I die a death no one could resurrect me from
No dust could rot my body to dust
No grave stone could ever give me no honor
Nor flowers could perfume nor grass could embellish.

I die a death of all the dying and the decaying
Of all the woes of the living;
And when they excavate my bones of words
From my sepulcher of our forgotten histories
They'll only find two things:
Your words I etched on the underside of my nails,
   and your name chafed deep on the inside of my lips--
I will wail--
The soil of the Earth will first hear it,
Then the echoes would spiral up the roots of every tree
And they too will die of my misery,
That I have been dead yet dying still
Since the day you abandoned me lonely.

My own burial I visit
Days that come after that
Over and over and over and over ---
   and over and over and over

Dead and forever dying,
My heart and its yearning
   for our love--
Dead,
   and forever dying.

He loved his grandfather
So very very much
When his grandfather died
He was so sad
So very very sad
But he didn't cry in the funeral

Years later, this boy was still sad
And he blamed himself
For not crying in the funeral
He thought he was a terrible person
"Who doesn't cry in funerals?"

No one told him that
Crying is one way to show you're sad
One way
Not the only way

I wish someone had told him that

The closet in the dim isolated room
Stores away so many of my bones
That store too many secrets for the
Weak hearted,
So each week I’m parted from demons
That are a part of too much of me.

But I can never see the difference, my two sides won’t show it.
It does so little to comfort me; what have I become?
Am I the walking dead and a watcher of the funeral of my smiles,
Whose continuous lives and illness discomfort and confuse all?
Am I fast asleep when dreams of a peaceful life take over?
Because I awake to find that I’m too stripped back and empty to find anything to give,
A signal I care, or knowing something has shifted
A tectonic plate in my brain,
Erupting the series of footsteps to the door
Of the insane, knocking furiously enough to break it.

The desperate pull of the veil over my mind
Disguises it as curtains for a show, a grand act.
I am the star of the leading role, too centred, too vain,
Perfect to match the unmatched mess I feel every day.
The genius illusion is that am I really acting?
Even I do not know.
The stage is my war zone; no man’s land,
Because I am obviously not human,
And I cannot let anyone else in.
It's bad comedy of a pathetic attempt at drama
For anyone willing to tolerate my oh so called woes.
I choke on the mixture of laughter and tears
I collect in a cracking overflowing jar and drink,
Getting intoxicated on my pity, and hazy on the self-mocking,
Gurgling manipulations of sharing the side dish
But also shoving away any takers.
I am greedy - I want it all to myself.

And to myself it shall remain.
I buy all the tickets and keep them to remind myself
How my dim isolated room shrinks with each entry,
How I refuse to give out any more keys.
Maybe the walking dead is what I am;
Surely life is not this lightless when it is lived.
At least I hope not.

strands, loose from the north wind
of my honey hair
fleetingly brush these lifeless cheeks
my death for all to bear
sink me down through east shore sands
funeral attendants are rare
all i have to show is sin and misery
for those few who care
hoping my lips would twitch to life
though they stay so fair
and blood shall never colour my face again
nor glint shall my eyes wear
eternal darkened are those glass walls
death so sweet to that pair
and i accept with nothing to object
never a kiss did i share
except with my sweet love death

You still cross my mind from time to time.
And I mostly smile.
Still so set on finding out where we went wrong and why

So I retrace our every step with an unsure pen,
trying to figure out what my head thinks,
but my head just ain't what it used to be.
And then again, what's the point anyway?

I remember you ascending all the stairs up to the balcony
to see if you could see me - hidden quietly away
And I remember the skin of your fingers,
The spot three quarters up I'd always touch when I was out of things to say.

You held my hand, but you were too afraid to speak and I could never understand.
I remember when you leaned in quick to kiss me, and I swear,
that not a single force on earth could stop the trembling of my hand.

I remember how you smiled through the smoke in a crowded little coffeehouse and laughed at all my jokes.

And I remember the way that you dressed and,
how we wasted all the best of us in alcohol and sweat.

And I remember when I knew that you'd be leaving, how I barely kept up breathing
and I bet if I had to do it all again, I'd feel the same pain.

I remember panicked circles in the terminal in tears.
How I wept to god in fits. I've hated airports ever since.
It must be true what people say, that only time can heal the pain.

every single day I feel it fade away, but -
I still remember how the distance tricked us,
and lead us helpless by the wrist into a pit to be devoured.

I still remember how we held so strong to this,
though we had never really settled on a way out.

I still remember the silence, and how we'd always find a way to turn and run to our mistakes.
I still remember how it all came back together just to fall apart again.

My dear, I hear your voice in mine.
I've been alone here, I've been afraid, my dear.
I've been at home here. You've been away for years. I've been alone.

I breathed your name into the air; I etched your name into me.
I felt my anger swelling; I swam into its sea.
I held your name inside my heart, but it got buried in my fear.

It tore the wiring of my brain; I did my best to keep it clear.
So, dear, no matter how we part, I hold you sweetly in my head.

And if I do not miss a part of you, a part of me is dead.
If I can't love you as a lover, I will love you as a friend.
And I will lay a bed before you; keep you safe until the end.

One's falliability
Is too often reconciled
In the eulogy;
When the offended
Nod,
In agreement;
Accept,
Yes,
Forgive.
Yet,
They too may wait;
Til they too
Are late.

It all happened when my grandmother died
The family held hands and grieved
It rained as the sky wept for her
Words written on paper to design the obituary
Pictures of her smile were noticed with tears
Prayers echoed and danced around the silent walls
Relatives came and go
Fire grew stronger and burn down her bones
Her wrinkles and her diseases were all gone

There lies a picture on the mantle
of my grandfather, my step-father's
father, clad in U.S. Navy fatigues
and grinning slightly, almost a
smirk. The year is 1960-something
as he enlists for Vietnam and is
shipped overseas on the USS
Corral Sea to load sidewinders
into fighter planes that ignite and
****. It happens so fast.

It happened so fast. Two months
of time reduced to blinks and
minute-long visits. This house could
be cold as Mt. Meru's peak and I
would hardly notice. The brain has
ways of placing things on autopilot.

His life has come to pass and I am
left to wonder. I am not sure I ever
truly knew the man. I heard stories,
his helicopter shot down in Vietnam,
his E&E; north of the ** Chi Minh and
how he owned a gun shop on Main
St. in the town I came to call home
before it was my home. I cannot hear
his whispering, small wind of existence
sidewinding away from me and my
youthfulness. In small time I've come
to find life is meaningful if you take time
to make it so.

The day of his funeral is beautiful,
sunny and mild and full of breeze.
The gas tank of my mother's car is
close to empty and I am worried of
worldly things, will we make it and
when can we fill up again. 21 guns
gives my heart a needed beating.