Time, as the bookkeeper,
who is perfectly punctual
yet pays little attention to pace,
often lets sands fall quickly
in the eternal hourglass.

This patient negligence
turns material possessions to antiques
occasionally handled but not bought;
turns shrinking bodies to ash or dust
that settles beneath the infinite grains;
and turns short-lived words to quotes,
vividly and enthusiastically chattered
by our fragile grandchildren.

If a single sand could beckon to Time,
which would it beg to preserve?

If the shadows were not bound
by the sciences of light,
sometimes I wonder and fear
if it too would leave me behind,
because I do not fear
being separated in the dark
where mercy blinds the eyes.
I am instead terrified
that when the darkness lifts
and the world illuminates with clarity,
I will be standing alone.

Dust settles on stones,
Turned and burned to gain
The gems grabbed in greed.
Then steal again, held in hand,
Hot from the heat of another---
                                                                                What
Is really obtained in this pursuit
Of provisions, power, and pride,
Where “my mountain is bigger”
Beats “can we climb it together”;
One falls, the other wins.
                                                                                Did
You intend to leave a man,
Homeless and deprived,
Leaving outside a foreclosure sign
In such despicable design
To claim “what is mine”?
                                                                                You
Fought and kicked down
Enemies, spitting at the body
To establish what once envied
Now become reality through
Knuckles bruised onto faces red.
                                                                                Gain
All that you want,
Despite the taunted
That will haunt those who fell
To the ground underneath
Your powerful foot.
                                                                                In
Less stressful childhood times,
Remember sitting during lunch
With a pack of gummy bears,
Sorting out shapes and colors,
Asking, “would you like another?”
                                                                                The
Selfishness has grown greatly
Through each passing year
Planting the seeds of tomorrow...
Contemplating this newfound greed:
Is selflessness near its
                                                                                End?

In a universe of acquaintances,
My eyes happen to meet yours,
A smile forms from your frown,
As for a moment we recognize.
I watch you raise your hand
Like an alien lifting an extension,
Making a motion for friendship.
I follow your moments,
Afraid of breaking the norms
Set in place by confusing creatures,
Colliding two palms together:
Rough and brief.
Yet between the empty crevices
On our palms, wind blows through
Easily without obstacle.
So close, yet so distant,
And with that action, apparently
We are friends...
But I don't know you,
You don't know me.
We just share our obscure gestures,
Turn around, walk away,
Fulfilling a temporary satisfaction
That we are not alone.
I imagine this ritual strange
In the eyes of aliens,
Watching from a distance
Not as far as the space
Between our palms.

We all derive from the same paper
that which is forcefully folded,
patiently pressed and
carefully creased.

We all speak through the same pen
that wishes for stencils,
grimacing at unpracticed,
crooked lines.

We all take action with the same scissors,
cutting away from the whole
to create paper people
holding hands.

We all are constructed in the same accordion,
snipping away the background
that falls like snowflakes
to create identity.

We all fear severing the same sections
that conjoin one being to another,
waiting with knives in our hands,
anticipating to cut.

We all fall from the separation,
slicing the connections that bind us,
sacrificing our grip
that suspends us in safety.

We all meet at the bottom
of the same paper shredder,
lost in the screams of its blades,
obsessing ourselves to be
broken pieces of an individual,
but forgetting that we paper people
once all derived from the same paper.

Multiple beautiful faces,
immaculate complexions,
and precise, practiced grins.
It's easy to understand
why it makes me thirsty;
they invented bottled bliss,
eagerly and professionally selling:
beauty, happiness, companionship---
all for the price of $1.50 with tax
at the cost of only my dignity.
Affordability and availability,
it's no wonder it's high in demand.
The American success story:
to sell simple desires
to the lazy, naïve man,
who believes he can't
obtain them otherwise.

"May These Words"

May these words in ink
live longer than those in breath
and endure the repeated age
where hypocrisy preaches
at the public podium,
shaking hands with Dishonesty
who covers the news.

May these observations on pages
paint brighter than hesitant eyes that fade
and illustrate the wrathful ghosts
that whisper false truths
on rain-coated sidewalks,
following Rage's footsteps
who vehemently scorns at children.

May these impressions on paper
dig deeper than those in spiteful hearts
and teach the patient students
who intently and diligently listen
within the congested parade's protest,
that screams for their master's attention
in exchange for their human rights.

May these humble reminders
be retained more often than my memoir
which reads euphoric epiphanies
commonly received as the norm,
learned from anonymous sources,
shared collectively by avid readers
who seek comfort in the man-made future.

May you forget my name, but quote my legacy
more as common sense than new ideas
for a poet's crumbled, graphite-soaked papers
change less than the actions of people
who march together, who sing together,
who work together, who smile together---
the singular entity worthy of remembrance.

If your aim is
to apathetically gather
the useless trivial facts
of unfamiliar strangers,
then simply ask:

"What is your favorite color?"
"What is your favorite food?"
"What is your favorite music?"

Repeat, regurgitate, etc.

If your aim is
to understand and engage
the delicate identity
of a human being,
then diligently follow with:

"Why?"

I stay wary
of the winds and rain
which may sully my shoes.
I am not a creator of weather,
thus unavoidable, I walk forward.
Yet, the passing storm
is not responsible
for tying my laces,
that if I were to stumble,
trip and fall into agony,
it will be of my own doing.

it's an ironic pity
that in the culmination
of every second
I've wasted in
apathetic procrastination,
an ambitious child
of less opportunity
could have achieved
amazing feats.