second is the perfect place under a full moon

you were down, because,
you lost in the finals, again,
and no amount of chocolates, or flowers,
could console

and so i came over.

i told you not to feel that low, that,
“in the event of a werewolf outbreak,
you can melt your silver medals
into bullets. or shurikens,”
since you hate guns but
love ninja movies.

i thought a hint of a smile
crept up by the edge of your lips,
though not quite fished
out of the water, yet,

and so i said,

“that bitch who beat you (again) can go
find herself a stick, it’ll be handy
in the off-chance the werewolves
would like to play fetch.”

and so i got a full smile,
out of you, dare i think even
a little laugh, out of you,
you little perennial
loser you

and so i was glad.


and i was so glad
i could not suppress the howl.



2017.aug.09

other R

one day,

i stumbled
upon one of your stories.

enamored mostly by your temptress,
that tempest, your muse,
i wanted your muse
to be mine -

in my whimsical mind
in a minute built her a shrine, then a church,
in an hour built her a city of cathedrals -

and i wrote the end of a dalliance -

.:.

except, that once,
that one time, you stumbled
upon my story, and you could not,
no, you would not,
let it expire

you did not make your muse mine.
you did something special.
you made me hers.

.:.

brother, you were a stranger,
brother, you were nothing
but a scowl in a profile picture,
you were nothing but words,

just words, only words that did nothing,
except: promise
that we will get along fine
when we meet.

- never did - never will -

stranger, brother,
in your contagious amicability,
you dragged me
into a trek through a text conversation,
talk that yielded a treasure
hoard of discoveries obscenely larger
than the time
invested procuring.

you told me a secret.

the kind that i should not,
i could not,
i would not,
share with the universe.

you gave that to a stranger,
this stranger -
me -
why?

am i left to find an answer -

maybe it’s this:
brother, you were far
richer in terms of human
affection, where you were warm,
i know i am
a cold bastard

maybe, that one time,
you already knew you would have
so much to bring in
an afterlife so full that
you could afford to spare me change;

that you thought me empty-handed,
that i needed to be armed,
like with one of your secrets,
this secret -
to bring to my grave,

one day.


2018.jan.11
+ RIP RSH +

dust

the dream is to remain, retain
knowledge as soulless remains,
after this Armageddon

the dream, is to be conscious dust,
perhaps rust, upon shards
of a shattered Excalibur

the dream, is to stay awake, even
as heavens break, even
as hells overflow
and cosmic dirt settle
and remake the planetscape

the dream is for you and i
remembering the why, as to
our purpose on this earth,
whether it was to sink together,
into new oceans, infiltrate oysters,
be one pearl? or was it to swirl
around every wind pattern,
rewriting our favorite epics
in cursive, until we inflict
ourselves upon the new man
and terrify him into religion



2017.june.15

ocean

if i may coerce you into
partaking in my delusions,
today i invite you to think of
social media as an ocean
where each of us maintains a harbor
from which we fish bottles from the water,
each with a message, often
the caliber of garbage,
but in rare times we get one
that has your name on it, and
the story that comes with it
tells of your fall in your battle with cancer,
but it also tells of your valiance and defiance,
of you yielding no spoils to your nemesis
outside a small decimal in statistics,
and that way you will have at least
left me a little satisfaction,
instead of this mundane, ordinary, tasteless,
numbing experience of having learned
of your demise via a social media comment tag,
when we both know you were meant to have
an elegy bards would have
sold their mothers for


11.may.2017

spend your skill points on small talk, trust me

if words were solutions
to the complex problems between us,
that distance,
that void
that demanded to be filled,
was i,
out of my depth -
not knowing the right words
that could have pulled at you,
or did i need to find
that hidden combination?
was i close,
was i so,
far off -
had i the wrong things,
the wrong words?
had i the wrong accent,
the wrong language?
had i the wrong problem,
had you the wrong me -


2017.apr.17

i can't put my head on

on my shoulder is
a sinkhole
the size of
a small galaxy
it is from
that one time
your head needed
a rest from
the rest of you

i don’t remember you
leaving bodily
liquids, at least not
the kind that
can burn through
skin and
flesh and
bone but
there’s this sinkhole
your face left on
my shoulder

i can’t put my head on
an angle, one that
allows me to
look deep into
myself through
this sinkhole, but
someone risked one
peek into
the abyss in
the middle of me
and she told me
many dark things i
already know, and
then she told me
my heart is
missing

so this is
what it is
all about, i wanted to
ask you, if you had
anything to do
with this. if you
took it, will you
return it, what do you
want in exchange,
where and when; and
i am sorry if you
expected me to
have caught you
in the act, i was too
enamored with
watching your hair
in an affair
with the wind, lapping
at my cheek that day,
receding, surging,
surging, receding,
the softest
tidal waves



2017.feb.23

screw, sonically

you may never guess
the number of times i have
deferred my extermination,
i have lost track,
lost count, myself,
nor have i kept
a tally of the many times
i have evaded deletion,
or consumption by angels,
or by the Silence,
or other extraordinary perils
from every pocket of
the closets of time,
but you,
you would have fallen
to any of them, unless you
have this same thing i do,
in my pants,
this wibbley-wobbley,
this timey-wimey,
pen-like thing,
which we strive to convince everyone
that it’s just a tool meant
to push metal pins
around tiny, finite,
minute
spirals


2017.feb.16