fought the fire silently
And the second
Who tried to follow the rules
But the house deemed it was never enough
She choked but didn’t die
And the two escaped
With the first child carrying the second out
Their burns are the deepest.

And the fourth child
The youngest child
Who never stayed long
And escaped at the youngest age
And was always escaping when the smoke got to thick
When her lungs hurt from yelling and breathing in the smoke
But would come back for the 2 children
Because she left them
She left all of them
She left the house
But when she left, her burns were tended
She stayed away from the flames because she was safe
And her burns healed, but scarred
Her scars are the lightest
And she didn’t come back until it was almost burnt down
And the flames couldn't get to her anymore
And not a single burn remained in the house
Because it was torn down.

And a different family built it with better materials
And a better foundation
And the house of ash was gone

But burns will always remain
Because the adults who left pass them down
And try to light fires in new houses
But the children who left
Will never pass down burns
And eventually the flames will stop

Roused in fanfare, these facets
are full of scantiness,
of cold-***** futility, of bitter thanks

The light turns, morphs them
now they are faces, now limbs
now rancid rag houses again

Crooked sun gurgles, spits a fraud spring
and the office men observe their machines
straight-backed like chairs, they droop
rampant on scarped brown desks,
desks with picked-nail edges, so brown
no one sees them, so solid one forgets to

The sky runs her threads again
accumulating: stagnant noon, sitting
spread-legged, with wax-paper eyes
it watches, watches the aging

Slowly, everyone leaves
the formal men, their leisurely burlap work
lights blink as if to bulwark tears, and
the foul remnants of day's charred pleasure
begin to settle on skin.
the wrists thin, some nails cave in
some lichens on stone-nose

Things that elude cuddle elastic back
into the things they elude
and, spent, the sky breaks at last the thread
to another demure death:
glitchy and green, riddled
in its own secrecies,
dry-lipped as a crone

The light turns again
and this time, it is perfect:
just past the critical angle,
where bustle-bundles of beam
flee unfettered
and leave unlit the grateful subject
reticent, stale
bold in a boastless brood

only a singular fissure
of pretend slight
to mourn aloud in the spectacle of black

My city...
I was here before it was even one,
my toys are older
than the high-rise buildings.
Yet all of my oldest dreams
have long been gone,
this is where new people
from far-away are dreaming.

People dream to visit here
even for a day,
I can't count the years
I've been trying to escape.
People travel here
to have a sip of coffee,
even the taste of water here
can tell that I am sick.

In the inner city,
while everyone takes photographs,
I try my best to walk
with my shoulders not dropped.
In the chic cafes
where others strike a pose,
I knew I never wanted more,
I had my dose.

My city,
that many people dream
of visiting and living in,
why, then there's me
who's here and feeling livid in.
My now-larger-city
that still feels like a small town,
I feel suffocated,
as if all my life I'm in a tight gown.