You were always a 12-hour shift
Just two punches of my lips
Once in at 10PM
And once out at 10AM
An easy rhythm of making sure you were satisfied
I quit, but I forgot to clock out
And this ******* feeling never seems to fade even after I worked my last shift.

I am on my own
a Lighthouse Keeper
amidst the Night,
each fly,
in some presence:
coalition of a duty protruding
by thoughts,
delusions,
stories and
what’s exquisite
in sensations that
need guarding,
and then enjoined
with that never ending standing,
watching,
time lapping,
and all that taking place
in the ink hues with
scarlet pulsing as if hurt,
in baby blue
and lilac
by a sacrality
to me solely
constantly
held out
on
a string
to never let go
of
to
another.

pitik bulag na katahimikan
sa gitna ng kaguluhan.
maupo na muna.
magpahinga.
itikom ang nangangalay na paa
malapit na.
maglakad at ubusin
ang oras na mabagal pa rin,
hindi pwedeng matulog
walang magagawa kundi maghintay.

She rests on broken silence
Combs her blush oer the seething skirt of the red eye
Her lament topples treachery from its poisoned perch
Seared to rock by scaling hands of white fire
The servile on request
opt neath her nestled fleet
ground to dust and chaff

Light bends its mind to the hum of soul
Turns eye in on claim of self
Strips guile from oceans of red ripples
Thick and warm gainst the rich vein of repose
Reigning its sheathing blood electric oer its fawn
Curing  flesh to the heat of its heavenly body

A
cannot

become
B

one who shoots
at 2 targets
splits his eye
in half

I saw the seeds of the revolution
dawning
crowning

I heard the propositions from vermi-culture
informing the shift
working it out, sifting it out.

I surfed the micro-ripples of influence through
effectures and prefectures and
excused the old guard through heartfelt
conjectures

There was only one logical conclusion so I
quietly and patiently sat in between
with all our relations.

Under the shade of old growth discernment,
I washed through the oceans of my subconscious,
sifted through the compost for kernels, and
mined the midden for wisdom.

New kingdoms arose from that which was expressed.

The raw materials were ubiquitous.
These re-building blocks pointed to
a platform for the gifting economy.

Then one day I woke up zipping around Los Angeles,
toying with a couple of keys,
Sancho Panza and me, all windmills and wizards.

With only one logical conclusion
I took a chance, learned to dance, and
bid my pretence adieu.

Unpredictably, having lost my lance, I won the war.
Now I sit upon my throne with two mats at my door.
One says presence, one says future, and
both are welcome.

Both are welcome because it is here that I found my agency within my sovereignty
through submission.