Sunday, January 24, 2010

forever

a glass tower to the high blues
seems neverending from the ground
walk a few steps up and you're right
there on the windy penthouse top
now the first step, later the sky
who said it would take forever
when the staircase always stops.
but little girls' hearts break
when the high blues fall down
and the forever tower crumbles
down to the neverending ground.

Sunday, May 04, 2008

fluid

water on your cheek down to your belly
without the salt, without the sugar
i saw you smile at the monkey in the cage
maybe it knows you stole the space in my mind
and laid it out in the sun to dry
to shrivel up for keeping and loaning
when the rains come and you'll be gone
without a syllable or a wink like old times
who cares about tears when there can be
space.

Thursday, October 20, 2005

sweets to the sweet

i put all my ranting in a box. it may seem pathetic. nah, it is pathetic. to find him in the folds of a sterile night and find he is shackled to a million wishes is muck. c'est la vie. one cannot have beauty in a box. all that you can cram into the box of a time would be colors, bright colors, that wash away with useless tears. no time for tears. no space for tears. laughter, perhaps?
sodden sheets and grime-laced notebook pages and madman smiles on plastic frames...beds are never the same without the spirits that shake you.
tomorrow, i have to smile again. c'est la vie.

Friday, August 26, 2005

bracken

how pan's love is so difficult to imagine...there's no such thing as impossible, but there is such a thing as insane or mad or...pathetic. and i sit with a hundred needles piercing my head, some of them going through my nosebridge, my brain a porcupine inside-out, my heart finely minced with all the grassblades munched by pan's goats. will i ever move from this squeaking chair? will i ever move from this dreadful rickety chair that's bringing me nowhere but here within the stone-cold walls of my mind?

even my blood is sludge, not flowing, just inching its way to i don't know where since my heart has been reduced to pulp. for it to thin, i have to bleed, but i do have a wound somewhere, somewhere in me, where everything else is bracken and black and about to fall apart. i have to find that wound.

oh, god. where is pan?

Friday, August 05, 2005

secret love

in a village at the foot of three scraggly hills lived a goatherd with his faithful dog. pan the dog would go about his tasks everyday with the fervor of every herder's dog; he would make sure the goats stayed in the grassy area his master chose and led them to their quarters at the end of the day. he was, by all standards, an efficient assistant, and he could not imagine himself any less.

pan was very proud of his job, and he was quite contented with the life it gave. he had the luxury of sleeping in his master's house, eating full meals, and going to the town plaza with the family when he could. all the other dogs envied his comfortable life, yet they admired his tenacity and perseverance in his work. it was not difficult to like him; he was a pal to everyone.

he had everything. except for one thing.

at the end of every day, he would curl up on his master's porch and search the night sky. he would see her once in a while--her pale round face framed by thick long purple hair with garlands of tiny ice flowers. she was everywhere but beside him. and he wanted her.

he looked forward to the end of each day, for the chance to have a glimpse of her. but she would not always be there. maybe she had her own herd to take care of. it's not that she was hiding from him, because sometimes she would be smiling down at him. she was his only company on cold nights.

and yet it pained him to see her just as it made him delirious: she was of the sky, and he was of the earth. and all loyal farm dogs mix only with their own kind.

still, he wanted her.

one chilly night when all the lamps were extinguished, pan walked out to a patch of grass and looked up at her. there were tears in her eyes, and they fell lightly on his face. why are you crying, he asked. pan wanted to get closer to her and hurriedly climbed the rocky ledge of the hill. when he was on the highest point where no trees could block his view, he howled with all his might that she might hear him. please, dear lady, don't cry. and he howled again.

suddenly, her arms reached down to him in swirling mist and wind and she kissed him. pan was lost in her embrace and the ice flowers on her hair became flames, and he became one with her.

tomorrow, he would be back on the fields with the goats again. he would still be faithful to his master and carry on his duties. he would still be the popular dog around town. and he would be with his beautiful lady, when they meet again.

Friday, July 22, 2005

and why

i find gray in my glass of water, gray in my biscuits, gray on the sheets of paper piled on my desk, gray on my sneakers, gray in the mirror...there must be something missing, or has the sky fallen? i have a beautiful little girl who isn't so little anymore, a beautiful advisory class who can sing and dance and play ball like pros and still see me as a great person, and a beautiful lover tucked in the shadows of imagination. and yet i see gray.

it must be the tears. or the mote. or whatever's bugging my eyes...and head...and heart. gray is a wheel that has no spokes but turns in crazy slow-mo movements that kill you with dreariness. or perhaps it is the dreariness that drugs you. or is it dreary at all? or am i just mixing a paste of dreariness to coat my eyes? and head. and heart.

i must see a zebra tomorrow.