sometimes

sometimes i get stuck in my head.

the green of the grass outside sometimes gets stuck in my vision.
the motion blur in the car sometimes is not blurred enough.
the music in the bar gets into my veins and it’s not loud enough, sometimes.

i don’t want to keep sinking into the same old feelings,
i like the new, like changing old clothes,

it takes time for me to realize i’m not my feelings

anyway,

There is a need to make sense of experience through a language that is more authentic.

Language sets a standard to define our non-standard selves.

If you analyze yourself deeper, burrowing down to the centre (whatever that is),
the common words, symbols
become disingenuous means to express what it is found;

Convenient placeholders- ready made constructions for mass use.

Poetry is created from an inward movement
orbited to one mind
playfully engaged
in the struggle of re-definition.

decisions made between couples

Like a scene of a crime,
you come back to find what you missed
the first time.

It was too much to take in then;
the shock: too sincere;
so you go back,
and go again;
the memorable dries on wallpaper,
the senses clear
from a cloud of baking soda;

and each step backwards demands more of what was missed
until mystery writes another
same story

and
case solved;

though,

the stain of time…

Everyone looks down sooner or later to smile.

Blushing at a random cool breeze,
or reminded of something
long thought forgotten,

or feeling
something
long thought abandoned.

For a moment, a stranger’s eyes roam sporadic across a busy room,

and land into mine.

The brief capture of a life,
that entrapment of time,
of memory,

concentrated in gaze.

Sometimes, I look down smiling as well.

is that good?

You had this fragrance about you;
it smelled like the beach.

I always told you about it, and you
always replied “is that good?”

And I, of course, as
a gentlemen said “of course.”

That was a lie.

You smelled like one of those dirty beaches
people only travel
to because
it’s nearby
and they just want to waste a weekend.

words

words,
take seriously only when
it’s the right author.

words,
like tablets of how to be,
how to feel, but seldom
what these things are.

words,
an emblem, designed for
mass transport, mass fixation,
transporting ghosts to Mexico.

words,
but can we
fix the damage done? Yes,
it happens everyday in the background
of laughter.

words,
tools for your individual,
to elevate
shame inherent in
the body.

words,
architecture to talk
about freedom, rights,
what you called your
mother the night before.

words,

Repeating

I am covered in a wet darkness,
viscously roaming my foolishly welcoming body
                               like a foreign disease
exploiting the tender territory
                               of sensible skin
for every worthwhile infectious moment.

-I can't help but think of analogy.


Breath: a precious thing,
turned
thick and heated
like the city pollution outside,
burning through my nose during each painful voluntary cycle;

carrying traces of pirate scents wishing to frighten
the modest treasure out of virginal sensibilities,
voyaging

             in and out

the plunderous space of craven lungs.


Pools of gasoline swell on top of stained eyes
unyielding to be shut by whatever frail power
still lingers beneath;
with droplets
cruising
       down
          a 
          flurry 
               of
                dense
                    flame
        filling up both ears
until sound from
all those pointless conversations
                    downstairs
ride softly into a dullness that fades to phantom impression-
I had a similar experience on the plane.


I've seen enough.
I've listened enough.


I cry not from anything to do
with the heart but from a build up in the head
incrementing to a growth where my skull expands
to trespass the surface of four walls
and the room becomes nothing but cephalic irony.


The body,
a silly remnant spurring feelings of what once was,
reluctantly obeys
the violence
of torrent waves,
and I submerge darkly on
                        the bedrock of bed-riddeness

                          alone

with the one activity that has solely defined me,
now stuck in loop.
now stuck in loop.
now stuck in loop.
now stuck in loop.


For the first time in a long time
I am not looking forward to the light of the morning
and the dry renewal that accompanies it,
                         which I know will not be there this time.



"You need a strong immune system to travel."
Repeating.

104

One shelters in a comfort where none can roam,
The other wanders with hammer, and crafts crudely;
The first finds security in a tyrant’s home,
While the second strikes against hidden cruelty.

A pounding of the hammer begot
The reprisal of a sordid weak-spot;

But the movement of a hammer had sought
Higher pillars to be erected in thought.

The first curse and condemn
At destruction’s wake;
But a hammer did mend
What was in their hearts to quake.

But,
When

Will the first realize the fortune of breaking?

to disobey gravity

I was choosing between two worlds

and made choice for the empty
space in-between;

can I bear

that demanding, sinking tug to
earth

and the mockery
physics plays
on form and style?

It must be nice
to float in shapeless expanse;

spiralling, and never entering,
across spherical burden.

It must be nice…

Until vertigo finishes its course,

and space freezes

your
long
dead

corpse

soon to be comfortably snuggled in a crater.