I know of the nights you were afraid of the moon.
You’ve told me how when you were a child you run from it because it was chasing you.
But you’ve grown to learn that being afraid of the moon is like being afraid of your own shadow.
I know of the nights that it still haunts you, though.
I know of the nights when you prefer to stay under a roof than to go outside and see the wide, night sky
Because you see, I know of the nights that you despised the moon for being too proud
Outshining the numerous stars that are giving all they got, even their life, just to catch our attention.
You said that one day she’ll come and get you.
That the tin roof above you would no longer be enough to hide you from her piercing eyes and one day she’ll finally come and get you.
That one day, she’ll outshine you too.

I remember that night when you told me you couldn’t answer my call because
You were too busy silencing the craters of the moon crashing in your room.
And I believed you.
I believed you for you always liked the darkness of your room. You always liked the clutter of your ***** laundry overflowing its basket, the crumpled papers of what you call “trash poetry”
mixing up with wrappers of chocolates and coffee powder and your ***** laundry and ---
You always liked to curl up in your tiny bed, not minding its untidiness
because you never had the strength to fix it this morning.
I always wanted to tell you that
I should be the one to say sorry for not being there for you.
I’m sorry that the only thing I could give you is a call.
I’m sorry I couldn’t even open your windows and tell you that the moon is already gone, and the sun is already shining bright and the world is waiting for you.
You, little son of the sun, should not stay in the dark.
I’m sorry I couldn’t get you out of the dark.
But I wish I could tell you that you were made to outshine the moon and everything else.
You were made to turn night to day.

I have too many wishes, too many words I wish I could tell you
Like how it is not your fault
It was never your fault and never going to be your fault
That we are but a speck of dust, a mere human that destiny is not something we can overpower
Well, we might move it a little if we struggle a bit harder
But some circumstances can just happen out of nowhere.
I wish I was more talkative so I could’ve silenced the whispers
I wish my voice was enough to silence the whispers
I could’ve screamed to the top of my lungs or even higher
Just to save you from falling too deep and drowning under your covers.

But we are nothing but a moon apart, never meant for each other right from the start
Yet with this time I got I hope you’d let me stay and fight
To become stronger, to become better, not only to save myself but to save you from this dark night
For you, my mighty knight, is worth saving too.
No, you are not merely worth saving but worth loving, worth keeping, worthy of everything that this night is hiding
And you deserve that.
So with this time I got I hope you’d keep me inside your heart so you will float
And I could dive under your covers to save you
Or I could climb to your roof to cover you
Keep the craters of the moon from hitting you.
And not let the moon overshadow you until you learn to put her brightness to shame.

Off the train I hit the streets
and start laughing. This is ridiculous,
incomprehensible. How can innumerable bipeds
have individual inner lives. Why are they doing
what they’re doing? I have no answer
New York City but to also go about my business
in this case prepare for surgery, survival.

But why survive with so many exact replicas
to replace me? A swarm of ants or hive of bees,
social organisms they’re called, climbing
over each other, avoiding bumping and amazingly
making way, anticipating the sudden turns
and straight paths of others, strangers but brothers,
sisters incubating, the cells of a small
*****, nodes of a single semi-conscious organism.

The concept of a higher power that cares
for me is also risible yet how else
can I explain the surgeon and his team,
robots and magnetic resonance imaging machines,
all primed and trained to save my life.
They are not particularly interested in what
I do with my time. I am immediately
in love with the Irish brogue of the head nurse,

the Indian skin of the physician’s assistant.
The long extraordinarily thin
fingers of the famous surgeon. All
mine to savor (and the other cancer patients).
Back on the streets, rush to the train.
So many women to choose from! One
in fishnet stockings stands out, tall
calm, still, graceful. No cell, no hair, no hurry.

Yesterday’s suicidal thoughts: the mind
is a clever servant, insufferable master. Therefore,
meditate on this: absolute need, dependence on the Other.
I still like Hombre, The Shootist and Ulzana’s Raid
but realize those dead heroes
were subordinate to society: the gun manufacturers who armed them.
Thus, I go for cancer tests, accepting, not predicting results.
Hero accepting help.

A torrential rain following five days of flooding,
tornadoes out west busting up wooden towns
all because too many of us are hoarding plastic, herding electrons.
None of us know how it will end, what the outcome will be
(of our surgery). The best that can be said
is Don’t forget to breathe. And you might
as well believe in that higher power.

Superhuman
Powers not able to be seen
Beyond my comprehension
How is it when I feel your fingers graze my skin
I am shocked and shiver
Or when you speak
I am enraptured to the core
Unable to lift my gaze
Or when you leave
You still are in my mind long after

Is it possible then?
Am I the damsel?
Are you to save me from hidden dangers
That lurk just out of sight?

Superhuman
You don't have to save the city
Save me instead

You delivered my last wake up call  
Pressing your mouth on mine ringing me
to pick up a call from this ****** world
With that I sensed a cold breath of air running down my throat forcing me to grasp for air

But I remember jumping
I jumped for a reason
I wanted to drown in this vast sea
To have my last taste be of salt
But you pulled me up and handed me air
The last connection to my life line

Hesitantly I grabbed the gold plated phone
Opened my eyes and saw a bright red color
The color that defined you
I answered the phone on a storm less sailboat
And took my last chance at this very sad life

I've lived the kind of pain they write about
In the tales of heroes,
                       who came and went without
Salvation or celebration; and,
      instead, became close friends of doubt.

When luck leaves your side,
And there's no one left watching . . .
               There is no martyrdom.
No heaven to fall from. No damnation.
                Just nothing.
                Nothing and no one.

But I won't let myself succumb
To the temptation
             of self-righteous certainty,
             false justifications, or
             egotistical self-mutilation -
Just to bleed on those who lay
             Below my lowly elevation.

                     Not like you.
                     I am not made like you.

No longer, will I distort my own view
To lie to the few, who stand with me in the fire.

               It's true.

               I am a worthless *******,
               and even I can hardly stand it
               when I speak about myself.
But this time . . .
It's about more than me.
And, for once, I'm going to spend well the wealth,
That I was given and didn't earn,
On those who showed me how to learn
               And to never become like you.

Yes -
I am judgmental and self-loathing.
I am selfish and I am wrong.
I am naive, and strung out and strung along.

                                But I
                                  am not made
                                             like you.

                                             I am strong.

Distant lands call me;
Crying for my return;
Like a prodigal son returning home;
Bringing the glory of a fallen kingdom;

Evil has possessed the hearts of brave men;
And hope is only a dim light in the sky;
Fathers lean over their children's ashes;
And the crows pray before their next meal;

But all this hurts me like thorns;
My home has turned into a mire of hate;
My family is already lost in memories;
And I'm alone with the demons;

My brown cape rocks in the strong wind;
My eye reflects the sight of the troubled flames;
My sword is pointed at the darkness;
Challenging her for a dance between cut and emptiness.