January 28, 2016

Eventually you just have to rip it off. In the process you wish the wound would come off and stick to it so it becomes disposable, but it won’t. You put soap on the gash to remind you of life and convince you that you are human. You’re a dreamer. But the clouds in your head scare you. The rain, you say, is too much and the basin of your brain can’t hold the thoughts waiting to break free as flood to wash you away, wilted. Even water hurts flesh that’s sensitive to harshness. The band can conceal the sight, but when it suffocates the severity, you’ll realize how it is devoid of aid. You look forward to a scar, the palpable possibility of closure. You will trace it with a finger that trembles at the mention of memories. Anticipation has never been this mending.


Inch Fairy

October 22, 2015

I wonder what’s it like to softly twirl a ghost cigarette tween my fingers and rest it dangling on my lip, moist as your name, imagine you, an inch fairy with frail wings, skipping from one smoke circle to another until you become one with the soft vertical cloud halos, now disappearing from light, ascending to air, a thoughtful figment on this wry, thoughtless day.

Ode to Washed-Up Children

September 5, 2015

Are we not all like children riding our own little boats, braving the uncertainty of this ocean whose waves are larger than us, than our boats, than the tsunamis waiting to tear down the cities we know, just so we can forget and turn away, only to get washed up on the shorelines of nostalgia, sleeping, lost in a dream where we find no need for boats, for the sea, for the waves, just us, soft light attaching to our cheeks, floating, in the kiddie pool dad has set up for the summer?


June 18, 2015

Your hair, a typhoon-ravaged backyard. Your shoes do not match your watch and your watch doesn’t match your reflection. You watch: monkey as emulated indignation. You pull the minutes back, release them all in a chosen hour hoping to shoot the day to the moon. You walk longer routes for songs to finish playing, movement of clouds and balloons—a somber painting. Where do these beautiful dolls come from? Head in the supple hills of their chest, you dream of a girl whose skin you sink in. Like Titanic, there’s death in the depths of these days that put a dent on your head.