Sex.

Self pitying tears
are there any other kind?
Undulating flesh
stimulates the mind.
There’s only one
“yeh yeh yeh”
so why bothering pretend.

The worst is also the best.
The enemy, truest friend.
The pleasures of divine,
forbidden & reviled.
Any time, it may come,
make it easy,
true to yourself.

No one can ever have
what you already have.
Life is a grab bag,
you take what you can get.
Chaos & chance.
Love may find you
or it’s a stab in the back.
“Do what you love anyway”,
here lies the choice.

Morning paper – May 24.

Let myself be but a conduit, one of many that iterate on what happened before, realizing that though I’m unique, I’m not more than the next. It’s my choice to let it flow through me and onward or stand aside and watch. And it’s OK that I can never do anything perfectly, as long as I’m true to myself and not letting ill intent pollute either my soul or my deeds, only then will I live without guilt, but with lightness.

My jam.

Y’all professionals while I self select.
Nowhere near that level, call it a personal defect.
I learned not to seek permission when I spot a crack.
Just letting myself in, all nerves, with pride in check.
Young faces & sure footings, those are never my jam.
Tossing & turning & stealthy as heck.
There’re places I wanna be, numbly tumbling, looking ahead.
Everyone’s tired of the apology, “I’m old & clumsy”,
“I had missed all the exit signs”…
So now you have to deal with me…
What’s that? You don’t care?
I make you look good? Oh, that’s just fine!
It’s hard to laugh, being a clown, eyes on the prize,
balancing falls, taking it all in, like a child, effortless.
Why does anyone do anything? Choose a tent and meet your friends.
Don’t berate yourself, in the beginning, the middle nor the end.
Be a flower, a bug, who knows when the time is ripe.
I’d like to live with you, with you attached.
I just like to live with it, you know? With my life enlarged.

A bath-tub cry.

I’d like to cry
without disguise
stifling it
with my will
I cry for
the bee who
submitted its life
on its last trip
called back to the
cosmo’s beehive
I cry for you
my friend
though it’s
joyous
and complete
the trace of
the line
I cry from
the well
never knowing
why
I think maybe
it’s just acting
my eyes washed
chest replenished
here comes the
thunderclap.

Period.

I’m in love with my bed. Or at the moment just the sheet. It was washed and tumble-dried and I still remember how toasty it was last night. I didn’t think about my sleeping position, I just wanted to go fetal and let go. And I was rewarded. I had candied-dreams last night. The kind that you can hold in your hand as if they are cute little jewels that are wrapped in even cuter wrappers. I didn’t even mind having to wake up to change my un-sanitary pad in the middle of night.

But the wind, oh the wind, or rather the air. It’d been blowing the whole night and well into noon while I’m still in bed (because I can’t bring myself to leave). The air is fragrant, like how it was long ago, like how it should be. There was no sound of traffic for the longest time, so the air remains unpolluted, undisturbed. It caresses me with its gentleness and its scent. And I remember…

Outside of the window, the occasional courting birds hide under the fruiting tree, and the feasting butterflies picking out the rotting fruits on the ground. My roaming eyes seek them out, while my body, my sensitive body like my sensitive nose picks up the friction from the sheet and the air. It is good to have a body. Even a bleeding one. I cuddle with the sheet, bunch them up and hold them close to my bosom, as one would with a loved one. For my body is in love with the bed, as my mind is in love with the moment. I can’t bring myself to leave.

Across the street, balloons decorate a neighbor’s front yard, “15”, big and red. Do I want to be 15 again? No. If I’m in peace at this moment, all the moments before led me to this. I can have no regrets. But cake, mmmm, cake. I wonder if I will leave this bed, this moment for another moment with the half eaten cake in the fridge…

Sunset diamonds.

Sunset diamonds
through the leaves,
there’re millions of you,
make me dream.
Through the fruits ripe
and the butterflies’ wings,
intricate webs,
a blissful paradise.
Like honey-white gold,
but no,
quick-silver
until
chances maybe:
another angle,
another glimpse.
Fleeting.
Sunset such as this,
priceless diamonds indeed.