All Right

A double-overhand
or a bowline? It's
too complicated; it
might not work too.
Resurrection is not
an option when it's
done this way.
Why not?
Where would you
situate it?
All right then.

Let's try this one:
make a line from here
to there; No.
My - our - engine lost
courage and bravery to
pain.
Think about the mess
and duration our goal
would have to take.
We might be salvaged.
All right then.

What about lead?
It's fast, painless,
and automatic.
We don't need brain
cells for this - Instant
Formula!
Make a fist like Manny
and we'll be champions.
It is true; it is indeed
all that.
Yet we remain what
we are 'till infinity:
a selfish being.
We don't have chips.
Why are we doing this
in the first place?
All right then.

The ever dependable
tictacs - this would do.
Ask a myriad from
our affiliates;
not only it is sensible,
it is sensation-less as well.
Down and drown it
with their ocean, it will
make the journey faster.
All right then.

But - but why call
it a journey?
Dumb, dumb, dumb,
and dumb.
Because we grew up
with the supervision
of non-biodegradable
mannequins .
And
because if
we go through this
we will need all the
fur that we could get.
All right then.

Her Name

What is in a name?
Nothing is a name
when it doesn't sound,
nothing is a name
when it doesn't grasp,
and nothing is a name
when it doesn't sting.

What is in a name?
Nothing is a name
when moonshine
affects my soul,
nothing is a name
the morning after,
and nothing is a name
when I'm reminded.

What is in a name?
Nothing is a name
when faces get blurry,
nothing is a name
when it doesn't stop the
tracks on my cheeks,
and nothing is a name
when it's brand new.

But,

What is in a name?
everything is a name
when it's enough to
trigger profound memories,
everything is a name
when it's abused,
and everything is a name
when it disregards
my own.

'Kita's Song

The statues in
your eyes said
everything and nothing
all at the
same time. Moments
of eternity grabbed
my manhood and
prompted me to
act like a
stone because I
knew the moment
we had was
forever.

Incarceration

I write myself

on dirty walls,

and straight lines,

leaving my mark

as a man;

howling and wailing

amidst men like

me. We scrape

down our weapons

until it bleeds

as we ask

for redemption and

for another chance

to cold faces.

The Sign

Droplets made of ink fall

down my face.

Forever shunned because

of this guilt.

It's all locked up inside

dying slowly with

my sanity.

The cause and reason

behind these inks of

design I can't write

down, but grief

is out of the question.