There's a smell of food

in the hallways, it's Monday --


meat wrapped sausage day.

We can never be normal again,
We can never be the same again.
Is that how things were always meant
To be in the end?

I see you in the bathroom mirror
Looking back at me with the same face
Every time I go back
To that place.

Was it ever, really, truly home?
Or the only landmark you know?
Will I ever go back to that room
And talk to you?

Did we actually mean it as a joke?
Or was that the only way we could cope?
Will   I   ever   go   back   to   that   room
                                                            ­       And     talk
                                                            ­                         to     you?

I journey towards the night
watching the light recede.
Awaiting me, an unsteady
dreamscape of losing
things and beings
and never finding them.

But, there is also the ocean,
of waves cradling me to sleep
with the lullaby of my name’s
repetition- marooning me  
from the sound of others,
the fears, anxieties to come.

Yet, my unconscious tugs me
towards the new tomorrow, forcing
my drowsy mind to count backwards
from sixty to one, until the gravity and  
heaviness retreats into the
light and life to come—

the awakening that  turns
the dark blue inside to light blue sky,
the rising eastern glow that is
the morning star affirming
to my eyelids that this dark life
was just a dream of my fretful mind.

Awaiting me, the to-do list of my morning:
the ritual of the toilet, scale, finger ******,
Psyllium powder stirred in water, catering
to my dog’s and wife’s love language of
gourmet kibble and Nescafe— an  A.M.  life
measured out in watery tablespoons of love.

The cadence of my feet lives itself out in
thirty steps and half minute treks, a sacred
pitter-patter in rhythm with my breath that
allows the traumas of the past- the dead, the
cancers, the broken houses destroyed and rebuilt-
to exist in hidden memories and bad dreams.

Reality is so unreliable. In the water of life we surf the wave of chance. Rise or fall as hunters in the snow. The isolating future is already here. But people are still people, they still need each other. The anachronistic branch of knowledge we are dedicated to - the day in, day out - is a deluded science. It is we who would be the objects of enquiry and fascination to an alien mind. Humanity is the true wonder, the true miracle.

There is nothing to gain, nothing to lose. Nothing.

As the smell of oil and tar has soaked all realms,
God gave men free will, but they knew he was bluffing.
All men got was a heart as a battlefield for themselves.

All heart’s matters are individual, and therefore can be disputed,
and are private, and them staying that way is vital.

I am walking a marathon to the wall where I will be executed
on the black path of a repeating Radiohead vinyl.

In the naphthalene on your lungs, in your teapot filled with cold water,
in your cupboard behind the cups, in the endless line to your doctor,
in the smell of your favourite flowers and the dust of your favourite venue,
there is a lit candle bleeding wax on the poems I’ve never read you.

I like simplicity,
I adore routines,
So that I can predict what happens next,
So that it’s guaranteed.
Life doesn’t work that way,
The wheels of fate,
Bound and determined to make me afraid,
And ruin my plans.
I start to panic,
And go manic,
When things change from the normal.
I wish to disappear,
And return,
When things are back to normal.
It’s a habit,
Hard to break it,
But I’m working on it,
To not panic,
And go manic,
When the routine breaks in two.
It’s a journey,
With the ending,
Nowhere in sight.
I’ll keep trying,
And defying,
The odds,
To make things right.
Routine is my friend,
And my enemy,
Bound,
For eternity.

Ponto
Sinal
Frequente
Fixo, mas constante.
Em quê?
No fluxo de pessoas,
persistente no abrigo
de pessoas.

Às vezes, perigo,
mas constante na espera
do povo.

I feel most beautiful when my hair is haphazardly thrown into a French barrette, my pajamas are loose, and my scented lotion on.

I couldn't tell how much of my usual actions tonight of quickly twisting my hair, or picking which scent to wear, were influenced by my love for me or you.

I gently pulled the frontmost curls from the barrette and clasped on a delicate necklace in my vanity mirror. I selected the small, expensive bottle from my collection to melt into my hands, wrists, and clavicles.

I would never leave the house without this evening routine, and even though we're only crossing the street, I indulge in my reflection. It's the most I've loved myself all week.

I don't look to see if the lashes are perfectly parted, if the hair is tamed, if anything. I just take in my sights and scents,

and I secretly hope you do too.

Because all you need is
Practise
To help anybody.
See
Any
Good counsellor in action and really,
It's the same
Comforting words; same
Reassuring actions to beat the same
Game.
It's the routine stand-
Up-place-
Hand-
On-face-
Or- shoulder
To push the same boulder.
Validate the emotions. Talk
Them through walk
ing away
From whatever ruined their
Day.
Put in all your love and care;
Hold their hand; stroke their hair;
Tell them it'll all be fine;
Get them not to lose their mind;
Help them leave the past behind.
It's not a bad thing--
Isn't it reassuring
To have a one-fits-all
Solution? Fall
In and out
Of love; cry about
Exam results; your ex
Found their next
Too quickly;
Unhappy
Is all you can be--
Just go to anyone fit
And perhaps you'd come out
Even a tiny bit
Happier about life
Than you were
When you first arrived.