My father was
a salesman, all
of his adult

life. But I don’t
know much about
him, really.

Old and ill, he
fell into a coma
for many days.

Then, suddenly
his mouth opened,
round and wide,

like this world.
And without a
word, he died.

Does he know he’s a poet?
The oceanic, the mystic,
The boy who sees his own reflection in his eyelids;
He sings Esther’s song on his way up the mountain.
With granite on his back,
And marble in his pockets,
He carries his alms for the Oracle Sisters;
Does he know the crevices of his brain are indeed rivers?
Replenishing his worn soul with rubies.
The ocean boy,
Disillusioned by his youth,
And with Crawfish swimming between his ankles,
Must he sojourn alone, in this desolate plane?
Or will he think of new landscapes, with a new Sun, new water, and a new friend?

Memories is like a flower
That fades in dust
Our story withered in rain
Loneliness escort every move of mine
I'm scared to dream under the cloudy moon
Wish I could paint our fate
The past is all about departure
Memories wandered
Unwilling to part
Wanting to go back
And start over.
But Dear do not worry
I would find you in next life
Dare you not to play silly
I would remind you in every of your dreams
Pick my tears when I wake
And we will watch the sunset together.

I fill the pages to cover up the guilt I feel,
I question to make me feel better,
I complain to weight my sorrow,
Do I deserve all of this?
The old broken poems regretted the hands that never held,
I live to save the name that gave me.

To bargain the loneliness ,
I sing a song of depression.
To perfect the insanity,
I labelled the smiles of grief.
But no matter, I still wrong the innocent….

Behold the Square King
From the Kingdom of Ninety Degrees
You’ll find right angles on everything
And perfect symmetry is there to please

Here, the rule is the straight line,
The fastest way from a point to another
Curving is a heinous crime
Make a round turn and you’re over

Come to this righteous land,
So rectangular and fair
Hail, King Square!

The past is an illusion of the memory
Don’t believe in a history
That never was

The present is a creation of the mind
Your poor senses make you blind
To what really is

The future is only speculation
Figure of your imagination
It will never be

Your failed reason
Invents every season
And chooses time instead of truth

once in awhile,
i wish there was
someone else to
do the dishes,
make the coffee

but living alone,
truly being alone,
is one of the most
peaceful, luxurious
experiences

of my life,
and i'd take every
***** dish, every
empty coffee cup -

my true regret
is not learning this
particular lesson
a little sooner