Offer patience to the shadows
that dissolve with veil of night
Strong outlines of your being
Dark reflections from the light

i don't ride my bike anymore
my first time was in Astoria park
praise my dad who jogged beside me
along the east river, toward the steel **** Gate
he was so proud of me. the son
who never thought he would learn
but then i flew

a Girl once tried to come between me and Bike
fat chance
Bike was a micargi jakster B-20-BK
with both front and back brakes
with both front and back pegs
all Girl ever did was kiss me bad

when it snowed that winter, i couldn't ride Bike
Bike started to rust in the basement
but praise Girl, she was still around
so i sold bike for her
but that was okay, because when i was with Girl
then i flew

My father uprooted the linoleum tile
after purchasing the house and noticing carpenter ants.
The owners of the house before had laid down
their best pine colored flooring in the kitchen
back in 1959.
My sister would toddle in and out of the doorway
playing with the grout spacers,
and reaching for sourdough in the pantry.
All while stepping her pink sandals around the dead ants.
She wanted to help my father, but was too afraid of
going near the oven.
The oven, where they found Sylvia Plath,
whose exhaust fan would snarl like an animal of the night.
It’s stovetop, stained with oil like a forgotten Jackson *******
The counter adjacent, where our mother would eventually leave
divorce papers.

It's difficult to remind yourself,
That you are not just a perception of what others make you,
But that you are more than that.

You are your laugh,
And all those times when you couldn't get up,
But found the strength within yourself to make it through.

Don't let others be the only source of reflection.

Let me put you in a spell
I want to make your life ****

Let me pull you back out
I don't like listening to you shout

Let me pull you of a funk
I don't want you packing your trunk

Let me put you in your place
I will get up in your face

Cubism an **** distortion, criticised in comparison to fine art. Look at those shameful, jagged and unpolished edges. But no, change your perspective. These deviations are the very building blocks that allow us to tower over those who once marginalised difference. Those who rejected the ‘other’, for fear of refracting their own reflections in the opposition. Inevitably they’re left face to face with the ‘****’ perceived in here.

The night is here.
But in some way,
We are not.
It's almost as if sometimes,
Just sometimes,
We begin to feel as though maybe,
We aren't viewing the same stars,
That there are an infinite number to choose from.

And though thy are in thought,
You still avoid the thoughts,
Of how small you are in this vast universe,
And that maybe you and I,
Are not seeing the same stars.
That perspective is all and everything.
That no,
That beautiful blue star you see so brightly,
Among the millions of others,
Only seems to catch my eye for a moment.
A fleeting glimpse of what would be,
Could be,
Can be,
Won't be.

Yet still dreamers dream,
Thinkers think,
And sleepers sleep.
Because all in all,
Not everything will have some deeper meaning,
Some great devotion,
Some unknown message
That is screaming itself from the rooftops and the mountains.
That maybe a poem is just that,
A string of words with seemingly poetic rhythm.

So as time continues moving,
And 4D creatures in a 3D world continue breathing,
May we all continue counting stars that are in the past,
And continue breathing the air that's been with us for centuries,
And continue writing seemingly meaningful poetry,
With strange endings.

Take me to your darkness
perhaps, I'll show you
light