The sound of drizzle on the rooftops brings back memories.
Memories of the years
that leave a few tears
beneath your eyes.

Sometimes it is astonishing
when you realize
how quickly time flies.
It takes you on a roller coaster ride
over the sharp edges of life.
Along the way you experience precious moments
that make you appreciate life.
Some moments of laughter,
some moments of tears and
some spent in melancholic thoughts.
These moments often transform into memories.
Memories of the times you spent,
the faces you saw
and the battles you fought.

When you hear the sound of raindrops
drizzling on the rooftop.
Sometimes it brings back memories.
Memories of those years
that often leave a few tears behind.

After all, what are we without these memories?
Mere mortals made of space dust and mundane miseries.
We go through life, dealing with both loss and gain.
All those transactions can't be repeated,
but the memories will always remain.

So rain, fall harder tonight
and bring back those memories.
Memories of the moments
that provide us an escape
from a life of mundane miseries.

hook a buddy up my heart
is racing
trapped in purple drops of rain
my pulse has been pacing
like a golden train

we were spacing
out for five hours
my words became your worst
your worst became my words

listen to your inner voice:
nobody is without...

It's always here,
In the loud, long nothings.
Always in the cramped quarters
With my legs woven,
All stiff and wound up like some morose marionette.
I guess that's where the words grow.

I like to imagine cars are horses
Running free, wind spirits of the open plains
Not machines.
I like to imagine I'm some great poet,
Inky pleasures flowing from mind to parchment.
Not just me.

I'm always imagining.
Especially here.
Imagining myself,
Imagining people notice me.
I don't much care how.
I imagine because it's harmless
And mine alone to taste and to have.
And I don't wish my imaginings were real.
For I cannot own experiences,
Only fantasies.

It's always here that I find myself tangled tight,
Sewn and enshrouded in words and thoughts and imaginings.
Maybe it's the dark or the late or the loud or the long
Or the routine
Or the nothing,
But it's always here that I find myself somewhere else.
Always here that I tie it all together, somehow.

Come, let's go.
We ride!
In the night.

On the hills, high.
With joy in our hearts,
Lips, draped in smiles.

Our troubles behind,
Into a future;
As bright,
As the moonlight.

My dad and I would spend sunny afternoons
riding our bicycles
through my suburban neighborhood.
We would ride down my street
until we reached the sidewalk that diverged into two paths
and neither of them were less traveled by
as we always ended up taking both.
The right path leads to the small waterfalls
just past the basketball court
where my brothers and their friends
would play pick-up games.
Riding across the tiny bridges is a moment of brief bliss
as the sounds of the water rushing reaches your ears
and drowns out everything else.
We’d maneuver to the giant lake
filled with brightly colored kois
and serene storks standing out on the rocks.
Following the curve of the water
we would end up in a private neighborhood
where the blacktop is so shiny and smooth
that your wheels glide across the entire street.
And you can go fast
since it’s silent
and no cars come barreling down the road.
Somehow, we’d end up at that beginning sidewalk
and now it’s time to go to the left.
Over here, there’s a small playground
where my dad would chase my siblings and me
and I would hide in the tube of the slide.
We could spend hours there
on our spaceship
trying to outsmart Darth Vader and the dark side.
Just past the park, we’d reach the stretches of green belts
lacing their way through the streets
and the bushes I flew into
when first learning how to ride my bicycle.
We'd take a left after the dip in the sidewalk
ending up back on our street
and deciding that it’s getting late
once the sky turns pink and orange.
We’d end up back at the cookie-cutter house
that I don’t live in anymore
but part of it is still mine.
I wonder if the kitchen is still red
and if the guest bathroom still smells like lemons.
I contemplate knocking
only to remember that there’s a new family living there
making memories in our pool
and playing in the basement.
I smile, hoping that maybe
they will ride the same sidewalks I grew up on.
I paste these memories into a poem
but there is really no need
because remembering the twists and turns
of my old neighborhood
is just like riding a bike.