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Our atmosphere is a bubble - like the fizz you find in Champagne.
Have you ever been to a dentist, and done it without any pain?
Have you ever enjoyed wireless or traveled the sky in a plane?
Then you’ve experienced science - the modern world's quoin.
Climate change has been proven - the result of our human reign.

Have you noticed the west coast's on fire - and seen the gulf hurricanes?
We're in the hottest decade ever and only half the country gets rain.

Did you ever use a computer - have you ever been on a train?
Did you ever see television - do I really have to explain?
Science deniers aren’t new - they once claimed cigarettes weren’t bad,
and thousands died from cancer - science deniers be ******.
Our civilization’s based on science - it’s the modern world's quoin.
Climate change has been proven - the results of polluting our domain.
We need to address climate change - EVERY country in the world agrees it's real - the science is undeniable (unless you're being paid to deny it).
I'm different, in
private dreams, where there are no

I'm more - adult? I
handle things decisively
- no second guessing.

And I KNOW what I
want - is that because it's all
erased on waking?

Do we practice life,
in our restless dreams - trying
on other selves?
are dreams are mental play-doh?
Eight months since the virus shut the door on the world.
It’s October and it’s like we’re hiding from the law.
You called me yesterday - but it quickly wore off.
Sometimes crushing hungers, for our old normal, blossom
but wither, like confused daffodils, denied sustenance,
in the reality of “second waves” and body counts.
This renewed viral spiral has me all wrung out.
let's all do the viral spiral
I loved riding my
bike as a child. It offered
me a new world view.

I was fast and free.
Then we put cards in the spokes,
and I motorcycled.

I cut corners like
a politician and wore
aviator glasses...

I could have passed my
driving test, last year - but nooo
- for once - I was chill.

I'm sure the trauma
of my laziness will scar
me, but - maybe not.

Sometimes I'm
SO resilient that people
think me uncaring.

Warning: People may
be far more emotional
than they might appear.
you can get so good at moving on that nothing seems to matter
You are nothing, worse than nothing,
You are the dog **** I step in when I go for a jog,
The intrusive thought that keeps me awake at night,
The betrayal of a best friend turned enemy.
I cried on your shoulder, you smirked at the opportunity.
I wanted to die, you wanted to ****.
I said no! You insisted on anything.
Pity. Pity, pity, pity, pity, pity.
I agree, helpless, alone, desperate, betrayed, suicidal
You know nothing!
I now dream of beatings, but I am not the victim rather the inflictor
I raise my fists, you cower in fear
I strike, you dodge
Always out of my reach.
But poor you.
My mother and father will always be by my side, yours love you but do not like you
You look over your shoulder at every turn
The promise of me being silent, a withering desperate attempt to save yourself
I waste away, you waste with me
I did not get to choose this fate but I will live with it
I will be successful
I will be loved
I will be safe
I will spend time with my friends
I will tell my sister I love her
I will not waste any more time on you.
I will clean the **** from my shoe and keep on running.
My life is worth it.
I feel like we could
sing one of those righteous
civil rights anthems.

“We shall overcome”
goes to the pandemic point,
and we could hold hands.

Our kinship is dear, and earned,
with simple sacrifices.
Our struggle isn’t over.
we're going through something - together - but we aren't being drawn together
Remember how you kissed me in the train car
Old lady starring at us, trying not to giggle
Your eyes were like an evil work of art
And fingerprints you left was a majestic riddle

Remember how frosty was the car then
And your hot breath appeared to be my only comfort
Some wicked whispers from behind again
And dreary memories of lonely torrid summer

Remember smell of cheap perfumes
That was as soft as wild violets
Do you remember how they bloomed
When you revealed all your violence?

Remember breeze from open windows
And flavor after shower rain
Remember me when I was infant,
And you were kissing me in train
And so is me who’s getting tired
And so my friends are tired and bored
My dog is whining, violets dying
Because of my impatient soul

I play the piano early morning
I play guitar in midnight silence
When sun appears I start my mourning
When cloud kills it I praise violence

On rainy days I’m writing poems
Not very good ones, I quite hate them
Because they seem like dying roses
That suffocate from shower raining

It seems so black, all that surrounds me
But I’m not blind, I see quite clear
The darkness finally found me
It’s time for me to disappear

And what’s the point of the fighting
You wouldn’t punish all the jerks
I tried to hide myself in writing
But it is not how my life works
My little blue jeans notebook
Is where I’m writing all my thoughts
It was the only thing I took
When I was wasted drinking shots

And there is all my drinking rave
My messed up cursive side-to-side
Some ugly thoughts of ugly grave
Your pretty flowers by it’s side

My memories light up the dwelling
I’m getting anxious, shaky, scared
Of all those fancy things ur telling
And many more that you still bear

Our life is full of small disasters
It’s full of running, full of laughter
And on the scene there are two actors
Me and My Book With Endless Chapters
I see them in reflections - the orange juice glass at breakfast or my iPhone where they can pop, like notifications - I keep my phone face down.

They usually want to tell you something - how it was for them - their history. I discount these emotional messages - they come with the jester's assumption that I care - that I need the performance and will get involved.

“What are you doing?” My mom asks, as I’m taking all the shiny, mirror-like ornaments off the Christmas tree.
“The glare gives me a headache” I say, without stopping.
“Your Grandma does that too”, she says, wiping her hands on a Santa-themed dish-towel.
“Really?” I say, but I know that and I know why.

I started having nightmares, when I was in first grade. My mom thought I had an overactive imagination but when she described it to my grandma, she soon showed up for a visit.

Over the next few weeks my Grandma told me about our “gift”. About how we were both born on the same day, under a waning third moon, in Autumn. That we're both “Yins,” doxies (sweethearts) of the dead and that we could, at times, see and hear people who were between stops on their way to their after-lives.

That’s why the dead parachute into my unused moments from reflective surfaces. They can be anxious or in despair - when their death is cruel or sudden but I'm an adolescent - I'm in school - what can I do??

The presence of water discourages them - which is perfect - can you imagine seeing spirits in the reflections of your bath? EEUUUWWW!  You’ll hardly ever see me without a water bottle or polarized sunglasses - which seem to break-up the images. I'll not be smothered in other people's afterlives.
Growing up, I lived in China, my Huàn gōng (au pair) would entertain us with tales from Chinese folklore like wandering ghosts (You *** ye gui) and the Yins who could communicate with them.
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