the good old nights^

roam the recesses and the abscess of
our too small apartment in the the very
large, very long, very inescapable wee wee
hours of the dark session of the day, lifting
my tablet to inscribe/ reorder/ recorder her/
this one more in my personal history, with
rant, word elixir, a note to our plural selves,
thinking of English gardens drinking up my
water freshly flowing and flying to you, via
nighty nite storm clouds, or your rural falls

and white clouds cumulus do  not return, and I too,
as my mind ***** and slugs but all attempts to
pierce the walled in somber slumber FAIL.

The creative comes besty beast like when I am driven from my dreams to wakealate (dream+speculate with eyes open)
dream of our realities and the tv (she never
remembers to program to shut down), drones
on about some product with XL in the name
that will make the unsleeping walkers feel
so much-better.

but not, not us, for we turn exploratory and
listen to the humming, beeping, tiny little diodes
of Joseph’s colored coat, all the mini stimuli,
the lights that mark the modern blacker hours
of rhythm, even those who can’t dance, can sleep,
‘cept for me, for I am a tune disturbed, needful of
minding, all these a rhythm busters ghosting me,
as a prelude to a poem vision now freshly etched
on my mind and now upon your flesh, an animation,
of reanimated images of ancient statues, ancient
advertisements for fertility, the dream continuum
of our lives, beyond our clearly demarcated time
line, the human, gene based need to outlive our
bodies in-the bodies of our progeny are a recurring
motif…female fecundity,  statues, many cracked or
missing limbs, come to life and move around, wailing
with grief and anger and hope and desire

alas, alas, another ole good time night ramble,
amidst familiar places and new abscesses,
and I wonder, how am I writing this when both
hands cover my face, and yet I still envision?

Tuesday Apr 16
3:08am
(the year escapes me,
for notions of big times
are measured in multiples
of I can’t remember)

You were full of thoughts deep inside you that was kept for a long time,
And I was constantly amazed the way  your feelings was confessed
Something that's inside your heart makes the people got impressed
But I wasn't so sure, and I think that a one false move would constitute a crime

I hate you, the way I hate other people
And that bothers me, for I should be the person who doesn't care at all
I do. In a short span of time I did stop caring
But most of the time I never think about mine

You will never be the first person who did something for me, either good or bad
But you're the only person who told me something that I forgot but can still feel it,  and its makin' me mad

This should be sweet, a message that could make your heart beat
But I don't know how to compose something
It's full of confusion, I only write because of grief
Still, I wanna write for you, for someone special that I should treat

In a mirror, we always look older
and we believe that it lies.
We blame it for every wrinkle:
Okay then, you lie, but why?!

How rude of mirror to do so,
like literally in the face!?
We give it so much attention
and what in return? Disgrace!

Or perhaps we do look older
indeed, and it doesn't lie.
Perhaps we lie to ourselves
and maybe we know well why.

i have never loved anybody the way i loved you
i’m afraid that i never will
i know not all love is the same
but must you be the one i never forget
must you be the one i compare to all the rest
maybe it’s not you
yeah, you weren’t perfect
perhaps you were just the first time
i put my all into somebody

At fifteen, the reaper came, silent in the night,
Stealing me from youth's warm, calming delight.
****** into a world where heartbreak resides,
Where innocence withers and hope slowly dies.

No more laughter, just echoes of pain,
Sorrow's lament, a relentless refrain.
Gone are the dreams that once danced in our sight,
Replaced by storm clouds, obscuring the light.

Now, I linger by your grave,
With flowers wilted, their colors all grey.
I mourn the loss of innocence, the childhood's decay,
In the quiet, I kneel, with so much left to say.

Grief marks the end of youth, a bitter pill to swallow,
and builds a home for loneliness to wallow.

I want nothing more than to be left alone.

yet there's this child
Clinging to every
Step I take,
Reminding me of
All the spears
Our mother
Chucked at our eyelids.

I want nothing more than to be left alone.

yet there's a little rebel
Churning the bile
Inside my guts,
Screaming at me
About all the sharp edges
Of the road we walk on.

I want nothing more than to be left alone.

yet there's all this responsibility
Weighing me down,
And dragging me
Towards the edges
Of this broken glass path.

I want nothing more than to be left alone.

yet theres an old man
Whispering from the haze.
He tells me to turn back
From this destiny we share.

All that he wants is nothing more than for me to leave him alone.

If it were mine-
I think of the past, time
Unpauses, and I'm brought back.
I'd never have;
Factors weigh too heavily, those
Strings that keep me attached.
Choose to come back.
Waters fall, the stream cascades
Flowing into itself
Over & over again