Category: My Poetry & Fiction

The night is too thick:
Highrises' lights vague and dim;
Air stiflingly chill.

A corporeal rebellion arose,
demon king goes cell by cell,
whom body could not expel.

the brownian drift
of the gray bubbles of smog
scale to atmosphere

I got home feeling so very tired.
I boiled some water to make tea.
The tea bag hung in a glass.
Hot water put off steam.
Time gnawed the edges.
In the water,
tendrils of
crimson
fall.

The first day of spring
delivered snow with the rain
but the snow melted.

ㅁ
And I awoke: the air was viscous dust,
athwart my jaw reclined some ghosts who had
a blurry taste, frustration edible.

– a tercet in blank verse (iambic pentameter)

ㅁ
The sea rose up and swallowed the land
immersing the empty spaces
with a tide of blue pixels
seething around houses
always behind things
under features
pale blue dots
here there
here

– a nonnet

In fact I don't much like crowds, they press in…
I prefer to be with clouds –
unholy shrouds.

Through the night's substance
I tug against the cold air
trying to find stars.

When rain is forecast,
the sun comes. When it says sun,
clouds gather and brood.

The arrow of time entrains the morning
and some coffee and again
I see rain.

knowledge accretes to my soul like space dust
so the mind is somewhat full
but not dull

"Hey kids! How are you?
Did you all do your homework?"
… faces showed no joy.

yesterday's smog hung listless in my mind
the gray atmosphere's kindness
her caress.

[daily log: walking, 1.5km]

Despair instantiates an arrogance
of sorts, a solipsistic mirroring
that only can permit one type of cause.

An overcast dawn asserted rights
to pale entry through my window,
and leaching out my room's warmth,
grasped the edges of things
until they were seen
and knowable,
stained with truth,
silver,
gray.

emerging from sleep
fragments of anotherworld
shatter against dawn

luminosity
appears unbidden. the sky
invites reflection.

Blue is the color of heaven's great kingdom, and
Blue can be seen as a manifestation, a
Blue and apparently vast inspiration, but
Blue in this country, well sometimes it's green.

well
sometimes
the many
diversified
spinning and whirling
motes of meaning begin
to gather and coalesce
into a knowable network
of nodes arrayed like drunk weavers' cloth

The transformation into spring begun:
cold raindrops – scattered pattern sketched and seen
upon my window's wiry gridded screen,
as if they're stranded insects in the sun.

Out from experience slowly we render the concepts by writing.
Sometimes the poem appears in a billowing cloud like a sunset
gathering empire of birds: just some random arrangement of dactyls.

[daily log: walking, 8km]

The sky was quite bright
because of the moon. There was ice
grasping the sidewalk.

every night we die;
in the morning the world's new:
just walking circles.

Night was a blue and impossible arch that descended from heavenly
spaces and darker than demonic hearts, and all rain-washed, untouchable.

The brooding brain did not discuss its plans,
Nor did the body act on brain's behalf.

I put slices of bread on a plate.
They're better if I heat them some.
Coffee, just instant, is fine.
There must be some water.
It's pretty boring.
But my taste buds
were removed:
food's not
fun.

The sky was greenish
because the sun was setting
and there were few clouds.

sometimes you feel like
cleaning things out – it's a mess…
you could blame the spring

Why harbor such bitterness, you might ask?
Disgruntlement is timeless…
I digress.

late fragments of snow
or freezing rain pelt my face
but they're selling spring