wild

I want to reach
my arms
where suction cups
are not seen
but function like flowers
in a dense(wild)shade
and are content with
reverse bloom.
I want to reach
my arms.

Highway

I’ll stand on the cement stairs,
keys in my hand and get a glimpse
of tree branches in the sky.

I remember the earth is rotating
either so slowly or so quickly
while gravity keeps us in a whooshing groan.

Then I’ll catch my breath and
remember that’s the sound
of boring people
still driving.

Travel

The day passed like soup;
me and my car
rolling by trees and reservoirs,
hills and apple orchards.

It’s like soup because
when mom makes soup
it’s a pot of leftovers:
The greens
The rice or pasta
The chicken
and then water and potatoes,

all of it glides by my broad windshield
and down my throat.
I’d take a bath in it
but being in a different
angle of sun
is enough.

Peachy.

Everything has a dusty sunlight to it,
leaves are slowly unfolding
from brown to fans
all caught up in the sun.
And Iโ€™ve got all this pavement
warming like a green summer.

freedom

Mirror marks shine on branches
sturdier than my arms,
the water culls a bit of silver
with the morning sun
held to itself in the sky,
It’s all they need
a breathable fragility even the clouds
know, smiling wordlessly thin .

The grass forgave my angular bones
because, they know
today was the best day,
even the birds cleared my shape.
He said age is backfiring
he said as we grow old we worry
freedom does not come with time.

Too bad
I think
you already have it.
because
today is the best day.

lost focus

I remember that the rocks glimmer in the sun
and I want to tip toe up and out.

I remember that the sky looks like a dome
and I think I am stuck in a low tragedy
like wasting a patient’s time

And then I remember I don’t know how far
the space goes anyway

But I forgot the names of the atmospheres
separating the rest of the asteroids from us.

And then I remember the sparkling rocks
and how I want to be outside too.

But
who says we are even separate from the space rocks?

Block

Break through, she said.
I’m waiting for the break through.
Third story light hums like the tides
I’m a warped ceiling, see,
the incamdescents are stuck shiny
in plastic waves or else
I’d answer to the bookshelves
again above my head. I’m carpeted, too
I just don’t know it yet
until I shut my eyes in the dark.

What a pitiful color
manufactured. beige, off-white, tan
It’s the color of indulgent boredom
feigning intetest in all the unexplored
eyelids.
It’s like closing a book after chapter 1.
Or maybe before that.
you know the story ends
except for crutch of surprise
you’re out of this place
again.
I’m waiting for the break through.
I’m waiting for the break through.
I’m waiting for the moon
and the clean morning,
Hiding from what they say again.

But why
Again and again and now
we practice pleasing the sun?
It’s alright, as long as
you think like that I’m waiting
for the break
through.

After all, the grass is always
greener in the day.

cubicle

I suppose I’m in a corner, here
Yep, you figured me out.

But that doesn’t mean a thing to me
except I have to watch my back
and keep on my toes
not shoes but
some other form of eyeballs.

This desk is almost pink, I should
have told you to smile
like you mean it.

Now I live with guilt that
I named your life purposeless.

No, that’s not it either.
You’re alive and I’m alive and
you can do
whatever you wish.