the somnambulists

The somnambulists
walk slowly,
precisely,
through the stucco promenade
made from figures
in their
minds.
Each brick,
is a fantasy
linking dreams
and gravity
like the soft, pink
umbilical cord.

Their processions,
in the darkest
space
of their minds,
will surely end
with coming of
each day.

September afternoon

I remembered that
September afternoon;
(already faraway)
how her eyes,
with strong velvet,
found desire
in the dusty photograph.

Hercules at night

Hercules weaves
the mountainside
like a fallen oak.
The moon seems distant,
surrounded by frozen stars,
as he drinks
the night.

The budding Persephone

The budding Persephone
drinks wine
surrounded by cypresses.
The crescent shadows
flowering from her
soft, olive hair,
cling at the earth.

I like the quiet

I like the quiet.
Watching the mute
grass
blow in the silent
breeze;
Seeing the soft, pink
lights
reflect off the stone wall;
Relaxing my body,
letting my day
go,
I like the quiet.

a scene

The ideal of beauty is simplicity and tranquility.--Goethe

Black
as a nightly shadow
in the middle of a
bright day,
the feline figure
sits
perched
on the uneven,
stone path.
Surrounded
by flowers
of all colors and
shapes,
she
(no doubt feminine)
stares into the
end.
A tree,
darkened trunk,
shadowed
by leaves aplenty,
stares back,
waiting,
waiting.

small verses

small verses

fill bits of emptiness.

furious petals

become natural drops

This will
emulate my stillness.

young

They were young
to the world.
Only she would compose
her vivid dreams.
Soon, he was like
her silhouette:
black,
suffering,
surreal.

Who questions
the blue, night voice,
brilliant
in my sky?
Listen, perhaps you
think I bring
secret poetry,
but I blush
and walk away.

when peaches
are ripe
and white
and full of light,
that is the moon
we are underneath
tonight.

moon

TALL,
proud moon:
rising about three inches
(from my perspective of
the ground).
Now I know
what Langston Hughes
saw that night in Harlem,
as he sat
listening to the world screaming.
This isn't a sliver of goodness,
but a giant,
ripe peach
floating in the night sky.

motivation

On every wall,
in every bathroom,
in every school,
there hangs numerous
inspirational,
reflective,
soothing,
pictures, quotes, poems.
I believe that their purpose
is to
inspire,
cause introspective thought, and
calm
teachers everywhere.
Instead,
they numb those
who are looking for escape,
and tease those
who need to escape.

Far away landscapes,
deep forests,
colorful sunsets,
only create a longing
desire
to leave your present life
in order to discover
other beauties.

Look within.

believe what one chooses:

you're ne'er too rich
in devotion,
amor,
soft breath,
desire,
and perhaps,

emotion.

you understand
a woman
when the question is:

how?

translucent

You were translucent,
yet once the
magic embraced
my universe,
this smoke
here
lingered.

You must listen,
perhaps
for an eternity.

And some accrue
lonely shadows
to make beauty
seem now.

But I pass through,
and I know
I can
belong.

patience

You'll strike beyond

anything

as                  long                  as
the planets
get crossed
in time.

laughter

My laugh always
surprises me:

Its rise in pitch,
slowly, but not
steady,
until it hits a
confused apex.

Its full voice,
which seems
funnier than
necessary.

I can hear it above
the coffee drinkers,
cigarette smokers,
flirtatious students.

I continue to
listen;
continue to
hear;
this,
my friend.

The hypnotic birds
are nearly in flight.

While they wait,
the windy night
rolls
quietly into
oblivion.

solemn aspirations

solemn aspirations
dwell:                                 statues
in                   thought.
The light is found
preserved
from centuries of

hate

patiently seeking
the meaning.

Moving cordially,
free of smoke,
I laugh of
what life is,
as I move across
the room.

To fainting thought,
I understand.

I have my dreams,
my heart,
the sunshine,
my life,
this dance,
and you.

beautiful

Sitting at the table,
surrounded by morning,
the OJ is
delicious.

Beyond the cloud,
patiently tingling,
silky stars look
for each other

perspective

You always have had
better perspective than me.
To be able
to take a step back,
maybe two,
maybe three,
and see ourselves
sitting on the couch
in our assumed
positions,
and know
we will be OK.

Perhaps my past,
growing up in a
melodramatic household,
where everything was
"NOW!" and "HERE!"
and every actions,
mistake, or movement
was the end of the
world.

Perhaps your childhood,
growing up in a
ironical family
with a cynical twist,
where you,
born second, but
raised the first,
learned to appreciate
the bumps,
and lived to see
another day.

You always have had
better perspective.
Will you teach me?

chocolate

If every companion
comforted like
chocolate,
I think my favorite
friendship
would be
dark.

I beseech you,
give this lover
no discontent.
My love,
torment me not,
but herein
sanctify
this poor peasant.

grapefruit

The downtown woman
inspects
delicious grapefruit
and asks,
Are you
ample enough?

The moon,
like the sun
and planets,
seem awake.

Tonight,
heaven is beyond
personal hopes.
We look,
patiently,
for the Northern moon,
seeing time
go out
like desire.

stereotypes

1. Americans hate Negros.


2. Americans do not care for their parents.


3. Americans have no savings; they spend everything they earn.


4. Americans are violent.


5. Americans think they are the best country in the world.


6. Americans have "sex scandals."


7. Americans are more open; not modest.


8. All Americans are beautiful.


9. Americans are independent and/or selfish.


10. Americans always think they are correct (i.e.: see #5).


11. Americans all believe in God and Jesus.


12. All Americans own guns (i.e.: see #4).


13. Americans are fat.


14. Americans don't hide any problems from others.


15. Americans don't follow/have traditions.


16. Americans have freedom.


17. Americans are always humorous, never serious.


18. Americans are wasteful.

1. Chinese people always study.


2. China is a poor, third world country.


3. Chinese people are dirty.


4. Chinese people have no manners.


5. Chinese people are overly-dependent.


6. Chinese people are too traditional.


7. Chinese people are not funny.

the words caress

Tears wiped
cannot be silenced.
A mother's love
is instant and
understanding and
polished.

The words caress.

Thursday afternoon or before a nap

my mind:
blank
empty

my pen:
dry
brittle

my life:
indifferent
insignificant

my poem:
finished

awaiting war

His needs;
our end.
Beyond desire,
fire happens.
Wait patiently
and the sun may
interfere.

She'd found the baby
missed by all.
Her surprise smile,
knowing
my life
would always be
a memory.

the room

The room is quiet
now.
I can close my eyes
if I want to
disappear.
I am invisible now.
People around me cannot see me.
I am an island
in a sea of solitude.
The silence brushes against my fingertips,
as waves brush against my beach.
I am alone with my thoughts.

We are in a room
talking together.
I am in control now, but
that can change.
If I get too scared,
I open my eyes
to the world
that was always there.

China
changes
patiently
beyond Heaven.

The Han,
like the sun,
keep hopes
tingling
and awake.

sometimes

Sometimes a word is spoken.
Sometimes I hug her just right.
Sometimes we exchange a single glance,
and my world has meaning.
She plucks the strings of my heart,
and lets the music escape
my soul.
Sometimes a smile is noticed.
Sometimes it is not.
But,
I am always here,
loving her secretly, and
unconditionally.
Sometimes a word is spoken,
and I say,
I love you my darling.

Shall I rebuild my dreams?

having gone
to tiny graves,
I see
myself

looking.

The approaching horizon
adorns the textured beach.

With silky fingers
I stroke the water,
funnelling desire
and the soft,
velvet
sky.

Life is beginning.
People are pure,
sweating holy water from their pores.
One cell
becomes two,
and soon
warm, crimson blood is flowing.
A heart is beating
its first
pulse today.
Eyes are seeing
a world
without pain,
darkness,
cold.
The tiny fingers of a baby
clamp your thumb
and you cry.
We are all born pure,
void of temptation,
lust,
greed,
hatred.
Today is the first day
when I open my eyes
and make it so.

On a particular
cloud,
each tingling
desire
floats
to heaven.

You'll interfere!
Touch no other
moon.
Look elsewhere.

Crazy Aunt Liz

No one
wanted this flower
to grow,
to stretch out
her petals
and bask in the sunlight.

Reluctantly,
the soundless,
dew-wet
cold
gives
impatient night-stars
such
soft
love.

Theoritical Dream

it's gonna be
another late night:
sore feet,
sore back.

can't sleep:
a theoretical
$58 in my pocket.
6:28 PM:
no one here;
why am I?

10:55 PM:
five minutes before closing;
no one is leaving.

11:55 PM:
still here,
waiting.

12:58 PM:
can't sleep,
Keane stuck in my brain,
with a theoretical
dream in my pocket.

employment limbo

alone
between a life
boring and sufficient,
and a life
that seems
almost too good
to be true.

I'm an unemployed
Kindergarten teacher,
is what I tell
anyone who asks.

Stuck between
$7.25 an hour,
$2.13 an hour plus tips,
$10.00 an hour, and
my dreams.

Waiting,
looking
to be in
the right place
any time.

regret

Looking out,
the pink sky
covers the snow-dusted dirt;
hills scattered, uneven.

I'm different.
A sunrise and sunset have passed,
and all has changed.
I'm no longer the special
oddity
she fell in love with.

The ugly maleness
(that I must take responsibility for)
seeped out for a brief moment
last night,
She no longer sees me
in the same
pink light
I saw these hills
yesterday.

I've ruined that
spark,
connection.
Sickness fills my body
like cold water fills a warm glass.
I'm condensing
in front of her
and she sees it:
ugly and cold.

I cannot change what happened;
only continue
to love her
unconditionally,
naturally,
easily,
(as I did before).

Dear all,

I cannot believe that it has been five months since I first started this poetry blog! It is amazing how fast time goes, no matter if you are documenting it through poetry or not.

When I first began this blog project, my goal was to transfer all of my journal poetry from the last few years onto a Internet medium. My most recent post, "On Death", marks the last poem from my personal journal. This is in no ways a sad occasion resulting in no more posts. On the contrary.

I have been suffering from a serious case of writer's block for the past few months. I decided to translate my journal poetry onto this weblog in an attempt to stir up some more poetry. I am a firm believer that poetry (actually, writing in general) is something that exists regardless if we capture it or not, and only betters through practice. I am excited to announce that with the publishing of my last journal poem, I have a renewed sense of everything, which I am desperately trying to write down.

So, look forward to some new poems via stan laurel. I apologize in advance for some of my poems, as they will probably be very "rough." Your feedback and constructive criticism is always welcome and helpful.

Sincerely,

adrian

synopsis

I write of wishes on stars,
words floating upwards,
of birds pooping on my head, French sayings, goosebumps and
needs.
I sing of love, smiles, touch, beauty, sunsets and serenity.
I sing of the softness of every summer night,
and the spirit of our love;
of breezes in the afternoon, night breezes,
love, lust, sex and passion.
How the stillness of the night
affects my sleep.

I cry out Rediscovery! from my
surreal dreams, insanity, fear.
Of proposals not yet asked and
mindful colors, words spoken,
smells of childhood, regret, and the rising sun.
I put forth these onto paper.

Of sadness:
mom, death, cancer, disease, hate.
I lay down these tears so that you may comfort me,
Embracing the sun,
I celebrate birthdays, anniversaries,
poems, wants, desires, tingling snowflakes.
I focus on withdrawn questions, quiet,
time, darkness, stars, Dad
and a lackthereof fatherhood.
I travel through deep forests,
winter, Kindergarten, sorrow, depression,
mystery, memories;
my mind meanders through life.

I write of questions, vows, grass, warmth;
I imagine ebony skin, dew and crescent moons.
I sing of jazz, dancin', my itching body.
I remember blackness, tears, Laurel,
vanity, graffiti, flowers.
Of my muse, white skin, soft, delicate hands,
I flame with desire, heartbreak and awkwardness.

Running toward the blackened horizon,
I think of nostalgia, butterflies, music.
I fear explosions, tempests, insomnia, China.
I feel hot, dry winds
appreciating my face.
I laugh of crazy Aunts, human nature.
I regret weeping over ashes.

Of all these things,
I experience in the dimly lit
still of morning.

in a bar (revised)

I stand
alone
among hundreds of
onlookers not looking
at me.

I drink
to drown the quiet,
but my ears are
numb
and
hot.

I wait
for her
to take my hand
and take me
home.

modern love

I hate modern love!
how expensive and
showy;
how everything must
sparkle and shine
and be written in the sky.
Love is no longer private,
for it must be shared
to be true.
Written in Hallmark cards
and placed beneath flowers;
sung in rhymed crap
that describe anything,
nothing,
to be true.

My love seems dead
as it lies inside,
too subtle for you.
I write it in poem
(not to be sung)
to document my life
that vanishes
in the sky
amongst the clouds, cards, flowers
without you.

Stop staring!
What are you looking at?
Am I really so different
from you!

You stare and smile and talk about me.
I can hear you, but
can't understand.
Is that it?
I don't understand!
I don't understand
your country,
your culture,
your language,
your customs.
I just don't understand!

I feel caged,
trapped
in a photograph
to be shown to who?
To you,
I must be dirty,
strange,
ugly,
different.
I am different!

I don't stare at you.
I smile
and say Ni hao!
You just stare
like I'm an animal;
a dirty,
different
animal.

The Hello's

Hello! Hello!
Please buy my crafts! They are antique!
Real Chinese antiques!
I have no money
and I need you to buy
something,
anything.
Please buy! Please buy!

Hello! Hello!
Please buy my calligraphy!
It's real! It's Chinese!
I have no family!
My child is sick,
he's mentally ill.
I need money!
I'll sell you one, two, three!
Please buy! Please buy!

Hello! Hello!
You stupid foreigner!
You outsider!
This is real Chinese antique!
You have no idea,
do you?
You'd buy anything
if I smile and call out:
Hello! Hello!
Let me rip you off
before you rip me off.

He is Shanghai,
with the space-like buildings,
the money,
the pace,
the abstract and concrete
streets.

He is business,
with the attitude,
the meetings,
the coldness.

He is everything fast
and
nothing emotional
(I miss my daddy).

in a bar

I stand
alone
among hundreds of onlookers
not looking
at me.

I drink
to drown the quiet,
but my ears are numb
and hot.

I wait
for her to take my hand,
and take me home

insecurity

Underneath my defenses,
behind my mask(s),
I sit
cold and hungry.
The warmth of my heart
does not permeate
the depths of
insecurity.

beautiful

Beneath the stained T-shirt,
filled with holes
and body's odor;
beneath the sunken eyes,
and dirty cheeks,
bits of food clinging to his mouth,
lies a boy
with worn soles,
and sore feet
and dirty hands;
but his brain,
his mind!
is waiting,
absorbing,
wanting to be reached
and taught something new,
something real,
something beautiful.

memories

I wonder if they remember...
as I zip up, button up coats,
tie shoelaces (double-knotted of course);
as I get on their level
because it is the only way for these small
beings to understand me;
as I distribute hugs evenly
for each student in class;
as I scold, discipline, manage,
but try to remain positive;
as I learn from them
(probably more than I can teach);
as I become their light,
and they become mine...

I wonder if they remember
the first day I arrived...
I wonder if they know
I was frightened,
striving for acceptance.
I wonder if they knew me
that way,
before I became someone to them,
and if they will remember me
in their lives.

headache

Ten minutes
before my lesson,
my head is pounding its dulled drums,
deafening my ears,
piercing that spot behind my eyeballs.
All I can do to soothe the sound
of my brain beating itself against my skull,
is read some poetry--good poems--
and write my pain
in ink that is running from my pen
too quickly.

to teach

To teach a calloused child,
one who does not desire learning
or knowledge or anything (it seems),
is like trying to sneak-up
behind a tree
and surprise its branches and leaves.

To teach a child,
any child,
you must sit in
the shade of this tree:
reading and writing,
drawing and coloring,
looking and asking,
until the tree
bends a branch towards you
and lets you climb and
understand and
believe in its leaves.

difficult

It's difficult to accept sometimes
that someone knows you better
than you know yourself,
trust yourself,
love yourself.

When I awaken,
there is no sound and
no darkness.
It is not early, for there is always someone else
already awake.
There is no darkness,
nor sadness,
for nothing has happened to make it so.
The moon still shines down on me,
but I talk to no one (not even myself).
It is an hour before I finally
speak,
or even utter a cough.
I sit in the quiet solitude
of the morning and
read some poetry.

Stealthily, I enter the lightened bedroom;
she can sense my sadness
without opening an eye.
I can't tell sometimes
if she speaks to me in her sleep,
or if her subconscious detects my pain.
I do not understand
how or what she knows
because I am me,
and it is difficult.

my pen

This pen has been so good to me:
soft grip warming my fingertips.
Its smooth ink painting my poems,
adding my numbers.
You have stayed with me, but
no longer,
for your ink has run dry,
and will paint no more.
You are just a shell,
and I must replace you;
this new pen is awkward!
My W's just don't look right,
and I feel forced.
Your body still feels warm,
but I know you are empty.

In the dimly lit still of the morning

In the dimly lit still of the morning
it is cool and wet.
Perhaps it is the fog or rain,
or just the dew-soaked grass
calling my name.
The morning has started for some,
but not for Nature,
for Her song birds have not begun their song.
The earth is beginning to yawn
and stretch out her arms to
embrace the morn.
I do not speak
in this inane
stillness.
I barely breathe
for I can begin to faintly hear Her song
calling to me, I still love you, Boy.
I still think of you often.

Soon, the morning will pass,
the breeze will slow,
just grazing the winter's twigs.
The dew will dry, and
noise will begin to fill the sky,
polluting the air; no beginning or ending.
Day will mature into night.
The air will begin to clean,
ridding itself of the dirt.
The cool breezes begin
as we all slumber.

In the dimly lit still of the morning
it is cool and wet.

cold, bitterest of colds

cold, bitterest of colds,
I stand outside the warmth of everyone
and wait.
Yawning, the cold ignites my gag reflex
and I cough wildly.
It looks as though I'm on fire
as the steam pours from my mouth.
I continue to wait.

cold, bitterest of colds,
January trees stand outside,
their branches shocked white
from the cold.
They look dead,
standing together
making this field (any field in January)
a cemetery,
a collection of the dead, white, branches.

We stand together,
the trees and I,
in this cold.
No longer alone,
I feel that we can face this element.
We can stand upon this frosted ground
and not let the cold overrun our bodies.
Together, we are immune from this disease,
and it will not spread
as long as we stick together.

Kindergarten cont'd

Kindergarten fills my body with hugs and love,
tears and pain, joy and laughter.
I feel it in the high-fives, and
the tantrums during library.
I hear it when Michelle questions and
Michael gasps, "Aha!" or "Oh!"
I see it in the use of colors,
in the infinite pictures and explanations.

Kindergarten lies in the heart of my students
within me.

Kindergarten

Kindergarten smells of dewy morning and
fresh crayons. In the quiet of the morning
I sit individual boxes on individual desks
and prepare for my day.
The lights are bright, but do not make me squint.
I can feel the learning that will take place
as it tingles in my fingers.

Today, my students will march in,
some smelling of lavender or Dove (freshly bathed)m
some smelling of the city,
people and fumes.
All will unload their packs
and begin the routine of our days together.
Phillip always awaits my approval, and
I will always give him what he needs.

Kindergarten tastes of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches,
made extra sticky so they stick to the roof of my mouth.
Or sometimes ham and cheese sandwiches
(also made sticky).
Cheetos, Dorritos;
Fruit Roll-ups, pudding snacks, yogurt (now in a tube for children
on the go);
Milk boxes, juice boxes.

Today, there will be read alouds,
exciting or scary, but always with a purpose.
There will be calendar,
counting and naming shapes;
weather predictions, graphing, and roll-call.
There will be Writing Workshop,
picture walks, Guided Reading, and modeling.
There will be problems (both math and playground),
and science experiments and manipulatives and
music (always music!) and gym.
We will always be moving and learning and teaching
and resting and laughing and crying and fighting.

Others may peek in
or hear a loud noise, and think that
we have controlled chaos.
Some may scoff as they pass on their way
to the copy room.
Some will definitely be anxiously
noting the standards taught throughout our day.

Inside my Kindergarten
life is being lived,
discoveries being made, and
learning taking place.
In here,
we will always remain children
as we learn about our world
together.

cigar

My lungs are still hot,
burning within,
from last night when I smoked the dirty, little, brown
cigar.
Its wrinkled skin fascinated me
as I gnawed off the end (my jaw is still sore).
Last night, I was finally able to light it correctly,
so that it burns hot, deep within, and
my lungs are still hot.

Last night, while my hands were numb
from the cold,
my lungs stayed warm
as the hot ash and smoke permeated
our surroundings.
I am sure the rough bark and innumerable
leaves still reek of our celebration.
Now the celebration is over, but
I still stink.
What smelled hot and sweet,
now leaves a white film on the corners of my dry mouth.
My breath smells of grandfathers and construction
workers.
I tried to cleanse myself,
so as not to stink my bedsheets, but
my lungs are still hot.

It was cold, freezing cold last night,
but the sun is beginning to warm the day.
Today, the air will smell sweet
and last forever.

writing instead

I used to lie awake waiting (sweat in my eyes)
for the images to come.
I would sit in coffee shops (even though I cannot stand its bitterness);
At breakfast tables each day,
thinking between the crossword clues.
I used to search for wisdom, inspiration:
Sandburg, Hughes, Bishop, Pound, Williams, and Whitman!
(Oh, what leaves of grass I walk upon looking under each step!)
Bending the pages of these poems,
I try to absorb their passions, words
by showing what I have read.
I write about love
always love!
But, I have been defacing American poetry,
Spitting in the eyes of greatness and
expecting inspiration!
I have crushed leaves of grass instead
of placing my ear on their tips
and listening to their songs.
It is time to read, write, read, write!
Sitting in my chair,
writing instead of
waiting.

I lie awake at night
feeling the adventure before me.
I can't help but think
if this is where I am fated to be,
or if I am just following.
Is there anything with following love?
My heart has never been wrong
before.
I picture her walking towards
me,
hands outstretched,
ready to lead me
to China
and all its mysteries.

The pillar supports
Its building,
Withstanding the tempest
Outside.
It decorates and
Structures, but
Burdens itself.
It shows you how
Elaborate strength
Can be.
But in the end,
It stands alone.

music

The music playing above me is a white, satin bra.
I am wildly obsessed with fondling the notes.
It tickles my earlobes as I cock my head back and laugh aloud.
I can taste its sweet skin on the tip of my tongue.
My laughter echoes within my head.
The ocean, and its misty music, clouds my nostrils with its stench, making it difficult to breathe.
I am reminded of a long, wooden pier, peering off into the horizon.
I can see clearly now, the muddy notes floating in space above me.
Stevie Wonder stares at me telling his thoughts of downtown Harlem.
I'm blind, as I've always been.
Staring at seashells washed up on shore, I think back,
Schlepping my memories around with me.
That is why my mind is empty.

The talented musician of ecstasy continues to seduce me
until I am faint from sleeping too much.
I melt into this seat and stick to its soft leather.
Adrian had the power to listen to my words,
but I failed him.
I will stop listening soon, and go home to emptiness,
and drink dry water until I thirst for something wet.
I will eat when I am full, and starve my empty stomach until
ich habe eine groesse Hunger fuer Musik.
This soft chair tells me that the song is over for today,
But tomorrow echoes in my mind already.

eulogy

May 20, 2005

When my dad asked me to speak today, it was difficult to sit down and sum up how I feel about my Grandma in a short passage. What can I tell you about Marie that you don’t already know? What can I possibly say in this short time that will honor her in the way she deserves?

I suppose all I can do is tell you what my grandma means to me. When I think of my grandma I think of food. I think of strong calves, and her flipping around in my dad’s slippers that were five sizes too big for her. I think of her beautiful German accent on my answering machine. I think of her simplicity and her cleanliness. I think of her immaculate house with clean sheets. I think of the washcloths she made. I think of her inability to sit still. I think of her amazing vegetable garden. I think of waking up to seiza panna kuche. I think of her smell. I think of how hard she worked. I think of her kitchen, surrounding me with food—always. I think of her soft voice. I think of how much she loved. I think of her little feet. I think of Laurel. I think of her laugh: it was great, like a chuckle. I think of her drinking coffee with Aunt Frida. I think of how she would sneak sweets, even though she wasn’t supposed to, and the face she would make: like a little kid knowingly doing something wrong. I think of the amazing adversity she lived through. I think of how she would take out her teeth before bed. I think about how she was always concerned about her family. I think of how she never complained about anything, ever.

I love my grandma Marie so much, and she makes me proud to be a ________. I am proud of where my family comes from because she was such a model of goodness. I will always carry these things with me.


YEARS FROM NOW

Too far away to see your face
As you flip through these poems a while,
Somewhere from some far off place,
I hear you laughing—and I smile.

--Shel Silverstein

Upon hearing my grandmother had died

Meine Oma
ist
kaput.

Teary-eyed nostalgia

The kind that makes you look up at the sky
and want to travel down that broken path again.
The breeze of a Fall evening,
just before the sun hides itself away,
you feel it--cool on you face
while it warms your heart.

The smells of yesterday
begin to permeate memories.
Days, months, and years
are all remembered
through your nose.
Breathe deeply,
sink deeper into that blackness inside you.
Look for that time when we were all starting
anew
and children ran in circles
yelling at the sky.

forever

Our world blinks,
instantly changing
ere we can even breathe.
Our life is that warm feeling
when no worries
ail your mind.
Our body is temporary,
waiting to be filled again
and start afresh.

My darling, do not worry.
For our love is everlasting,
surpassing reality,
strengthening as we continue.
My heart may stop beating,
my eyes close permanently,
but my love will continue
forever.

from my mother

I have not spoken to you for some time now.
Why did you hurt my son the way that you did?
He adored you more than anything.
You used him,
tricked him.
You tricked my husband--he is stupid and blind.
You didn't fool me.
I knew of your tainted intentions.
I knew because mine are the same.

I am you.
I am selfish and did not want him
to love another
(he will, though, no matter how selfish I am).
It is no matter that you came along,
that you caught his eye.
I don't need a reason to hate you!
He loves me and no one else.
(Why must he love another?)
He is mine.
I carried him for nine months and
almost died delivering him.
I need his affection; just as you do.
Now you are gone;
a tainted memory,
a scar on my son's heart,
but so am I.

lotion

soft, delicate hands
strong, silent engagement ring
treated cuticles with
polished nails
(pink of course)
smooth, experienced,
aching hands
needing to be rubbed

Folding ribbons of lotion
into her hands,
the routine continues:
one finger
over another,
tilting her wrists,
rocking back and forth,
back and forth,
until lotion disappears.

The hum of a butterfly's wings
is the warm sand beneath my toes.

Her hair sways its leaves
in the night breeze.

"How do you work the night moisture
into your hands?"

She notices me watching,
waiting for her hands to be moist.
She looks up,
"My hands are dry," she says.

sneeze

A hurricane
brews deep down
inside my nose.
Spinning, churning,
the storm gains strength.
I feel it growing,
its powerful winds
waiting to attack.

Rains come crashing down
soaking my sinuses.
Howling winds blowing
in my head.
The time is approaching--
so take cover
PLEASE!

Soon,
soooooooooon,
soooooooooooooooooooon,
I
will


SNEEZE!

I wish I could fly

I wish I could fly.
I would fly through the streets
late at night
listening
to the soft, humming
world.

I would fly close to the ground
barely missing my nose,
closing my eyes,
feeling
the vibrating
world.

I would soar in the sky
diving into clouds,
letting my tongue
lick the soft, damp
air.

itch

Millions of ants
march their way up my arm.
Beginning at my fingers,
they drag their
feet
as they walk
to their own
beat.
They are in no rush,
so they take
their time.
Their destination is unknown,
but I feel them.
Millions of ants with
billions of feet.
Slowly,
I feel their travel.
I wish they would STOP!
or go home to their mounds of dirt
in deep crevices.
I scratch my arm
trying to stop them
from marching.
I scratch my arm
and still
I ITCH!

privacy

He knows
the camera
watches him;
he is awkward
and uncomfortable.
His movements become
rigid
doing a
monotonous task.
The camera
clicks.
The picture is taken,
and he relaxes
once again.

muse

You are my muse,
sitting in the branches,
presiding over me
as I write
beneath the tree.

You are my muse;
I make love to you
in my journal.
I turn the pages
of our bed,
and write you
between the sheets.

You are my muse,
gazing down at me
from above.
Dangling your long,
golden strands.
I smell them.
I taste them.
I write you.

You are my muse,
the one with whom
I obsess.
You are my life.
My life is this poetry.
You are my poem.

tulip

This yellow tulip
grows among its flock of spring flowers.
They blanket the ground:
spring and yellow beauty
stretching to the sky,
reaching for sunlight
to kiss their petals
with a golden hue.

A single petal droops.
This tulip
opens more than the others,
exposing her
precious nectar.
Her petal bends down,
as the brim of a hat
faded with age.
Her edges
fringed.
A passerby
grazes it
with his/her pant leg,
coattail, or
spring dress.
She remains
alive
still stretching
for sunlight.

Soon,
she will fall,
sooner than the others;
but for now,
this tulip remains
outstretched,
included
blanketing the ground
in spring.

My eyelids are heavy
slowly beginning to droop.
They feel like
dumbbells;
my eyelids
are curling these weights.
They try to stay open,
but the weights
are winning.
10lb. weights are getting
heavier,
and h e a v i e r,
a n d h e a v i e r.
Soon,
my eyelids will
drop this burden,
and I will
sleep.

ZYX poem

Zebras are
yellow, living on a
xeric plain. No
water is found as the sun
vexes their dry bodies.
Understanding my mind,
trying to interpret the
sounds
running through my
queer dream.
Possible
omens that I will
never understand.
Mere sleep
lasts,
knowing how
jilting
imagination is to my
head.
Go from me, this
fantastic illusion.
Eliminate this
drone of
consciousness
before I
awake.

ABC poem

After the
blackness fades I
cry.
Don't let the sun
erase my dream,
for it may never return.
Growing
hot
inside, my love
jerks at my
kind heart.
Love
makes me
notice the
open air
perfuming the dew,
quenching the dry morning.
Rustling leaves
sound in my ear.
Time passes
underneath my
very soul,
water leaves my eyes; her
xanthophyll complexion
yearns to be dreamt of as I
zealously close my eyes.

untitled

Snow dancing in air
bringing a smile to me,
floating to the ground.
I see it collect,
blanketing the grass.

jazz

A lone, black man
walks home
late Christmas Eve.
The streets empty,
except for snow.

Jazz on his mind
warms his soul.
Snow dusting his smooth,
brown skin.
He's not afraid,
but rushes home to his family.

Quiet night,
warm beats of jazz.
He steps
closes his eyes
and goes home.

dancin'

Pointin' my finger,
shakin' my hips
side to side.
Movin' to the music,
dancin' a little.

Snappin' my fingers,
feelin' the beat,
closin' my eyes
still shakin' my hips,
movin' a little.

Feelin' the room,
move as I move.
Feet are tappin'
dancin' a little.

itch

My body itches and
I write feverishly,
scratching at the paper,
a burning I cannot ignore;
a urge that must be satisfied.

Ink flows through my veins,
bleeding myself
to relieve this pressure.

Thoughts, images, words
they must be words!
Struggling to choose the right word.

My body fatigues.
I am weakened, but
writing.

I sweat profusely
trying to put these words together;
not a poem yet,
not until my heart
stops beating,
my shaking hand
scribbles the last
words, and
i die.

My body itches...

writer's block

My mind is stuck
for lack of a better term.
The lights are on, but
the music has ended.
Writing is like listening to music
for the first time:
You close your eyes,
visualizing the notes;
You hum the rhythm
inside your heart.
Listening intently
looking for the right words,
for there are only right words
(no left words to listen for).
If you hear your music,
write it down.
If you cannot,
enjoy the silence.

think

one, two, three, four....
I think, think, think.
I think of my father,
and how he thinks of me.
Does he respect me?
Does he love me?
I think so.

I think of my mother:
two years ago, she passed away.
I think of the stale hospice,
the cancer, the grasping for breath, for life,
the death.
What was she thinking
in her final hour:
Does she think she lived a good life?
Did she think that I loved her?
I think so.

I think of my brother,
away at college.
I hope he is thinking,
any kind of thinking at all.
I think I should give him
more credit, but
I think he doesn't care.
I think I love him,
regardless of our past, our history.
I think he is capable,
if he only thought so.

I think of my family,
my life.
I think I have lived a good life.
I didn't used to think this,
but I think things will work out
in the end.
If I think happy thoughts,
I think I can fly.
I think life is short,
so I think
I will start living.

winter

I always liked winter the best.
The mornings I would awake
to a light dusting of snow,
the cool, crisp morning air
biting at my cheeks.
I always loved how light reflects off snow.,
turning night into day.
The grass, the trees, rooftops,
the whole world
seems covered by winter.
Winter makes me think of Christmas.
Winter makes me think of staying warm,
but enjoying the cold.
Winter makes me think of hot chocolate
and warm kisses with cold noses.
I think of snowmen, egg nog, icicles.
I always liked winter the best,
when I spend them wrapped up
with you.

to dream

I want to close my eyes, and
begin to dream.
To see all my thoughts,
riding on the merry-go-round of my mind.

Begin to dream,
seeing each thought move up and down.
Riding on the merry-go-round of my mind,
my Body wants to rest, but my Mind wants to think.

Seeing each thought move up and down,
who will win this battle over my soul?
My Body wants to rest. My Mind wants to think.
I think, I sleep I dream, I wake.

the forest

I am standing in a forest
Silence surrounds me
I am alone
I can see my family,
The ones I love,
But they cannot
See me

A stark realization blankets me:
I must leave them
I must turn around and leave
No good-byes
No last minute love to share
No time at all
I feel the force behind me
Pulling me toward it...
Toward the loneliness
I want to stay, but
Cannot
I want the warmth of life,
But I am cold
i am dead.

the forest becomes gray
the color of a storm
it is raining, but I cannot
feel
the rain on my skin
i am not wet
i am cold
water touches my cheek,
but it is only a tear
one tear:
shed for my life
shed for my love
shed for the warmth

i must go
to a place i do not know
i fear the unknown, but
most of all,
i fear leaving
I fear being alone.

I ask
the pages before me
looking for answers.
All that responds is another
poem.
Are there too many poems?
Can there be too many?
No one criticizes emotions,
laughter,
sadness.
Why must poetry be different?

The ink is my tear.
The world my memory.
My hand is the mind.
My arm is consciousness.
My body is the soul.
The poem is I.

surrounded

An hour can seem
like a moment
when you sit in the blackness.
The night surrounds us,
seeps into our skin,
and becomes us.
We are black
as the night.

Sitting on an old bench,
surrounded by blackness,
we are intimate.
A canvas of lights
lies before us.
We talk into the lighted dots,
to each other.

What is the purpose of life?
Love.
Hate.
Love turns into Hate.
Hate turns into Love.
I love my mother, and
hate her for dying.
She loves her sister, and
hates something, someone, some being
greater than us.
She hates explanations,
people saying it is better this way.
This is what God wanted.
She hates because she loves.

We breathe in.
the blackness fills our lungs,
does not leave us as we exhale.
The lights are still listening.
An entire city,
listening.
The wind blows.
It is easy to worship
the visual,
the world.
It is difficult to worship
God, any god.

I hate being mislead.
I hate being confused.
I hate that my mother is dead.
I hate that my brother is wasting away his life.
I hate that my father is unemotional.

Sometimes, I wish I were less emotional,
less worrisome,
less self-conscious.
Sometimes, I wish I were all the things
I am not.

Explore the world you live in.
Do not stop at the end.
Begin in the middle,
continue through the end, and
end where you begin.
Here, you will find yourself.
You will see a new beginning,
from which you can begin again.

I am drawn;
pulled toward something:
other conversations,
other lives,
different moments in time.
I am surrounded by
discussions.
People living;
voices heard,
smiles noticed,
solitude felt.
There is something more,
I seek,
something I must find.

I am drawn;
pulled toward something.
It is warm.
It is beautiful.
It is you.

Everything good in my life
begins
and ends
with her.
She is the warmth on my cheek
as the sun awakens me.
She is the first raindrop
captured in my open palm.
She is the tingle of a snowflake
melting on my tongue.
She is all of my experiences,
all of my thoughts and memories.
She is my life.

argument

Why does the mind say what
the heart does not want?
Why do I say
what I do not want?

I can't stop.
I can't breath.
I can't do anything right.

Why do I even open my mouth;
Why did I say those things
to her?

focus

I focus too much on
the sex sometimes.
On how many times this
week.
I don't focus on
the love sometimes.
I am a selfish bastard,
sometimes.

I focus too much on
the noise our fights make.
They make my ears bleed
and numb my head.
I get dizzy when we
fight.
When will it stop?
I worry too much,
sometimes.

I focus too much on
the money sometimes.
Too little, not enough.
Money leads to fighting,
and fighting leads to
noise.
My ears bleed.

I focus too much.
I focus, and still focus on
her.
I never stop focusing on
her because she is
my air, water, and fire.
She is my life, and
I love her.

Her hair tickles my face
before I close my eyes.

My arm fits the groove
of her body
before I sleep.
Her smell fills me
as our breathing becomes regular.
I press her body to mine
as I begin to dream.
We lie in each other's arms,
in the position we have memorized,
because it feels right.
We feel love.
I close my eyes and see
our past, present, and future.
They are interwoven together
with our love.
Pieces in my mind, my heart, and my soul.

I hold my girlfriend,
my fiancee, my wife.
I feel my lover, my best friend,
and a part of myself.
I feel myself connect with her.
I don't want to let go.
We sleep now,
the way we will when we are gray,
We love now,
the way we will in forever and a day.
If time should stop,
let it be now,
as we bask in our love, our shield
from the world.

Her hair tickles my face,
and we sleep.

father-stuff

Am I filled
with the same father-stuff
as he:
coarse and cold
and hard?

If so,
let me rip apart
my seams,
tear out my insides,
drain all my blood
onto the floor,
until I am but
a shell.
Then, let me
find some new,
father-stuff:
white, soft,
warm and close.

Will I love
my child
the way he loved me:
distant, cold,
task-oriented?

When I become
a father (my father?)
please let me
find some new father-stuff.

poet again

I want to be a
poet again.
Perhaps I never was
one, but
I want to bleed
my feelings.
I want my soul to grab
this pen from my hand.
Let me show you how to feel!
I want him to take over:
The Hopeless Romantic that
I used to be.
She love me more then,
or so I think.
She says she will always
love me, that man that I am,
but I could make her cry
once.
She would read, and my
words would blur in
the pools of her tears.
Was that me?
Am I lost?

I want to be a poet
again.
I want to write her,
and pour my feelings
over her.
She would drink them like
sweet water,
because
she is dying of thirst.
She needs the romance.
I need it, too.

I want to be a poet
again.
I never stopped loving
her,
feeling her.
I never stopped.

Mom

I have gotten in trouble
since you past away.
I have waited for you to yell,
but I cannot hear you.
You are not here.

I have fallen deeper into love,
Mom.
More so than when you were here to
smile at us,
or shake your head in disapproval.
You are not here to tell us
what our future holds.
You cannot be a grandmother.

I have done things
since you past away.
It is all I can do,
because you are not here.
I must continue to live,
because you have died.
I wish you were here,
but you are not.
I must continue to live and love.
I must, and I will.

anniversary

I want someone to watch
adoringly as she sleeps.
I want someone to kiss goodnight.
I want someone to hold my hand.
I want someone to talk with me.
I want someone to smile when
I laugh.
It is wonderful to love her
so beautifully
with desire.

I watch adoringly
as she sleeps.
We kiss to quench our passionate nights.
We walk together
holding hands
my heart in hers,
her heart in mine.
We talk until dawn.
We smile, and our bodies are united.
We love and cry;
we hold each other
encompassed in adoration.

Time comes and goes,
the years sweeping through us like a warm breeze.
An eternity has passed
and been shared within our hearts,
our souls, our bodies.
Oh, how love lets us live!
With every passing day,
the bond becomes stronger.
I love you, my sweet darling.
How I look forward to
rediscovering you
with each breath I take.
Every moment in time,
as my eyes open,
I love you again.

magnetic poem

Think sleep, friend, and ask why you truly fall into it.

Do you escape the wake?
Do you visit the familiar?
Do you stay because you are afraid to leave,
or leave because you fear staying behind?

Essential shadows rob some goddesses of their dream.

Some steal your sun,
some comfort the lonely.
Are you the goddess they seek?
If you look too hard, they will disappear.
Dream sweetly, my goddess, and let your shadow listen.

When you dream, do you hear the colors in your mind?

I love in whispers,
languid and delirious,
beneath my dreams.

I shine on your beauty,
and soar through these black moments.
Yet, the wind will blow in my face.
Guide me through.

I lust behind her music,
her gorgeous power.
I am a frantic ship in a winter storm.
She is a petal, the light I see.
Her skin is smooth and bare,
a wanted picture
that I keep in my mind.

The thousand weakest shadows will not cover me.

hate

I'm scared
when he calls someone a faggot
or uses other hate words.
I'm scared
when he raises his voice.
I'm scared
when his friends come over,
and I can hear the beer bottles clanking together.
I'm scared
when he uses drugs.
I'm scared
when I'm alone with him.
I'm scared
when I sleep.
I sleep with my door locked.
I'm scared
when the brother I used to share a room with
disappears,
and I look into the eyes
of a monster.
I'm scared
when we fight.
I'm scared...I am so afraid of him.
I'm scared
that he will read this poem,
and hate me even more.

stillness

The stillness of the night
blows in on a cool breeze.
The room is still,
as I lay working on my bed.
The soft humming of a fan in the corner,
and the soft clicking of my keys
is all that is around me.

I have slept to those sound before,
but tonight I am awake.
I am alive with ideas about life and love.
I try to express each thought,
but all that emerges is my silent voice.
I want to tell people of the shortness of life,
about the richness of love,
but that has all been done before.

What is left to write about?
The questions I ask myself ring inside the tower
of my head.
My mind climbs each staircase
searching for answers:
one answer, the answer, any answer.

The stillness keeps me cool and relaxed.
I let myself wander,
and I think of her.

Her golden hair, so bold and bright,
lays on her soft shoulders.
Her hair seems to be sleeping on the softness of
her self.
Her lips touch, subtly.
Only the finest, most soft bristles from a heavenly brush
could have painted those beautiful lips.

My face is relaxed, but my mind races.
My body is still, but my heart pounds with the fullness of
life and love.
My skin is cool, but my blood flows hot when I see her.
I am a quiet spring morning.
She is my hot sun burning bright within me.

In the calmness of my room,
her love is rich and warm and full.
In the stillness of my body,
I long to hold her.

untouched

It sits
untouched
by time and by my father,
waiting for her return.

I would not say
unkept,
but still neglected
and unfinished;
still waiting.

Unfinished projects
frozen:
half-painted walls,
half-fixed fences,
half-healed hearts.

Passerbys
do not notice
(if they stop at all)
the stiff
architecture;
the stagnate
air
lingering within.

The house
is her
and she
is dead;
yet remains
untouched
waiting for her return.

Let me ask you:
have you ever been
in love?
I mean, really in love?

Do you know what it is like
to wake up smiling,
to sleep smiling,
to need someone as much as
I do?

Have you ever gone outside
and smelled the sweetness of the air?
Have you ever tasted kisses
so sweet
that you become addicted?
Has a hug ever given you
goosebumps?

I have.
I have loved.
I have needed someone
and been needed.
I have spoken her beautiful name,
and smiled
because I love her.
I have looked into her eyes
and seen my children
smiling back at me.

I love her with my whole heart,
mind, body, and soul.
She is here with me.
She loves me.

a reminder

Your smile warms me.
Your touch calms me.
Your kiss sets fire to my soul,
and quenches my desire.
Your look tickles me,
and lets me know that you care.

I love you,
for the way that you love me.
I love you,
for the way that you touch me
with your eyes.
I love you,
because you are mine,
and I am yours.

You are beautiful;
not the way a flower is beautiful,
nor a painting.
You are beautiful
in a way that words cannot describe.
You must be seen to understand.

Your touch warms my heart,
and puts me in a state of
serenity.

I love you,
more than I love anything or
anyone.
How could I compare
the love I have for you?
To do so,
would shame you.

I love you,
my love.
Never forget me.

position

The light from his nightstand
caresses his face and softly presses his
eyelids shut.
He lies on his side of the bed in the
familiar position of his marriage.
Years and years ago,
he and his love created this position,
and he will always cherish it,
if only in his dreams.

cat scratches

A friend wrote this and asked me to read it. I was amazed. With her permission, I am posting this for others to read.

cat scratches

To them
I am a way in.
I am the connection they can’t make.
I know the secrets, and the lies.
I have to give them something—-- mostly
Hope.
They make me give them something.
Hope that she is okay.

To her
I am a way in.
I am the connection to them that she refuses to see.
I can try to explain them.
I have to give her something--- mostly
Assurance.
Assurance that they love her.

But I have to defend her to them.
And I have to defend them to her.
I am always defending.

Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?
Why is she hurting herself?
Why don’t they understand?
Always, WHY???

They couldn’t handle it.
She wouldn’t handle it.

But all I can see is blood.

My head is swimming in blood.
Her blood.
Claire’s blood.
It moves in slow motion, but instead of her sitting there,
Looking at me,
Her face wet with tears,
She is lying there,
Cold and blue.
With all the blood.
I am standing here, trying to be strong, trying to defend,
But the blood is drowning me.

It looked as though she had flung her fucking arms around.
Intentionally spread her pain all over the floor,
For me to clean up. For me to hide.
And I did.

So I am standing in her blood, their blood, my sisters’ blood,
Trying to tell them it is okay,
She is okay.
She won’t leave like Claire did.

So I am standing in this pool of pain,
Trying to tell her that they understand,
That they are okay.
They know you aren’t Claire.

“Don’t fix me,” she says.
She also said, “They are only cat scratches.”
And they laugh out of fear.

But all I can see is blood.

all things beautiful

Ebb and flow throughout my short life!
Why must time be categorized,
organized,
filed away
into our minds?
Are you and I not one
in the same day?
Do we not exist,
but for the love and beauty
of all things?
Are there not an infinite amount of sunsets
(glories of life)
in the course of a day?
Can we not visualize our purpose
unless
it has a deadline?

Closing my eyes,
the clock stops its tick-tocking;
the cars stop their honk-honking; but
my heart continues beat-beating.
In the darkness of my mind,
time is eternal, it is pure and is made
from my blood and tears.
Time does not exist
for every atom in my body
(My body, my soul
does not move back and forth.)

In sleep,
all things are peaceful,
eternal,
pure.
In death,
the ebb and flow will stop,
and all that will remain
is love
(a love for all things beautiful.)

Under the apple tree

Under the apple tree,
the warm sun sets behind a purple horizon.
Patches of green grass
scratch our legs and
the knotted trunk itches my back.
We sit together.
80 years could pass,
all in one day,
and our love will be just as bright
as the sun that sets on
our lives together.

Under the apple tree,
we are at home
in our embrace,
and the apples ripen.

I'm sorry that you can't see
our love on TV.
It's not the way I am
to always get the lines right
or always have my hair combed.
Our love is not a music video,
or a country music song (I'm not that tragic).

To me,
our love is:
picking me up when I am sad;
kissing my nose in the dark;
biting my shoulder in anger;
Our love wouldn't make
a good TV show.
It's only special
to you and me.

She comes to me at night
when I feel alone
and want to be left alone.
I don't want to be touched,
but her warm fingers
dry the tears falling down my cheek.
She speaks softly and
holds me until
the world is a better place again.

Please, my love, let me hold
your hands tonight.
Let the snow fall softly outside,
painting a winter scene.
All the beauty I need
sits before me.
Let us celebrate our love
tonight
on this winter evening.

Focus on what lies ahead
as you wander afoot.
The horizon may look bright
and sparkle in the distance.
Many things might catch
your keen eye,
but lo!
sometimes what is most important
lies directly in front of you.

You don't think I love you
the way others do.
You don't think I need you
the way obsession needs
its fix.
You don't believe
what we are capable of.
You love me,
yes,
but its not magic or special,
just normal.
I don't believe a word you say.
You can't convince me that
I don't feel magic
when I look into your eyes.
I may not share us with the world,
or say what you want me to,
but I feel its special
inside of me.

I don't need to tell people
of your beauty
for it to be known.
I don't need to show off
our love
to be proud.

Ah, Whitman!
The leaves of grass may be dead,
yellow and brown,
covered with a littering
of sharp pine needles,
but the ground is warm
and smells fresh and new.

I chose to sit in the shade
on this side of the tree
that slopes upward
toward the concrete school.
I want to face downward,
downhill, but I want to feel
the strong, rough bark of this tree
hold me in the breeze.
I feel safer here,
so I try to avoid glancing
at the school.

In order for you to understand,
I must look, but understand
I am doing this for you.

It's depressing, really, to see
the sun warm its cold, white walls.
The sun does not differentiate
between concrete and grass
(although it should).
It shines, warms every body,
tree, building, and child's head.

The juxtaposition of grass to concrete,
city to nature, warmth to cold,
is understood by us all.
Thoreau is not the only one
to notice the banks of Walden Pond.
Nor Whitman,
as he sat and cradled the leaves of grass
capturing their infinity
for us to understand.
The difference:
Thoreau, Whitman (and now myself, I suppose),
continue to notice and
continue to write.
But they are dead, you say,
They cannot write!
Ah! But they do, for
they write through me and in me,
and by me.
Thoreau: in every drop of water;
Whitman: in every leaf of grass.
They are still here,
and so am I.

I'm glad I chose this side of the hill.
I'm glad I chose this pen,
and this day and
this sun.

Oh sorrow! Oh depression!

Oh sorrow! Oh depression!
That which I hold so close to my breast
and dispel out of time and existence.
Oh sorrow! Oh depression!
From what cold, black pool
did you arise
to take me into your darkness?
I can feel you
sinking me deeper.
All that I see, feel, breathe
is your cold blackness
surrounding me,
grasping me by the throat.
Let me sing! Let me breathe once again!
so that I may rise
from your ash
and fly with the burning phoenix
over the dull horizon
toward the sun.
Let me feel my heart
beat again
so that I may awaken
the slumbering armies of the Northern skies.
They will march in beat
with my heart, and
shine with courage
down upon my brow,
and lead me to a place
of white light and heat
where you do not belong, and
cannot exist.

In the style of William Carlos Williams (or poems about nothing):

I have tasted
your icecream.
It was cold
and sweet
and wrong
to do.




I'm sorry
I slept
in the cool sheets
on the soft mattress,
under the warm blanket
of our bed.
I missed you,
but
it was nice
to sleep.




I know you are mad
because I am
late.
I was distracted
by the pool
of slush,
blackened with soot,
outside our door.




I'm sorry I'm
late.
I
could
not
stop
writing.





Do not be mad
at me
for not paying
attention.
I was
writing
of
love
and
you.




I know you are
mad
because I am
sad,
but sometimes
I cannot help
it.




Bright
Hot
Tall
Flickering

Standing
on
a
desk

waiting
to
be
snuffed
out.




Dead
and
red

upside
down
hanging

tied
together
bundled
together

dried
and
beautiful
roses.




One
second
at
a
time:
Tick
Tock
goes
the
clock.




She
loves
me,
she
loves
me
not.

Purple,
soft
collected
petals.

She
loves
her
daisies.




Still
and
quiet,
collecting
dust.

Green
waxy
potted
soil
sprouting
inside.




I am sorry
I let the candle
burn
all
night.
I like
watching
the
wax
melt
and
the
flame flicker.




Clear,
swirling water,
stained porcelain:
cool to touch.
It is beautiful,
but it comforts me,
rests me,
and swirls
when it flushes.





Behind the shadows,
next to the matted carpet

where stagnant odors
sit in waiting

lie pairs upon pairs
of dirty shoes

waiting to be worn.




I can smell its stench
floating through cracks.

I know that beneath
the lid
atop papers, bottles,
coffee stained filters,
and used tissues,

lie piles of soft,
glistening
pieces of a
dead chicken.

I am
a flame
burning
brilliantly
for you.
My lips flicker
in and out
kissing your skin,
bringing warmth.
My eyes glow,
adoringly gazing,
casting shadows
onto your face
I am hot.
I am sexual,
burning.
I do not stop
until I am snuffed out
of existence
by a cold hand.
My passion burns,
melting my waxy body.
I drip
collecting on the coffee table.
My passion runs
down
my
side.
I am bright,
I am brilliant,
I will love you
until
I
am
no
more.

The teabag bleeds into
the hot water,
slowly oozing its nectar,
like a deep, red wound,
red river (split in two),
darkening--becoming pungent.
Hot blood in my coffee cup,
just below boiling point.
Who has wounded you?
Are the ripe, red strawberries
in my cereal your brethren?

Bobbing up and down,
the blood continues
without cries of pain
or shock.
I feel sadistic,
watching my tea bleed,
waiting to drink from its cup
as though ritualistically sacrificing
an animal and waiting for its
blood to collect in some holy, tin cup.

While balancing an orange
on the round tupperware,
its lid blue,
stained with red chili,
I think of Jared
and how he still sucks his thumb.
He's nearly six
and once his lips have pressed
around the knuckle,
creating a tight seal,
he lapses into infantile reality.

It happens so easily,
how children (adults, too)
can lapse into childhood or childlike states
of mind
I wonder what he thinks of:
whether he was breast-fed or
bottle-fed,
whether he nursed for long?
He's a stubborn, whiney child,
but so are most adults.
Where can you draw a line,
separate the cognitions,
mark the maturity levels?
As a teacher, I can't make
him stop.
I'm not behavioristic and
he is not a Pavlovian dog.

I wonder if he feels
his mother's breast
pressed up against his cheeks,
her hard nipple
squeezed in his gums
providing him comfort, security, milk.
Or maybe he feels the rubber nipple,
soft and elastic,
squeezed in his gums
providing him comfort, security,
grainy, sticky formula.
Maybe he doesn't think at all.

No matter,
for if I push my orange
it will fall and roll onto the floor.

Within these walls

We've retreated to our corners.
We didn't fight;
We didn't yell.
We're trapped
within ourselves,
within these walls,
within this country.

We've bounced off the walls.
We laughed,
we cried, but
there's no where to go.

Sometimes,
we just need to retreat
inside,
in order to save our sanity
within these walls.

the waiting room

We enter
looking for fulfillment
and friends.
We are escorted
to wait patiently,
quietly
as they process our lives;
a year of our lives.

Our surroundings:
dull, polluted;
wet, cold;
crowded, uncomfortable;
foreign.

We wait.

We're bored.

We're confused.

We're frustrated.

No one talks.
They come to escape, make money,
and immerse themselves
in China.

We still wait,
hopeful.
We want to stay,
be happy,
but we're lonely.

Should we leave?

We entered
looking for fulfillment
and friends,
and found nothing.

adoration

Sitting across from one another,
she speaks
of mundane intricacies;
he gazes at her.

Everyone notices
his affection for his wife:
his smile,
his iridescent look,
his patience,
his quiet
self.

My eyes glaze over
as she continues.
I do not listen,
only nodding accordingly and politely.
Perhaps others
notice my rudeness
at the dinner table.

My mind wanders,
but does not stray.
I only think of
you,
but
no one
notices.

Modest Proposal

We have discovered ourselves
in these past years.
We have separated,
only to become stronger,
together.
We have loved each other,
with each passing day,
and felt as if
we have known each other always.

When I close my eyes,
I think of you.
I do not think of the past
as behind me.
It is a part of me;
as you are.
I do not reach for the memories,
because they are not forgotten.
They create who I am;
as you do.
Together,
we exist only for ourselves,
for today.
I see the woman before me:
your eyes hold our past,
your arms wrap around me.
I see and feel
the past in you.

We have discovered ourselves
in these past years.
The leaves will continue to change,
ripening colors,
over the years.
The snow will continue to fall,
dusting our hair as we kiss:
cold noses,
warm lips.
The world will continue to change
as we hold each other close.
My love for you
is as constant as change itself.
I will love you forever
as we change together.

#1 son

Dad,

I read a card that stated
some special Dad,
some particular Father,
is special because he helps his son
with his homework.
Because he plays catch
in the backyard; probably
on a hot summer afternoon,
when your skin is sticky with sweat.
Because he comes to his son's
baseball games, or
football games, or
soccer games.
It doesn't matter.
It doesn't matter because
you have done all those things for me;
for all of your sons.
I'm your number 1 son, but
I could not get you that card.
I could not get any of those cards
because those are the wrong actions.
Every Father does those things.
I think it might be a law or something.
Every Father's Day,
I look at the shelves of greeting cards,
shelves of little boys' "thank you's"
for doing those things.
But I cannot thank you for doing those things.

Did you love me?
Do you love me now?
I'm sure you do (or did).
All Father's do;
every father loves their son,
especially their #1 son.
You must know what it is like
to have that title.
To be reduced to that number:
#1 son.
The pressure of holding it together.
You were your dad's
#1 son.
You were the only son to go to college,
to get a diploma,
to get recognition.
Are you satisfied?
Does Grandpa love you?
I hope so, because he is a Father,
and Fathers are supposed to love their sons.

I do love you, Dad.
This is why it hurts so much.
That your love is so
old fashion,
German,
abstract.
You do not show me your love
everyday.
You cannot play catch with me
anymore.
You may love me because you are
my Father, and I am
your son, but
I do not feel that I have won
your love.
Earned my title.

To love me is to know me.
To love me is to respect me.
You do not know me.
You do not respect me:
The woman that I love (her name is Ellen),
the life that I am (a school teacher),
is what you must love.
You must be proud of me,
because I am me.
The son who is a teacher, and
fell madly in love with his highschool sweetheart.
I may be making mistakes,
perhaps the same ones you made.
I may not be living the life
that you want me to,
but you must love me, because
I am.
I am living,
I am loving,
I am being a son.
Please love your #1 son.

You can relate to wanting a Father's love.
Grant me my request.
If not for a son,
your son,
then for a fellow
#1 son.

A breeze blows in the night.
With it, comes the inevitable
future.
It smells of childhood memories past:
crayola crayons, glue from the teacher's desk.
It carries with it,
the wisdom of life, and
blows over us while
we sleep through the night.
We close our eyes a child,
and awake an aged face.
We inhale the cool breeze of life,
but we cannot let it age our spirit.
We must remain always a child.

Take me out of this moment,
this place in time, and
invite me to our home,
smooth and quiet.
We can take my boat and
float down this milky-white river
and pass the rows of yellow tulips.
I will speak to the raven
overhead and ask him to find me.

Take me to your cobbled streets,
and show me the wide buildings
crowding the shops. Let me
sit in the cool corner
under the giant basil plant.
I want to smell of mint and basil,
so let me bathe in your sun.

I can feel us nearing
the bright, green clearing,
and smell the stones
of the short, wide homes.
I can see the raven calling
and the rain falling.
I am here;
we are near;
I do not fear
anything.

preface

Please do not let my last poem scare you from commenting. I promise: I don't bite.

on writing

I close my eyes and write.

How is it that you read my words and
mark up my pages,
bleeding across my poem?
How can you tell me that
I am no good,
when in the silence of an empty classroom,
I see shades of grass,
veins on leaves, frozen on the ground;
I hear painful cries,
joyous laughter, ink flowing out of its pen.
I taste my life,
and it lingers in the back of my throat
before swallowing.
I feel my poem.

I do not listen to you
talk, and
slap you in the face and
while you're stunned on the ground
kick you and spit in your eyes.
I do not rip out your tongue,
replace it with another,
and have you begin again.

I may not dazzle you
with my range, or
exhilarate you with my intimacy and grace,
but how can I express to you
when you do not listen with my ears?

I close my eyes and write.

what the heck?

I have had no luck publishing. I write something only for it to disappear and not publish.

mysterious country

Mysterious country,
why do I hear your call
across miles of deep sea?
You seduce my fiancee, and
she cannot help herself.
But I can; I can close my eyes
until I no longer hear your clanging symbols.

Mysterious country,
why can I smell your food, your people, your skies?
You entice my curious nostrils
with your ancient bean curd and your steamed
dumplings.
But I can mask your perfume (sweet as it is)
with American cuisine (not really American at all),
or by burying my face in the night.

Mysterious country,
why can I taste your salty waters?
The Yangze silt sticks in my teeth
and smells my breath.
I can taste your pollution
and it makes me cough.
I must wash my face clean of you
so I do not continue tasting.

I can still see you,
mysterious country,
in my fiancee's eyes.
You will not stop seducing
until you have me in your shops
and food markets.
I cannot kiss her
without kissing you.
I cannot make love to her
without you.
Why must you haunt me and
scare me?

I pull away.

Why do you touch me,
arms stretched,
when I fight you?
I curse you and run from you,
but you cradle me in your rivers.
You shield me in your ancient mountains.
Hold me, please! and do not let me go.
Seduce me until I love you.

testing...

What is going on with the spacing?

today, tonight

I awaken to a world of
familiar surprises and
sacred rituals.
Here, in this place,
time is not Time, but
the continuous smelling of
fresh-cut flowers on the kitchen table.
Poetry is our menu and
dancing is our trip,
strolling down each aisle
looking for tortillas, apples, chilies.
Sleep and wake are not defined, but
merged thoughts co-existing
with the fruits and vegetables.
Addicted to these feelings,
we prolong this world and
make it our own.
We cannot waste what is not real, and
today, tonight,
is a surreal expression of weeks past.

S.O.S.

I AM NEED OF CRITICISMS, CRITIQUES, RANDOM THOUGHTS, RAMBLINGS, PRAISES, AND ALL OTHER UNNECESSARY COMMENTS.

PLEASE CHECK ME OUT AND LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK.

two children

It is human nature
to want attention
without showing it with others.
And how severe is this selfish nature
if we are civilized people?
Two children approach
the same wooden seat of a seesaw,
splintered and worn past the grain.
They fight for that sore seat
until someone gives up, (someone must always lose).

This may be innocent enough,
even a little childish, but
reconsider those two children
as siblings.
As time withers down, past its own grain,
the seesaw becomes unimportant.
Mom, who do you love the most?
Two siblings,
wearing down their poor mother
(who does it to herself sometimes)
until she is old and broken.
Even then, they compete
instead of time-share.

One child
now lives by the sea
and has forgotten poor mother;
one lives in the same old farmhouse,
harboring jealousy
over time less spent.

Both have memories,
polluted memories
reconstructed to include comparison, greed, jealousy.
Both, now, want their mother
close to them,
so that these ashen memories can be sealed tightly
in mother's urn.
To make room, they must split
poor
mother
between the two.
They divide her
because they love her.
But, they will never be satisfied.
One will always wonder which sibling
got mother's better half.

release

A handful of sand, blowing in the wind,
distributes each particle on each
blade of grass, petal of a flower, droplet of water.
Hold me in your hands and let me fly
in Nature's face.
Let her kiss my face! and distribute me thus.
Do not weep for my body;
do not let me rot.
Release me from your touch,
and let me await your soft breath.
Let your tears quench my thirst
and cleanse your body from grief.
In a box, dark and damp, I cannot
feel the warmth of the sun.
Let not the grass grow from my decay,
but sway and bend from my kiss.

on writing poetry

I lie awake (sweat in my eyes)
waiting for images to appear.
I sit in coffee shops (though I cannot stomach coffee's bitterness);
at breakfast tables each day,
thinking between the crossword clues.
I search for wisdom, inspiration:
Sandburg, Hughes, Bishop, Pound, Williams
and Whitman! (Oh, what leaves of grass I walk upon
looking under each step!)
Bending the pages of these poems,
I try to absorb their passions, words,
by showing what I have read.
I write about love,
always love!
I have been defacing American poetry.
Spitting in the eyes of greatness
and expecting inspiration!
I have crushed leaves of grass
instead of placing my ear on their tips
and listening to their songs.
It is time to read, write, read, write!
Sitting in my chair,
writing instead
of waiting.

I did not appreciate her
until I left.
I did not know her
until I understood her
and I did not understand her
until she showed me the depths of myself.
I did not love her
until I recognized it
in the gentle touch of an elder couple
strolling down the street.
I define myself through her
and with her, I experience the world.
I did not finally touch her soul
until she touched mine.

The Candle's Flame

The candle's flame
flickering in its bowl,
flashes a butterfly's shadow
upon the wall.
Its patterned wings flutter.
The rim of the bowl
curves the butterfly's wings
making an arched span.
Simple in beauty, hovering on the wall,
complex in specifics,
I admire its beauty
until a gust of wind
extinguishes the butterfly's flight
(it's soul rises up, pours into the sky, and
disappears).

A shower in the summertime

The hot, dry wind
blows against my clean, wet hair.
My shorts stick to the
backs of my wet legs.
A shower in the summertime
makes the dry heat
feel refreshing.

The pillar supports
its building,
withstanding the tempest
outside.
It decorates and
structures, but
burdens itself.
It shows you how
elaborate strength
can be.
But, in the end,
it stands alone.

fighting

The silence
(between two lovers)
of stubbornness
aches my head,
aches my heart,
is deafening my ears.

The silence,
(between two lovers)
of disappointment
nauseates me,
makes me bleed from the pain.

The silence,
(between two lovers)
makes my words shrink.
I freeze...my body is tense.
I feel myself drowning
and it seems to get quieter.
I wait for it to pass
so I can breathe again.

The mute sits under a tree
drinking her tea as
the explosion burn my face.
I fall to the earth
waiting for the sun to rise,
in the darkness,
screaming and crying.
She cries, but does not move.
I scramble to escape.
She feels her tears,
the intense light and heat
moistening her pant leg.

Running toward the blackened horizon,
the sky is nice and big tonight.
I see shadowed mountains
wrapped in the space of the night.
I feel warm here
waiting to envelop the night and hug the sky.
There are plenty of stars
shining on me,
so I extend my arms and reach outward
until the smell of the evening lingers on my
fingertips.

Her white skin,
pure,
soft,
lightens the night.
Brilliant white
intensifies her angelic, satin gown
hugging her
sexy
white
thighs.

Tonight...

The crescent moon
glued to the black canvas
smiles down on me
asking for help.
I am mortal
who cannot help such a fantastic moon.
You can. You are special says the fantastic moon.
Please smile. Do it for me.
I smile, and the moon
throws a single star
across that black canvas.

Mother's Ashes

The house where she lived (or continues?)
grew cold after she passed.
I can only imagine the intense heat,
blinding, sweaty stinging in my eyes, of the crematory.
Now, I sit by the gas fireplace and
get a chill down my fragile spine
as the skin on my back heats slowly (I feel no pain).
I sit and bake and think of my mom.

The primer is still on the walls of the entryway;
her Martha Stewart attempt at interior design.
I stare blankly at the line where she stopped,
the blinding white juxtaposes the melon green,
staring back at me as if to say "This is when that
tumor debilitated my arm."

I can feel the cancer when I enter the door.
I can see it on the walls, and feel it in the air.
It stinks of emptiness, loneliness, death,
making it easier to weep.
The cold, white kitchen-tile stabs sharply
at the balls of my bare feet.
I feel dead all around me in this morgue
(and half expect to see frozen bodies:
eyes shut, skin cold and damp--like raw chicken)
in the drawers
where my father now keeps his knives.

The bedroom is the worst by far.
Walking in, I imagine the mortuary in MT
where I had to view my grandfather.
The carpet was a deep burgundy and
matched the backing of each pew.
Row after row, the pews (with all their hymnals and bibles)
gently led me toward the front.
I marched manditorily and tried to avert my eyes,
but his cold, dirty, blue skin froze me still.
His hands were swollen
from the embolism.
My father grabbed his hand quickly as if to
catch him from falling deeper into death.
He thurst this hand in my face, but I only
winced and stared at his suit: neatly pressed
and freshly smelling of mothballs and chloroform.

Nearing the waterbed where my parents slept,
and made love that one night I walked in,
I want to see my mother,
cold and pale.
Her urn distracts me.
The shrine my father has made scares me.
Her ashes are so close to that bed and
I feel nausea seeping through me and
it feels like the disease.

Our house feels haunted, but its not.
She cannot be a poltergeist, and phantom,
the urn is sealed tightly
and filled with ash.

a letter

Dear Mr. Hughes,

I am not black,
but I know that you love me.
I have never met you,
but I know we are friends.
I do not need to meet you,
or touch your ebony skin.
I read your words, and
I feel you.
I listen to your stories, and
they speak to me.
We have never met, but
I can hear your voice.
Soft and sweet,
you speak to me
telling me everything's going to be all right.
Your words are encouraging
telling me to write
from my heart.
I feel you next to me, and
I know that you are smiling.
I am not black,
but I know that you love me.

Mr. Hughes, you are unconditional.

Tonight, my mind meanders

through the pages of my soul.

I read my thoughts in the ink of my pen,

surprised at their

outcome.

If I am quiet,

I can hear the smooth

ramblings of my head.

If I concentrate,

I can understand.

Lying face down in the grass,
my face is moist.
Dew collects on my hair,
but I am sweating also.
I breathe now, not having
done so for some moments.
The grass smells of summer.
The blades scratch my face.
I open my eyes, but
cannot see.
I am disoriented, but
breathing.
How long has it been?
I roll over, but cannot
move.
My mind is processing my movements.
My body is dumb.
The fresh air fills my stagnant lungs.
The sun warms my back.
At least I can feel it now.
I melt in the sun and slowly move.
Pain seizes my joints,
but I face upright.
I see my reflection in the
sky
next to Lucy and her diamonds.

With ebony hair,
black skin offsets tight, dark curls.
His silhouette stands.

Laurel, MT

(1) North side (NW end):
Driving into town,
past the tracks,
the smell of sulfur
hangs in the air.
Tall cigars,
stacked next to tall factories
smoke themselves
into the sky.

(2) South side (SW end):
The train has left
its fingerprints
riding along the ground.
The train has circled
the lake
waiting for salmon to return.
Blue collars stay blue collars
in the Laurel working end.
Grandfathers take their grandsons
fishing in an empty lake.
If we could find one,
Grandma will fry it up
when we get home.

(3) East end:
Homes line the streets
separated by rocky alleys.
Alleys that connect the town
flowing through the houses.
These are the veins
of Laurel.

(4) West end:
Tractor tires lay in
overgrown weeds.
Indentations mark a
faded diamond
where children still play
(as in 1953).
Saturday nights
we gather together
cheering Laurel's children.
No winners,
no losers,
just baseball.

(5) Laurel sits in the middle,
beating life to its state.
Roads come and go,
but Laurel continues beating.
Early in the morning,
among the quiet trees,
you can hear it
if you close your eyes
and open your heart.

watching my mother in the morning

My mother paints her face in the morning.
Her vanity is ugly:
the bleached curls
sit delicately on her shoulders,
bouncing as she shifts her weight
(every curl has its perfection).
Her face is beautiful.

Lines on her face
pave her experiences;
they show her age.
Cover those wide, gaping
lines,
graffiti over the years,
until you look
23
again.
It is perfectly done.
She is still ugly.

poetry

poetry:
listening
until my head aches.
Close my eyes.

poetry:
listening
until it soothes my aches,
my sorrows,
my being.

For Claire

It's usually late Fall when we embrace
the cold of the dark morning,
gather the assortment of dried rose petals
we have been collecting since this time last year,
and visit your mountainside.

I knew you before I was introduced to
the ritual of your visit.
When your sister asked me to join
your family, I wanted to
cry inside.

For the past two years,
you have been this untouchable,
beautiful force.
undaunted and innocent,
you are in every conversation,
every dinner, every picture,
every day, and
I want to cry
because now,
you are in me.

I never thought I deserve you
(still, I do not),
but you embrace me
and surround my life.

So, in late Fall,
when the sun and moon are
arguing in the sky,
we visit.
I have never felt
such bitter cold and warmth
at the same time.
It smells clean
on your mountainside and
I can't help but smile
because this is no memorial for loves lost;
it is a memorial for life.

Rose petals
piled in my mitten hand
begin to take flight and dance in your whispers.
Can you feel the metallic underwater
of the dried petals?
They shine like a new watch
before they swirl downstream,
pinballing against your rocks.

Your sisters are beautiful and playful
as we all skip across your mossy meadow.
Mike compares us to animals:
children frolic first
for exploration, and
the watchful mother surveys
and protects.
Mike asked me to join him in the rear
as part of the male watch.
I was honored, but still wanted to play.

We are a family, and the cold
soon disappears, but the wind picks up
the more excited you get.
We laugh, play, and sometimes cry,
but we always take a picture
so we can tell others (less fortunate)
about your mountainside.

twelve

1.
Her naked back,
silhoutted in the darkness,
is relaxed.


2.
An odd shape,
pools of white
reflect my image, my stare.


3.
Surrounded by the ashen forest,
a clear meadow
shines in the moonlight.


4.
The bright light
blinds me momentarily,
for I need to stare,
but remain in the shadow.


5.
Shielding the delicate,
it is powerful
and makes her strong.


6.
Sloping toward the shades of gray,
I cannot tell which side is up,
or where to begin searching.


7.
I am intimidated by the sheer
face of hte cold slope.
I begin my climb,
but cannot finish.


8.
Sliding down her spine,
I cannot control
my movements.


9.
Heat radiates
and she begins
to glow.


10.
The ridges
of her vertebrae
are stacked like building blocks.
I want to play.


11.
Still and cold
her stone
collects snow in patterns.


12.
Water running
over her shoulders
collects at the nape.

The sun will rise over an array of houses,
spreading itself thinly over the tile roofs.
A couple will embrace each other,
welcoming the naked morning,
after spooning the entire night.
Bread will be watched
by a baker, as it browns slightly.
He will admire its color
like a father admires his son's hair
in the sunlight.
Many things will happen,
as this naked morning dresses for its new day.

But today, the sun will be warmer.
Its color will fall on my face, and
I will smile into it.
We will embrace each other,
and unfold our tangled bodies
from a night of stillness.
I will admire the color of your hair.
I feel warmth as sunlight falls on my face.
My eyes are open, and your smell
is on my skin.
It is a sweet smell, and I must kiss you now,
before this urge takes over my heart,
my soul.
I am gentle because you still sleep.
Today is a wonderful day,
filled with unique richness.
When you open your eyes,
I will tell you that I love you, and
wish you a happy birthday,
because today
is your day.