When your mouth moves I remember
what it felt like as I rushed to flip a page
and sliced my hand on the edge of words.
Every syllable you murmur in my ear stings
salt-lick strong.

I am four again. I will not breathe
until you untangle me slowly
from you, from your own undoings
that have become the paper wrappings
around the bird-cage of my heart.

I lay my head on my pillow to catch my breath. Thirty minutes are all I need to find my focus and fight the forces facing me down. Am I right? I am right. The nap proves to be enough.

Am I wrong? I am wrong. Thirty minutes are all my brain needs to fracture my fugue and fiddle the futures, ******* me up. The nap proves to be rough. I lay my head on your pillow to catch your breath.

And it opens up a billion doorways I closed, a billion I chose (beside myself, so this fog could escape) to forget to facilitate as your friend far from home. When they open, it's osmosis; my cell goes insides-out. I open up a single doorway I chose, a doorway I close (behind myself, so the dog won't escape) to forget not to indicate to your friends this is home.

What have I undone? Therapy, denial, or life as we know it? Or was I shouting a suggestion from my sub-surface senses? I worked so hard to fix this, but there's a pinhole in my boat. I'll sink frame by frame in a matter of captured time. What have I done?

Back to your breath. Warm. Vibrant. Familiar and funded with the fearless feats of the night. It's too clear for me to lie about. It's too present for me to hide from. I am suddenly aware of the infinite undoings I could do in a second, and I suppose it's best not to know these things.

You'd have told me to drink about it (we can think about it later), but in my split-second dream it's later and we're thinking. We're making propositions. We can't not see it. We been digging the notion for years (we keep our feelings buried deep) and now we've hit a nerve. We've lost it and we love it. We've found it, and we fear.

This is the aftermath of our daily wars. We've pulled out and grown tired, and now we're ready to sleep. Together? It's more than I can make out and less than I can deny. I can't help but hear the cracks ripple through the perfect present I stumbled upon.

The first thing I want to do is call you, but what could I possibly say to make this make sense? We're still in separate military states. We're building our arsenals, and in ten years time we'll call respective peace and come back home. But it's a fraction of a fantasy from a time I tried not to trespass upon again, right? Our now is too perfect to remember that I thought of this then, right?

But here it is again.
And it seems too future-familiar to undo.

If I mention it, does it destroy itself? If I don't, will it never become? Do I want this or not? Now is too precious to neither fight nor shape nor occupy. Maybe this is just a function of knowing you so well and not enough. Maybe this is natural. Maybe I'm just ******* crazy and this is another insanity you'll have to put up with.

The second thing I want to do is call you and apologize for everything I haven't even done yet. I want to be sorry for moving to the city and learning its secrets, sorry for our nights out and increasingly improved interactions, sorry for the night when I let this slip. Will I fall? Will we fall? Can we catch each other before we hit the ground running?

It's a tiny little kernel, fresh back from the void, but it remains.

As vague a proclamation as I can muster is all I'd like to offer. A backwards sideways whisper that I had a strange dream and it changed everything by telling me that nothing had changed. So maybe inside that candle still glows, and the face I've carved melts before it burns out. Can that be okay? I shouldn't be afraid of scaring you; you've always loved this holiday. Let's keep pretending we're monsters.

And here I am again,
Just like I always was.
Just (as if) I always was.
One little dream won't melt my mind or mend my memories,
And one little wonder won't belt my bind or bend my boundaries.
We are us now, and then is an electron that we'll never catch.
No need to bond our present to our future,
Let's drop the valence and keep our bodies warm.

[Oct. 31, 2011]

what could empty you?
          in the weight
of our divines
the un    thinking
deep within us
strokes of pure spirit
      our fleeting fall


labour — the early war;
                 original sin
in between the earth and sky
            is the shade
            of the galaxy
why limit sorrow?
why blank the source?
             conquered,
             we go on
and put life first


ignore the    remnant artifacts
                      merciless undoings
turned pools,
                      nudge    of time
ordinary notes of care
unleashed poisons
etched
into skin

history’s suitor to time,
         shards,
                      debris
remember   remember
           remember
the blank silence echoing

days go on,
        fewer,
               sleep escaping
crying out
                   it was a home.


cursed nights into mornings,
         who can make of this?
what once was theirs,
          whatever is left?


emptied, murdered, obliterated
             an annihilation
of the ego
              the anguish,
                     the anguish

eyes still seeing last touch
feeling
ancient alone abandoned
what is a year
              a month
               a decade
but a moment?


—lost and burned
            futile devices,
fervour’s writing

mailed to the void

and the sea?
        the sea?

the saltwater dead, my love,
the saltwater dead

the last great epitaph
of our love:

           i am nobody
           i am nobody
           and you
           are gone

oh, August, a season deceased,
tell me again
the hieroglyph
of your name

He sits on the edge of the world
unconcerned with the
dissimulation of
polite society
busy little bee's
bouncing off reality
living the dream he
so valiantly fought to protect
he sits there quietly
saturated in *****
manufactured of
white port fueled
by memory of war
contemplating
nothing
invisible to most
but still
a blight upon their sensibilities and
a horrid fright to the eyes when seen
cold hungry and shivering
they could give a **** to his welfare
they cogitate his insanity
his own undoings
and that smell
the smell of death
lurking  waiting to pounce
on yet another of society's outcast
putrid sores covers flesh uncovered
where gnats and flies feast
and maggots dine beneath the skin and
his breath
his breath  smells of Dragon Blood
do we even know what Dragon Blood is?
apparently he does
two tours in Vietnam an a Purple Heart for bravery
yet he sits on the edge of the world
bravely trampled underfoot of apathy
absent of coalition
he wishes only to be left alone
to dance in the pain
of degredation
and waltz in the face of death
until God calls him to reckoning
he will sit there on the edge of the world
listening to
the mundane idiocrasy of those who wander by
left to his own maundering
invisible that is
until the olympics come to town

He write in bread crumbs,
trails of clues that will not be found because the birds have eaten them. Fleeting, unremarkable, but it feeds and feeds and fills empty stomach. Unfulfilling but full.

( Most of the days that is so much better than being hollow)

Over the years, the forest grows.
Grasses mold it self into canopies, rooftops that shields him from the light. A darkness that blinds but pulsing with warmth. Branches twisting towards each other, entangled in each other stories. 'write better' they whispers.
Flowers will not blooms but the sweet smell of honeycombs wafts through the air like hunger.

( we are hungry and hungry and lonely tell us stories, tell us more more more more please moremoreore-)

So the path to home become unrecognizable. Intangible, flickering as if it wanted to be real.
He feels kin ship down to his bones and whimpers fall out from his mouth, quivers but does not fold.
He curled but life would not, will not let him bend.

What should a man do if he cannot curve, cannot bow and break? They all said that to achieve greatness, he have to taste 'broken' on his tongue. Ripe to the point of decaying, fingers sticky with black honey.

He let his teeth chatters, secrets flew out of his mouth like love letters. Carved into him self are the promises made by breakers and yet, honesty is what he sounds like. A forest is an illusion, they say. Wrap your perception until everything look the same and there is only doubt in your self.

( After all everything have to protect their heart)

Peeling barks, bleeds. He bit his lip, wounds are his lovers but everyone knows that love is treacherous. There is a little boy and a man. There is Him, the one who only grows and feeds but never fulfills. 'Isn't that enough?',he asked.
This was what you sow into me, you make me grow into a man but not a human. So he becomes,
forest isn't the only thing that can burn.

( How do you escape your self?)

This is a mirror house, a forest where every trees are your thoughts, their roots are your beliefs, and their seeds are your doing.

(most of the times, it become your own undoings)

You reap what you sow, but what if you are the one  who was sowed.

-nabs

I don't need your help
I am me, and you are you
I am in conflict, don't inflict

I don't need your help
help just ruins, more undoings
help will hamper, go scamper.


                                                      ­                                                We can help
                                                            ­             We are here for you and you
                                                             ­               We shall assist, don't resist

                                                         ­                                             We can help
                                   help shows us our weaknesses, we aren't geniuses
         help reminds us that we aren't superhuman, we are only human.

I need lies
For I am sick of the truths
Untold revelations revealing indication.
To be told
As the leaves fall.
That one is up, Instead of down.
Would you feel as though
You’ve been lied to, prayed victim, insulted
Made a fool of your own.

Devices, trivialities, trinkets, and goodies

O deities keep us occupied, with times undone
Encompass us with stars of our lights
And reveal our destinies, and shape our futures
Lie to us in fashions, stones that tell the wrong
And foretell undoings, wrong-ings and corruption

Hang your false pretenses out, to dry and fade
Bind us in iron cuffs, braces, shackles
Tell us not the truths of the world
But the lies of your lives.

Often we find ourselves perplexed by an emotion. Being unaware of why, can't do much other than compound this negative situation. There are three steps one should take:

Examination
Acknowledgement
Acceptance

Through this process a much more accurate feeling is developed, one with clarity that can provide an insight followed by a compelling sense of direction, or action. See, this is the tricky part. The first three steps and the result are an entirely internal process, which alone in itself bears no fruit. They are the undoings of the latches on the door, now one must take the first step out of it.

Don't take me for granted cause I may let you fall
may let your undoings consume you.

Don't ignore that I might be losing patience  cause I may just let go
And watch you stagger to keep your balance.

Don't  acknowledge I'm there and then keep going
Cause I may just ignore your presence completely

Don't expect me to turn around to wave good bye
Cause no Goodbye is worth saying or waving

Don't forget that I can leave it all behind
And never
Not once
Not even a twitch of my neck
look back

The museum captures
still life
sculpted with slender ideology
masked by the movement of diamonds
neither the sun nor moon could shield her
from the nature of desire.
she moves in her                             own way.

Art eclectic like that of floating stairs...
b
  u
     o
        u
           a
              n
                 c
                    y
like her very own becoming
and circular patterns mimic
constant contemplation
of undoings.

She takes steps toward
a painting of her own.
An almost perfect frame, she sits
under the tree
to pray.
Sinking into a state of multitudes,
she buries her very own diamonds
in the heart
of the earth forever.

Do you have any clue?
It’s all about you.

In the theater of your mind
making the poem well rhymed
You never truly knows
how your true intentions goes.
holding you tight in highs and lows
by writing an article or composing a prose..

Forgotten the aftermath of disaster
told by your inner forecaster?
Oh, wait, don’t panic your brain
let me tell you again.....

You'll be left alone
to survive on your own
buddies will mock, your painful moan

Remember the saying remarkable
work expands to fill the time available
Most of the things are irreversible
heal before the pain becomes unbearable.

Feel the chains of habit
stopping you to take a gambit
try it my way,before saying "God ******"

Start by getting rid of the inside clutter
take help else do it hugger-mugger
Once your vision gets clear
You'll stop complaining of life unfair
As you'll know YOU are the charioteer
who surely gonna make things differ

Now list the things you have to set right
once ask your insight,
Then, give a tough fight
with all your might,
And in between, never say,
You are a neophyte
Just Go on and Expedite

"But, what if, What if,,,"
What "What if" ?
Speak it loud and clear
am filled with so many things to tell you dear...

"Offo Wait baba,,,,"

"But what if someday, I lose track of my goal,
Day and night goes out of control
miserably affected by public opinion poll...
when what i do is just think and think
like ruining the paper by indelible ink
when tied across my neck is an albatross
Then, How to come out Boss,
of the huge time loss"

O you Champ, facing the blow
Have you heard of Tony D'Angelo?
First listen his words, later you Google it
"If you have time to whine about it,
you have time to do something about it"

So, here comes the crucial matter
Each time you fall, you just need a trigger
to view clearly the picture bigger.

O beautiful young heart beating with vigour
I'll be always there, as your inside treasure
whenever you feel like quitting
and its all crap your antenna is transmitting

Then try not to look, try not to think
close your eyes, relax, breathe, then blink blink blink
Now, Open your Diary and your turbulence gonna cease
as you'll turn the pages intended to appease
Observe, there have always been times like these...

Now comes my last words,
command will be in your hand onwards...

Listen...

Rather being Undeterred by your own undoings
Recall it's you who gonna change things
Massage your sleeping limbs
Or make use of your strong blue wings
But please Don’t wait for someone to ping
In times like these, no one usually rings
Go alone, and climb the Colorado springs.