I don't think I've have ever lived a more perfect October night.
                                          

I hope I'm not jinxing it.
Nothing has happened yet
I'm actually kind of bored.
All I've done is scoop cat ****
And take the trash to the curb.
I hope the wind carries the ashes off my porch.

was it your twisted time?
or was it just a figment of my mind?
I built my wall so high
it reached above the sky
you built your ego so bright
that I was even blinded in your sight

you made yourself so right,
so it seems.

i break my wall so briskly
never thought that it was all too risky.

i crashed,
I crashed,
I CRASHED.

I did not see the sign
I lost track of time
i-
I, would've thought that you were mine
but that was only a figment of my mind
a figment
of my mind

I did not pick up this pen
for you
only to repress my hand down all the way
and spill all this ink over my bleeding hands

but you,
wouldn't know it anyway
i burnt
behind you all the way.

I long to see me
As you do,
Entirely foreign and
Mundanely beautiful.
I wish to trace
The curves of my lettering,
Attempting to decode
A message I have already
Memorized.
I have already unraveled
All of my mysteries but you
Still startle at each creak
Of the floor, each squeak
Of the door.
Nevertheless,
That elsewise wonder
Is only reserved for
Strangers.

It wasn’t a river  
just a pool,
more of a hotub,
set off from the sanctuary—
and when I was eased
into  the water
I didn’t see God
in the streams above.

And I didn’t see her
lost in the thunder
of the racetrack
just beyond the church.

She was beyond
my line of sight,
soaking up congratulations
from the congregation.

The pastor gave me
a gentle pat on my back,
shook my hand, three times,
handed me a towel
and welcomed me to the flock.

I was just another sinner saved
and left to go his own way,
certain in the faith
that God will provide.

She said she would meet
me back at her place
after the potluck.

I wrang the towel
of every last drop
and  handed it
back to her.

I walked back to
my old white Civic,
turned it over
and felt the
cool Jesus breeze
of the A/C hit my face.

The voice inside
told me to do the
first thing I heard
on the radio.

I heard Ray Charles
in his blindness
croon to me:

“Hit the road Jack
and don't you come back
No more, no more, no more, no more.

Hit the road Jack
and don't you come back
No more.”

The words fall short
of their meaning
the one beyond the read

The lines weaken
and leave the reader
with a sense of boredom

The heartbeat
only in that cage
and fails to bleed
on pages

The papers
become satiated
with empty ink
lacking quality

The poet
loses him/her/them self/ves
in that limbo
between
head
and heart
running on a treadmill
trying to catch the fleeting muses

The poet dilutes
in reality
his/her/their greatest
fear
for that is
what they
try to escape
in every
poem

every ten years give or take
my house decides
it needs to be changed

at the beginning i do not notice
it starts small
the fans slow down
and the doors cannot close
but only when
the lights fail
do i truly realise it

i stare up at you, an empty lamp now
and i try to think back of the previous lamps
that i loved and have left me
and although it only feels like yesterday
when i met you
i no longer have memories of anything before you

i consider taking a photo
but you are nothing but a husk of yourself
and i think
that is not how you want to be remembered

ten years ago,
i might have taken a photo of you
but even if i did
i would not know where to find it
if i can find it

there is a new lamp
it is different
but just as beautiful
i am not used to it yet
but i know i will love it as much as i love you
because this is my house
and i love everything about it
even as it changes

the electrician tells me this lamp will last me a long time
it is better than the previous ones, you see
because the bulbs can be replaced separately
he gives me a bulb, complimentary
daylight, he tells me

i take a photo of it in its glory
i already know that ten years from now
i will have forgotten you
and i will have lost
this very photo

but why is daylight so cold?
in my memory
the sun is always gold

Simple things are the most beautiful
But to find beauty in simplicity
You must fall in love with the mundane
With ordinary life.
Falling in love with a soul is anything but simple
Yet it is the simple things that makes falling in love easier
A beautiful word, carelessly mentioned
The shape of one's heart, visible through their eyes
Your eyes
Hands and collarbones
Simple things that another may not even notice
You may never even guess
But every small mundane thing adds up
And creates

Thousands, now millions,
then billions and trillions, too much,

so we stop counting hours per dollar
and marvel at the cost of being
obligated to share the entire debt,

paying minutes where seconds are plenty,
about a dollar each…
converted on the exchange
in  second thoughts.