I don't read your hand,

something that really matters --


you shouldn't want to know.

I look at the lines

of your hand and I pretend --


that I can read them.

I don't hold any memories
Nothing that tells me what I like
Or that tells me what I was like

For all I know
The only place I do know
Is this bed of white sheets
Where I wake up each day
Every day these past two weeks
And the only person I know
Is that lady in white
Greeting me every morning with a smile
If nothing else, this sight
Has found its place in my mind

She showed me someone
Someone who claims to know me
Someone who went to school with me
I do not know him though

His 'me' resembled a butterfly
Flitting between the flowers in a garden
Giving each the attention deserved
Gracefully, without any reserve.

An image that felt quite foreign
To this husk that remains at present

Another day,
She showed me someone
Someone who claims to know me
Someone who shared my blood
I do not know her though

Her 'me' seemed like a wise cat
Knowing when to pick a fight
Knowing when to restrain its bite
Knowing how far of an arm's length
To keep itself away
From being too involved or too little
In any event of concern around it

I should learn from such a cat,
But I find it hard to believe I was that.

Yet another day,
She showed me someone
Someone who claims to know me
Someone who claims to love me
And also claims to love me as I am
I do not know her though.

Her 'me' painted a picture of a vase
Holding tulips and daisies,
Broken to bits yet held together
By some substance unfamiliar.

I can't seem to comprehend
How this vase stands on end
'Love,' she says, but it's only
One of many four lettered words
That fill the same space as 'vase'

As my days went by,
Meeting people who knew 'me'
A choice needed to be made.
Which one of the 'me's is me,
And which one shall continue being me?

The shell I am doesn't remember
Holding a butterfly, a cat or a vase
The person I am now
Doesn't owe any of them a place

Yet I wonder
Would it be wrong of me
If I chose one while forsaking the rest?

It's always a little easier
To trace over the lines already drawn
By someone who knew better

Should I be giving up
A chance at a clean slate?
A chance to let myself
Be free like a bird not caged
A chance to take a shape
Any 'me' has yet to take

I wouldn't know better
After all, the only place I know
Is this bed of white
And the only person I know
Is that lady in white

Sadly not, I won't be here tomorrow,
I'll be somewhere else, someone else.
though I'm not talking about different life,
and I'm not talking about same old death.

I am talking about time that is timeless.
I am talking about placeless place.
About some kind of Hell-free Heaven,
some kind of greener grass Universe.

I'm not talking about having a choice,
or some signs of hope that'd be showing,
but about clocks like broken toys,
and maps like some nursery drawings.

I am packing my stuff - it's not easy:
been unpacking things my whole life.
Feels like turning the course of dry river,
or the blood painted hands of  time.

**** the happiness, **** the sorrow,
no more heartful and dreadful a-roving.
Blind man's shadow - my guide I will follow.
Only future me knows where I'm going.

emptiness the void
of future fill it with your
imagination

Many conspiracy theories get the connections and convolutions right. What they get wrong is the distracting end game, when the truth's so clear. Just look at the results. The rich and powerful always escape culpability, escape punishment. If the evidence proves too blatant, creating nets of legal and PR complexities keep the farce of "justice for all," while maintaining their Old World nobility.

Victorian inbreds and mobster charlatans, cutting corners and destroying civic morals, just to grab up more Earth. Soon their cheapness will became ubiquitous. They'll all end up in imploding pleasure submarines, dining on deadly raw foie gras, or barreling off a crumbling bridge in a driverless car.

Sometimes
When it’s crazy late at night
I am really afraid to lose you
Really afraid to not know anymore
One day how it feels
To sleep next to you
To be held close
As if surrounded by big wings
Between your shoulders
To hear your heartbeat
In the late night hour
Whispering
It will be ok

To bind the books
I have written in a consciousness
about all the little things
that manage a heavy weight
the things I pour into my mouth
along with the endlessness
and swish it around like mouthwash
hoping to taste the peculiar flavour of wonder
enough to forget the pain from
dunking my hands into buckets of wood chips
and fishing around for the next steps
retracting my fingers from future mess
that are now covered in the challenge
of scarring and healing