poetry

En Passant

poetry

In Passing

Me or Her or Both or All?

Do I pass through changes

As She passes from Life to Death?

Or does She pass through and through My mind

As I did pass through Hers in Life?

How many paths for passing do cross in this present time?

Can I hope I’m with Her now?

12 Jul 08

poetry

was it the night
we sat on steps avoiding
others so we could speak secrets and dreams until 4am?

or was it the time
we walked in the park in
autumn sat on a bench beneath
the night acutely aware of our hands and the distance between them?

or was it that Thursday
the first time my lips fell into yours
in the background the treading percussion of Explosions in the Sky?

or was it that Sunday
at circle of hope when I calculated the exact pressure
of your hand on mine to equal the love of God and kept it to myself?

was it in old city
beneath the din of eighties hip hop
when I told my friends I would marry you someday?

was it in spanish
stumbling mispronunciations and incorrect accents
in an attempt better know those who mean the world to you?

was it in harvard yard
dressed as wizards wandering and wondering
where we could find the best butter beer in cambridge?

or was it the summer
we spent unemployed reading and mastering
the NY times crossword puzzle then emerged, merged adjusting our eyes to autumn?

or was it that night
in central PA when you showed me how
to cup both hands to carefully catch these drifting constellations?

I cannot say exactly
when
only
somewhere
between my hands and yours
between sunset and sunrise
between the top and bottom step
between the mountains and the atlantic
between jersey and philly
between te amo and mahal kita
between the upbeat and downbeat
between the first and last page of this notebook
between one thousand and one days ago and today

I fell in love with you.

and even to partially properly articulate this
it will take my entire life
an infinite number of pages
and perfectly placed kisses
(which is part of my plan)

but something tells me
nothing will match
the simple eloquence
of your hand
in mine
some evening
fifty summers from tonight.

GOD’S playing field

poetry

imagine GOD
floating above
HIS playing field
manipulating every
piece and creating
incidents and accidents
all at once
the greatest creator
the greatest craftsmen
HE is flying high above us
looking down upon his model earth
but does HE, GOD have regrets
to some of his creations
and the manners of how they act
and the way they destroy
and the way they hate
and the way they corrupt
when are the coals of GOD’S fire pit
going to heat up and be ready to
torch this model and start anew
on city where GOD exists
to tell HIS tales to the people
who believe in HIS plan
and are blessed with eternal life with HIM…

The Vanity of Fancy Food

poetry

I watch a lot of foodnetwork
a channel that often emphasizes
the presentation and beauty of food
however, today the epiphany struck hard
that no matter how good a piece of food looks
the next day inevitably it looks the same
dirtying the waters of my toilet bowl
floating/sinking     liquid/solid
black, filthy, wretched poo

of leeches in my secret spots

poetry

yesterday we picked
mud from our tires
after an hour climb
through wet jungle
mounting the summit of dup thoi

go back the way we came?
or try a new single track down

remember good decision bad decision?

mud and leaves
my brake fully locked
as we sledded down the hill
on thousand dollar mountain bikes

hopping fallen trees
and waiting for the fog to clear
sliding and slipping
and more mud in our tires

a joy until
i picked leeches from my legs.
imagine a forest so thick
so moist and so warm

i found a leech stuck to my
unmentionables
on the ride down
and still have a large red bruise

man scar or not
that was stinkin’ fun
dup thoi

Together We Stood, Alone We Fell

poetry

They have made a statue of us for all the pain and misery that can never be washed away.
We were the ones who never got what they deserved.
We were meant to survive when others live. Do they live,though?
Or is it one more puerile misconception?
Harassing thoughts of us trampled on and made to scrounge for food.
We were fools the day we let ourselves get born.

So many dawns and evenings passing us by, with us stuck and sticky with anguish and fear that we may die unfulfilled, unmade. So much space, and air wasted on us. We were innocent, incapacitated with our defective will to life. We were shells; beautiful and redundant in this painful harrowing world beauty. Where was the awe, the worship owed to all the pretty things created just for us? The sun smiled and our limbs shivered and shrieked out of weariness from the sun that only does as expected warming skins and things. A terrible understanding of our undignified, unsettling collection of hours, while our bodies gradually turn to dust.

We were companions of misfortune in our young tender years; disasters at every corner.Yet, we would imagine and dream a god dying for our sins and no one else’ s.
But between oceans, and lands; vast, painfully vast, we became strangers…

The other

poetry

I thought I would remove the “self” from my convoluted mind
the self which only exists, contorted, exalted in your eyes
to please you or revolt you; the other

There won’t be no prickling shame if it weren’t for you-the other
the other’ s self I can’t escape or hide from

I would erase you if it weren’t a crime-sin and more shame from the other
the other’ s self which resists, galvanized and contrived by my brain
taught to hallucinate you and accept you; the other

It’s as if we are back to back and each facing a mirror where we’d sometimes
catch each other’ reflections; A vision where we can never meet- the other

I ought to shed my “self” and your “self” from my awareness’s shelf
maybe it’s all a mirage where nothing subsists beyond our selves.

[If] death’s-agreeable and unpredictable,
why walk away?
After all there won’t be no needling pain if it weren’t for you- the other
the true other – I can’t ever hold or get close to.

Till I’m 30

poetry

It might be nice to be 30,
or older, so that my
feelings would not be hurt so
when both Uzbek and American
students label me as such;
or I could admit to myself
that my premature male-pattern-
baldness could be read as a
symbol of having lived 30+ years.
However, I choose to believe that
my baldness isn’t that bad,
and it won’t be for the next
three years, four months, and seventeen days.