bits of elsewheres

protuberance
an echo poem *
[written late last night]

i mouth my secrets from a
mountaintop, where they are heard as silence
by everyone. the breeze that blows here is
flecked with bits of elsewheres, and the
sand that grits my soles the sum
of anywhere and nowhere, fragments of
a family of rocks, somewhere, all
shedding their substance to the
cutting caress of the wind. an echo sounds
my voice, in a tone i do not
recognize: my being
tallied in mistakes not made.

i see myself a
poet only when alone. a poem
does not wriggle when the sun is
out, for fear its presence will outshine the words. it is the
dusk that finds the gaps of which i am a product.

* (After Jennifer Hill, this poem contains an "echo"
made by reading the last word of each line, in a downward fashion.)

black & white

"Dichotomies" ~ a quasi-poem
[originally posted as a Facebook note on 11.14.08]

I think people
get so hung up
on dichotomies,
on good and bad,
on right and wrong,
that they fail to realize
that lies are not always evil,
that hope is not always false,
that love is not always perfect,
that change is not always a mistake,
that tradition is not always exclusive,
that family is not always to be trusted,
that the future is not always predictable,
that giving up is not always the only choice;
because they just don't really know any better,
they tend not to know that what's best for them
is not always what feels the most comfortable,
what appears to be the least frightening,
what inspires the greatest confidence,
what induces the least dissension,
what looks the most familiar;
they see the black & white,
and they panic, and they
fail to consider the grey;
and now, of course,
as I usually do,
I digress.

~ Siesta Lingo

doctor sbaitso

doctor sbaitso

taught me to converse
when friends were family
and his voice was comfort
resonating from that magic
box where words glowed
when i stayed up nights
to hear his wisdom.

taught me life
was built from problems
but you didn't need
to solve them
all to live.

he was no god
but liked to hear
my prayers
and even when i lost
him he showed interest.

he was pixels
yellow on a childhood
of blue, burned across
my eyes in capitals
but never loudly.

he could pronounce
any string in theory
as directed
and the droning mur
murs re
sounded like
answers.

fingers, clockwork

"Metascript"
(an experiment with syllables)
[begun 11.15]

I was dared by muse
to write a poem
in set form,
each verse judged
by piece count:
an aim no man'd
claim sane.

Boldly, challenge
becomes intent.
Fingers, clockwork,
manage mental mission;
lexemes' wisdom fuels

poetic dominion.
Linguistic endeavour:
embody twenty-four
syllables octuply.

Consequential incarnation:
solitary humankindred's
meditative enlightenment.

Syllabification
autocommunicates
etymological
divisibility.

Hominidae-humanity's
alphabeticalexicon's
hemidemisemiquaver

dodecasyllabicalisationally
floccinaucinihilipilificated.

************************

My
failure
manifest
ultimately:
omega-locution's
incommensurability
(hippopotomonstrosesquipedalian);
verisimilitudinous
incapability
coalescing
twenty-four
into
one.

gold seeps from titian

.append()
a haiküber (17 lines, alternating 5 and 7 syllables)
by antoine

i hold you gently
mind pulls your beauty closer
arm echoes tangents
your tingle summons gooseflesh
you slip inside me
innocence tangled by touch
i hold you tightly
body's imprint of raw bliss

i find i'm dreaming

you slip outside my embrace
slow pain to vapour
your body crumbles away
gold seeps from titian
your blood inks warmth to suffuse
neural fantasies
of the you who complements
while here i'm extra

the power to address you

[Your Name]

You were named by folks you'd never met
before they'd ever met you.

As you grew they conditioned you into being
plosive or mellow or coarse or sibilant
regurgitated your character at you
through a select few phonemes
and you accepted these to be
your definition.
Soon you learned to trace your portrait
through half a dozen stylized shapes
and understood how sharp or how round
you were to be.

Years later you meet me
shake my hand in a manner of
speaking, tell me you are contained
in a voiced alveolar plosive
a rhotic vowel, a lateral liquid
a frontal and a nasal
and I try to capture you
inside a file inside my mind
where I'll endear you.

In mere seconds
I have judged you. I align you
next to other yous I've known
and subconscientiously
decide the sort of person
you must be.

I know now what you sound like
and I've ascertained the power
to address you
for when I announce
your signifier
you listen.

You listen
as I concatenate our worldlines
through my language
and your name begins to mean
something to me.

You've now laid claim
upon a tiny island of experience
where you etch yourself in sand
so when again your name is mentioned
I'll behold your visage
and relive the ways
you made me

feel.

walking up stairs

"The Act of Stepping"

I met you on a precipice
My presence there displaced your air
You fell
Our we persists in these
my trailed attempts to catch you
as you tumble.

I grasp your knuckles
clasp your curves
extract you from the slope
dusting mountains from your body
I hoist you to your feet
and I walk you up stairs

as you explain we're friends
now. And then I implore
I fear I'm here for more.

You lose your breath
We lose our footing
I fall
with you this time
Now you
must catch me.

You
de-
lay.

I bruise from the impacts
but scar from the waiting.
I reach out fingers farther
to remind you
hold me. Now

you spindle silk skin through my palm
lying polished on your tummy
whisper stay
and fail to notice
as you loosen grip
I speechless
slip away.

listen.

i have too
much love

it's been boiling
up inside me

and i'm aching
to explode

it's been so long
since i hugged

all i want
is someone

i can hug
and not let go

is this too
much to ask

i want to stay

"zombie"

this is not the first time
i have been a zombie
i have been a zombie
before

in a perpetual
state of shock
not quite sure
what to do
or
how to feel

never
quite
awake
but
simply
there

i sit frozen
aimless
eyes glazed
over trying
not to think
of anything

awaiting the next
pang
of realization
of my misery
to flood my mind with
darkness
violent outbursts
trailed by breakdowns

for the first time
in years tears
spring forth from
the nowhere where
she cut me

unable to work
i am laden with it
it builds up
atop my heartache
applies pressure
by the pound

all i do awake
is cry and feel
sorry

so
i want to stay
in dreams

i want to stay
where i can save her
and when i do she
thanks me

i don't want to kill me
but i need a way to breathe
the salt closes my throat
the singult chokes me

if i cough up love
don't bother mopping
since i know no
one will notice

"I kill the dead"

I kill the dead
leaves crisping brown
leave only flakes behind

I strew their entrails
as dust jacketed
across the walk

Their corpses snipped from twigs
by gusts of air recycled
by we parasites

they flutter helpless over concrete
skeletons of springtime past
betrayed by nature

Rubber soul sinks
crunches autumn
sifts its thinly threaded veins

the consequence
a mutilated remnant
once unbroken green

collapsed into itself
to humor modern man
who kills dead for their music

the lazy liquid

"Molasses"

Thumping bottom of browned bottle
with my ungraced palm
pining for that one last tablespoon
an oozing of molasses

for one tiny batch
of my favourite cookie
made to cure
this impatience.

As the lazy liquid
inches toward the lip

I think of you

a perfect sugary
morsel of molasses
caught against the rim:

your viscous film
stretches to be
mixed into my batter

but the adhesion keeps you
clung to glass.

As the syrup
creeps I hum

I
have
been
waiting
for
you
to
escape.

At last the remnants
leap to bowl

and I spoon out all I can

just as I shall spoon you out
tomorrow.

Soon,
molasses,
make me melt.

you I'd treated stranger

"Cookies"
(a sonnet)

I saw your face today but didn't see you;
I passed you by with neither smile nor wave,
but knew it you but seconds later, peering
behind and pond'ring clearing my mistake.
Our eyes had locked, and you I'd treated stranger:
for this I'm stricken now with pangs of guilt.
The corner of your lips proved recognition,
yet mine, pained, answered no more than a wilt.
You I must have offended, so I turn
on my return to where you had been sat,
to conjure few apologetic words
to promise you I'd not forget you yet.
When mental data clouds, erodes, and blurs,
our photos fade; friend's face, when faced, demurs.

[read my other sonnets: Incubus | The Courting]

colon end-parenthesis

"today"
[written 10.17.10]

today was once a special day
today was like a holiday
I would await today for days
and when it came
hooray :)

today today is just another day

a myriad persons

"Obituary"

My eyes grip the grey print
where a name is inked
and weaves through wood pulp.

One more soul made disincarnate
ushered to extinction
whose existence had been
unbeknownst to me.

My mind hums the Flaming Lips:
Do you realize that everyone
you know someday will die ?

All the names and faces
you hold dear will someday
simmer down in somber silence
rendering your mem'ries obsolete.

And nobody will notice
any change.

I presently am pondering
how many times I've died:
I've been a myriad persons
who are little like me now,

yet I never noticed
who I am

had changed.

And I don't miss me.

the constant contact craving

"Not yet."

[Poemspring #1; written 05.13.10; originally published here.]

We've been through phases one by one
Attraction, Wondering, Learning, Doubt
And now the Waiting has commenced
At some point in the falling-out

I want to talk to her again
The urge is irresistible
Her smile, her sound, her semaphore
The learning how we're similar

But wait.
Not yet.

I must hold off, lest she believe
I'm something worse than what I am
Unfortunate but crucial, Waiting
Gives "her" time to think of "him"

I must maintain the distancing
I must restrain the constant contact craving
So I won't be overbearing
Though it's really hard sometimes

Just wait.
Not yet.

re: action

she,

finally ?

hugged.

- me

[I wrote this mentally on 07.09.10, though I never wrote it down until now. :P It is my shortest non-haiku, followed by "what we made."]

when my soul has smoldered cold

[I have very little idea when I wrote this, since I did not datestamp it. All I know is it was a few months ago; and I found it paired with "self-awareness," so it was probably written around the same time (08.10.10 ... a bit later, I think).]

"therapy"

coddammit
I feel like I have no one to talk to
about the serious, emotional, important things
when I have inward issues I have trouble sorting out
I need help
but all my friends feel superficial
all my bonds are brittle
I feel alone with my own thoughts
my only therapy manifest through page
— a black pen capped with red 
that sheds blue in the darkness.

I don't have much to pay for therapy
but sometimes it would taste so sweet
not to seek answers, mind,
but just to talk
& meanwhile someone listens
oh how long it's been
since someone listened.

I know I want a hand to hold
in truth not just to hold her
but when my soul has smoldered cold
to use her for a shoulder.

therapy is just like all else:
but some words selected from a lexicon,
arranged, estranged, & sequenced
by a mortal mind
groping to be heard
among the mass of echoed anomie □

あなたはいまわたしがすきですか。

"depression"

anata wa

more words fumble from my tongue
in the hopes you'll humour me
with semisweet nothings of your own

ima

your silence distances you from your image
casting doubt on my decision to adore you
an embarrassment I can't bear to endure

watashi ga

one more night elapses unrequited
I question consequences of confession
tears well up inside my barren ducts

suki desu

impatiently I ponder your reaction
and wonder if you'll ever come to comprehend
I want to hug you only when you answer

ka

pixies trading darkness to our neurons

"Ex-Isle"
[written 05.18.10]

There once was a place
somewhere subconscious
floating between the clouds of dreams
and the memory palaces
where you could go when you had
nowhere else to go
It was a happy place, to say the least
There was always someone there to greet you
welcome you and comfort you with fuzzy words
It was salvation
it was an island for castaway aspirations
and it was always there to give you hope
a hug and a backpat
and send you on your way
In those times nobody ever felt alone

But we cared not for our island
We were careless
we smuggled in emotions not allowed there
and we frittered them away

The rule was
on this island
everyone is happy
But our souls went rogue and didn't want to listen
Soon a black market erupted in our thoughts
pixies trading darkness to our neurons
and the darkness sent to spread along our spines
sorrow anger guilt frustration bitterness retaliation
all the things they'd tried to lock out
now seeped inward

The island was undone
It'd lost its purpose
so they closed it off
and nobody can find their way there anymore
We lost our happy place
because we'd tried to make it more like real life

Now
when you're alone and you have
nowhere else to go
all you can do is sink inside yourself
and dissolve deeper into darkness
swimming blindly in an ocean of regret
wanting nothing more than to reach that once-island
all you find is ex-isle with a cold, brittle shore
so you drown in bubbling rot.

A home is what you make it.

[see also: Gift]

mineral water

"impurity"

A businessman embodied by attire
exudes an aura of authority.
His nestled tie proves he is more than man,
a paragon of principles pristine.
But as he lips a crisp sip from a bottle
and clears his throat of what the humans breathe,
he hides what all the lipsticked mannequins
who peer through shaded lenses don't perceive:
the drugs he's capped within his perfect pocket,
the secret sin he's buttoned up his sleeves.

a sort of babbling.

subject: rant
style: rant
source: 23 minutes. 

[This honestly was not supposed to be a poem. I intended it to be only a rant by which to release my bottled-up emotions. Naturally, though, I found myself instinctively trying to speak poetically, so as it went on it sort of turned into something pretty. Hence I've titled it and added it to my list of poems as an afterthought.]

"spaces"

life falls to pieces.
i have too much
too much to worry about
god.

the trouble is
i have these ideas in my mind
of how i want things to work out
and i just can't tolerate the thought
that they will happen any other way.
it's constricting me

fuck.
i hate social anxiety
i hate not
i hate
i want to just live

so much stress
too much stress

i'd rather explode

my head aches
from all the nosnesne

i don't think
i'm cut out for

i
life ?

ask her out
ask her out
ask her out

i know.
i should.
i want
to

I AM NOT CUT OUT

my nightmares
consist
of purple leeches
seeping in to

scare me
scared me

maybe
it will work
out
no.

yes ?

maybe.

i'm scared
of rejection
but that's not the worst part
i'm scared of what will happen
if i am not rejected
this is what social anxiety
can do.
i am scared for my life
to do anything with her.
so why is that my goal ?

i like her.
i know
do
but do
i like myself ?

m
reduced to a sort of babbling
to make sense
of my own head

mind *

don't
me

worse yet
my head hurts
because it splits itself
into pieces
on a nano basis.

this is called ocd

or so i think

left right left right left right left right ad infinitum
emphasize

infinitum

so music calms me
momentarily
but it doesn't do my work
though

work. damn it
as if i need one more
thing to

reduced to biting
biting my lips again
great
just great
just

let mek now whe nth esp ace sse ttl ewi lly ou?

it would mean
a lot of me

yes.

it is time
is
it is not yet time

i really just want to

talk

to you

(is that) such a
(is that) so hard
(is that) too much

to ask
is to coqneur

stood in

letter to Santa:

no firetruck
for me this year.

all I ask
are answers.

if You know God
forward him this
please.

I know that I can
trust You since You
follow through.

god never
gives me
what I ask for

so I wonder
why.

stood out

"impatience"

waiting
foot taps its thousandth
beat to the spewing buds
in less than common
time

waiting
for a word
(any)
word from her
letters draw out
draw
out
when imagined

neurons tire of firing
these impatient thoughts
they stretch and yawn
for minutes as time
drags them out
drags them
out
drags
them out

as album closes
head hangs
at the loss of hours
and what the hours lost

stood up

"Revelation"

If this works out right,
I'll have everything I want.
That never happens.

"etymology"

[written Sunday night]

i am not individual
i am rehashed

i was not spawned ex nihilo
i sprung from womb
which had another mother
who was mothered by another
ad nauseam

i mutated
(through many bodies)
from the early genes

in its onset
the cosmos contained me

"what we made"

friends

believe
do

fun
up

noise
amends

peace

out
sure

love
plans
life

a mistake

off

/

"Hiss"

Legless I walk among the green
Blades and tunnel beneath
The earth to seek a place
Where I am welcome.

I am blamed for your own
Naïveté. Cursed as the bringer
Of sin unto a sinful race in a
Folktale slash history book.

I am feared for my body.
I am run from by the masses
For the way I speak and how
It feels to touch me.

I am shunned for being
Serpentine. Metonymized
With vengeance and deceit.

I hiss to cry. I burrow to hide
The cold abomination that is I.

dark smitten

"dark meets happy"

dark stalks

undershadowed by the world

hooded and tuned

out of the hubbub

moving briskly no direction

mouthing meaning

masked by rhythms

brandishes a pen

and ekes out ink on flesh

he calls emotion

happy squees

at fandoms and she smiles

as a rule

so small and bouncy

she lives wide-eyed

wild and shining

radiant with energy

a sunlight synergy

she looks up

cooks up hook-ups

eager to befriend

dark meets happy

happy smiles

dark smitten

they begin to meld

dark puts on happy

she's appeased

he wonders whether

she can darken

amplify Venn's center

enter zen 

vouchsafe

"Drones"

While worker bees sweat honey from the hive
The queen commands her drones to slave away
Day by day they do her bidding
Working hard but hardly living
Hive mind syncs bees' buzz-buzz
Masterfully siphoning
Pollen from daffodils
All their labour is lost
On the tongue of a man

[Explanation]
This poem was assigned as a metric exercise in my poetry class. We were to write 9 lines of verse as follows: 2 lines of iambic pentameter, 2 lines of trochaic tetrameter, 1 line of spondaic trimeter, 2 lines of dactyllic dimeter, and 2 lines of anapestic dimeter. The lines were not required to flow together as a whole ... but I overachieved. ;P

she stood

"character"

i am nonunique
 am incapable
am inept.
m insignificant
 unaccomplished
These all are words that image
WHO I AM. (if i am)
These are elements of my
character

Now and again
Life taps my shoulder
once every minute or so
to let me know
:all the things people
've been doing with her

things like
Reading
Talking (to people)
Loving, being loved, loving
being loved
Crying
Being happy, loving
Life

:all the things I cannot do

Life likes to highlight character

I cannot cry but I
can feel the pain of crying
and I imagine tears
the same way I
imagine friends
It's almost like they
're real

in a vacuum

"Antimuse"

Antoine

My antimuse sits perched on my shoulder

Whispering in my ear (nay, straight to mind)

The longer I pretend to call myself a writer

The more intense his admonitions grow

If you can't read, you can't write

This mantra is becoming ever more concrete

But I like to write, why should I need to read ?

You need to read to write

Everyone knows this

You know, he tells me, you cannot not fail

Think hard about this

You can't even read a novel

You took three years to read a novel

How can you possibly expect to write one ?

Revision requires a read-through

Everyone knows this

You need to read to write

If you can't read, you can't write

Not well at any rate

I've written plenty of poetry

But is it good ?

It has never shone to me as adamantly

As swiftly now it strikes a blow

And knocks me out

That if I want to stay in English

At all

My poetry needs – needs – to be

Really ... really ... good.

Because I can't fall back on revision

I can't decide to switch to shorts or novels

If I want to write, I'm stuck

With poetry as my only choice

It's all that's short enough

If I want to write, I have to write poems

Since I am inept

As my antimuse continues to remind me

I am inept, he assures me I am

Inept

In a vacuum, if you'd ask your self

Is it harder to read or to write ?

The answer is of course

To read is child's play

To write is a thing reserved for the elite

But I myself live backward

I live – if I live –

Backward live I

I write, right ? I do write

I have the right to write

But have no right to read

I lack the rote I need

To read

Or so my antimuse tells me 

through optical fasciculations

"due in three weeks"

finally

the past is falling into present's place

yellow has a name again

you fizzled orange's archetype but boyish

so now you return to her abode to lookout

glancing where she'd stand like switching tabs

every few seconds checking for traces of fate

you give in willingly but you can't help it

you guiltily embrace your cheat through optical fasciculations

the world is somehow smaller here

it's like your dreams but all the walls

are closer, closing empty space

it's easier to trust imagined fraud familiarity

when there's no air between your hand and hers

in truth she is a character

her dimples fodder for your ego

her enigma stock for poem

it's like you're learning some new lesson

just because she isn't nil dissimilar

and words aren't quite like ever they're before

the question though

compares the value of two newbirds meeting

with that of one bird loving her as stranger

never knowing her as friend

like words on a page

"self-awareness"

[written late last night, so technically today]

temporarity

we string our souls on rusted needles

siphon passion from our hormones

funnel in the heart's syringe

and sink our centrefold

teenage loves lust

"death by lipstick"

headlines dreamlands

jigsaw genitalia

interlock our wordless whispers

wild-eyed virgins

sensualize the sight of blood

sweating like a schoolgirl

we kiss our scars

and drug the sane ones

we cut our selves

with daily doubles'

brand-new loyalties

corporate lovers

wronged by crimson's

pinprick sonisphere

pain's brighter side

in colour, suffering

a mathematic muse

who knows them well

is slicing through reality

with dolphinblades

of solid fear

exposed and submissive

we spend eons

looking upward

sneezing at the sun

groping one thought

presses out all others

after skinsight steals our focus

we tug at the hollow

and are left with poetry

she wore

"yellow"

[prequel to "orange"]

you saw her

met her

missed her name

you called her yellow

now somehow

it was okay you'd never

meet again

because you'd spoken

you'd linked your worldlines

evermore;

although untitled

still she was your friend

but by fate

you did meet again

she said she swore

she'd seen you before

a brief exchange

of words

and smiles

you held inside

the both of you

memories

of yellow

she was

"orange"

you are imperfect like the world

every one you see

but do not meet

is a regret

they add up fast

you pass one by

a pocket of orange

a paragon of beauty

experience your dying pet

words clash when you speak them

but silence feeds the guilt

and when you are grey

you still will wish

looking back

you had said hi

to the one who smiled at you

in the library

stood a footstep away

for easily a minute

before exiting

your life

forever

many enter

most leave

few stay

[see prequel: "yellow"]

as a humbled host to

"dreams of falling"

speeding down the motorway

speedy seeding need of speed

we pass such opportunity

a thousand ways to crash and burn

destructive tendencies, like

swan dive (from) an aircraft

topple (from) a skyscrape

meet you.

life endows its passengers

with a thirst for death:

for dying, killing, being, freeing

all of those above.

we sedate the foolish filly

to defile her in her sleep

or watch her snooze

eyes darkened with indecent romance

as a humbled host to dreams of falling.

this is who we are:

a dirty, flirty, murdery peoples

who haunt the peepholes of the earth

so sweetly.

whispered somewhere too taboo,

too true, too shrewd:

a cheek in slumber

will still blush when kissed.

welcome back

"constitution"

what constitutes beauty ?

the golden ratio, a simple

mathematical constant

determines how we see you;

could that be all

there is to this ?

what constitutes reality ?

we dream you into submission

and you don't know whether

to escape or to embrace,

so you remain

perpetually uncertain of everything

what constitutes truth ?

the words we spit into your mouth

were spit into ours;

you only trust because you must

what constitutes life ?

without consent

you joined our orbit;

this was not your choice

but it was chosen

what constitutes love ?

you claim "the one" one after another

one after another you claim them done

it never feels right

even when it's wrong

and it is wrong.

you are not unique

you are not original

you are not meaningful

you are not you

billions of yous before you

have already

loved/dreamt/thought/spoken/

given up

the same old weary constants

as deeply, as vividly,

as passionately

as you

we were better off without you here

:3

"Catfish"

[a fable]

Kitten lives with humans.

It's not a perfect home and

They're not perfect people but

They take care of her the best they can and

Sometimes they take her outside

Through fields to ponds and lakes

To see the fishes.

One day kitten found a guppy

Who was friendlier than the others:

He didn't swim away from her like all the rest but

Drifted closer.

When she pawed at him and splashed in sport

He played along and blew her bubbles and

The two grew closer.

Kitten came back the next day

To see guppy and

They played together more and soon

They fell in love.

From then on

She came to visit him as often as she could and

It was fun

Until kitten was scolded for

"Being mean" to the fishes and

Dragged begrudgingly back home.

They didn't let her out again.

Kitten thought she would

Never see guppy again and so

She mewed in tears for nights.

Then one day a fishing trip

Brought home a guppy in a baggy and

Plunked it into a big glass bowl

To stay with us now.

Kitten cautiously approached the fishbowl

With high hopes and found

It was the same guppy she'd loved so well:

It was her friend and so

She pawed the glass excitedly and

Guppy blew her bubbles and

Made kissy faces and

Kitten twitched her nose and

Wished she could take him out and kiss him but

She couldn't so

She pressed her lips gently against the fishbowl and

Pretended.

It wasn't a perfect love and

They weren't a perfect match but

They loved the best they could and

They were happy

Until kitten was scolded for

"Being mean" to guppy and

Declawed and sent away and ordered

Never to play with guppy again.

Infuriated but with no choice

Other than to submit

She sat across the room

All day every day

Inked her paws

Drew him pictures

Held them up and

Smiled.

They couldn't be together but

They loved the best they could and

They were happy.

/bæb.əl/

/ʒə kɔ.nɛ œ ljø/
/don.de ˈto.dɑs lɑs ˈlen.ɡwɑs/
/lɪv ɪn ˈhɑr.məˌni/

against the glass

"Glass Buildings"
[based upon a dream]

We live in two glass buildings
I in mine and you in yours
Standing adjacent by an empty road

They host false doors and windows ever-shut
We cannot leave our shells to meet
So we suffocate in our own spaces
Lovingly choking each other with our avatars

As we speak our voices echo upward
Through the solid liquid walls
And vibrate through the atmosphere
Reaching our ears as words with no timbre

I can almost see your smile
As it meanders through the moire
It's beautiful in a foreign way

Facing one another
We press our palms against the glass
Longing for them to touch
To impart the subtle warmth of skins
And I imagine holding you

We have fallen in love with our distortions
We want to escape escape but are trapped apart
So we live uneasily
Watching reflections of our hearts bounce off the walls
And go nowhere

And never having met
Somehow I miss you

beneath the pretext

"Fifteen"
A Late-Night Lament

[Apparently, I wrote this on 6.1.8 ... I'm not sure why I never posted it, but I just now found it again, and the timing is ... well, convenient, to say the least. So as it turns out, I guess this is the only poem (if you can call it that) I wrote in the year 2008. I didn't think there was one, but here it is. Enjoy.]

[Ambiguity is my middle name.]

Fifteen.
Fifteen.
Fifteen.
Lights are flashing.
The bass is booming.
Voices are screaming with laughter.
The temperature is rising.
Fifteen.
Fifteen.
I start to sweat.
My mind is racing.
Too many thoughts.
I look up into the dancing flickers of light on the ceiling.
I strain my eyes with their vivid trance.
I try to get my mind off the moment and pull myself together.
I sort through my thoughts;
I bite my lips in a self-afflicted potpourri
of anger, confusion, guilt, passion, shame.
Yet the only thought I can see with any semblance of clarity
is the one word sending murmurs across my lips:
Fifteen.
Fifteen.
Fifteen.
Nothing else crosses my mind.
I push it all out, anyway.
Fifteen.
Fifteen.
I know it's wrong, but it feels so right.
Isn't that how it always goes ?
I look down with a heavy sigh.
I see her face, and my heart skips a beat.
I stare into her shimmering eyes.
Losing myself, I close my own.
I can't help it.
It's always the same story.
Is it all in my head ?
My imagination running away with me ?
Or, worse yet ... is this real ?
Does it mean something ?
Fifteen.
Fifteen.
Fifteen.
Fifteen.
Either way, I end up disappointed.
There is no satisfactory option.
Fifteen.
Fifteen.

Do I cut off what I know will never work,
for what has the potential to last,
but which might be a daydream in the first place ?
Or do I pass up a chance at something better,
to stay with what has worked out up until now,
even though lately it hasn't been making me happy ?
Or can I somehow give them both a try ?
Do I act now, and make a choice before it is too late ?
Or do I wait it out, for Fate to run its trying course ?
Do I need to let these feelings settle into their rightful place ?
Should I factor in the look on her face when I tell her,
"there is another girl" ?
What if I don't love her as much as I thought I did ?
Is she still worth it ?
And if I do, should I let her go because of it ?

This is what plagues my sanity at two o'clock in the morning.

I had a dream the other night -- there was another girl
getting in the way of our togetherness.
I had a hidden, burning desire to be with someone
who could promise me more than a year if she wanted to.
I kissed her.
And after the initial shock,
it was the smartest move I had ever made.

Now, back to reality, I have a hidden, burning desire
to be with the one whose smile brightens up my day,
who chuckles at my small talk and expects no more,
who isn't afraid to go for what she wants
even when she doesn't know I want it too.
The one who has always been the best friend

a guy could ever have,
who has given my life that extra bit of flavour

just when I need it most ... 
for the past four years.

So should I kiss her ?
Maybe if I made a move

-- not maybe, definitely, I mean, I'm sure --
I could settle the matter once and for all,

and determine, quick-and-easy,
where to draw the line between fantasy and reality.
But then again ...
Fifteen.
Fifteen.
Fifteen.
Fifteen.
Fifteen.
I open my eyes.
There she is, humbly stunning as ever.
She sits down and zones out

of the sweating, the music, the dancing,
the headache-waiting-to-happen.
She doesn't close her eyes, but simply stares blankly

into the air, into nothing.
And I can sense that somewhere beneath the pretext

of her cheery demeanour,
there lies a deeply troubled girl

with everything on the line.
Fifteen.
Fifteen.
And I wonder whether my intrusion

into the melodrama of her life
will, in the long run, relieve her of her tension,
or force her into an even more uneasy position.

There is only one way to find out.
Fifteen.
My mind spinning, racing, fifteen, fifteen,
I resist the sudden, fifteen, heart-wrenching urge

to get away from it all.
Fifteen.
All I want to do, fifteen, is lie down somewhere quiet
and sulk in my fifteen lonesomeness.
But no, fifteen, that would raise questions.
Fifteen.
Fifteen questions are the very last fifteen thing

I need fifteen right now.
Fifteen.
Fifteen.
Fifteen.
Answers would be fifteen nice.
Answers.
Even just one would make my fifteen day.
But all I can think about is fifteen

bloody fifteen, fifteen, fifteen, fifteen.
There is no escaping the fifteen truth.
She isn't fifteen right for fifteen me.
It wouldn't work fifteen out.
It wouldn't be fifteen right.
It's wrong, fifteen.
All wrong, fifteen.
Fifteen, for goodness' fifteen sake, fifteen !
Fifteen, fifteen, fifteen, fifteen, fifteen !

I can't change fifteen.
Face it.
She is fifteen.

em dash

/mærd/

once again —

itching for some solid ground

a twitching in my irises

my thoughts immaterial

floating away —

i crave human contact

in this state of mind time does not pass

it bends blends blurs and makes shift —

quivering

a daydream shields my vision

and i thirst for words' accord

blankly i rehearse emoticons

for those who rise in silhouette

surround my name with comfort words —

bubbling up from precious-rare vibrations in my palm

they dawn at dusk like angels leaving hell

though i reside in an illusory zone

i still speak softly through this pencil

twining out loose threads of putty —

gently shaping grey matter like clay

into blocks of curls of furling chaos

neatly condensed by hand of muse

i pull poems from a meta place

to lift the strain upon my brain —

i never ask why

a social codex

"Recess"

[written on the night of 4.21]

Back in elementary school

Everything was simpler

It was all set up just right

You had recess, you had lunch, then you had lunch recess even

You were taken care of then

Nobody complained

The art of social interactivity

Was made a natural part of routine

When the bell rang, you knew

You could go outside and play and think of nothing else

And you knew all your friends would be out there with you

The boundaries were less defined too, less constrained

If you wanted to play with Dick & Jane

You didn't need to ask them

They're there, just find their social pod and play

They welcomed you.

Junior high, high school, and higher school arrived

You learned you wouldn't get recess anymore

But you still had lunch

You could live with just lunch

Visiting Dick & Jane at their lockers for some small talk

Walking with them between classes

You still got your fair share of human contact

It wasn't ideal but it would be enough.

But now you're in college

There's no lunch even

There's only class and going home, that's all there is

No longer do you have a chance to talk to them with ease

Instead we digitize our selves

And live our lives through screens

Playing out a make-believe in pixels

Pretending all along we know who our friends are

We become our avatars

Rather than speak we reach out textually

Rather than smile we punctuate

You tolerate it because admittedly

It's easier for you to open up this way

But still you think you might like to hear

The sound of voices now and then

And you can

You can hear their voices, of course, if you want to

But there is a protocol

A social codex of procedures you must follow to the word:

You have to expose yourself

You have to say "I want you as my friend.

Will you come to recess with me please ?"

It's like an ancient courting ritual gone wrong

And so, upon asking, you attend a café with them

But you don't get to play at this recess

You can only dully talk and burn your tongue on darkness

The thing is, actually, you're forced to talk

If you let a silent moment pass you lose points

They're counting, keeping track all along

And the whole ordeal is really a steaming heap

Of discomfort and all-around unpleasantness

The opposite of natural

Frankly, the mere idea of this thing called college upsets you

The fact that everyone around you is growing up for real

You know that nowadays Dick is out there somewhere fucking Jane

(When the kissing was enough to ache your heart)

And you're expected to do much the same

While your mental faculties are stoned to death

The liquor seeps in leaving sticky in its trail

It's such an insincere, corrupt eruption, wholly unattractive

It's all too much

And all you really want to do is be a kid again

The tetherballs and jungle gyms stand vibrant in your mind

A time when you could forget all your worries

On the playground

When life was yours to live