Late Night Vibes

Coffee kissing your lips, and

old Jazz making love to aural senses;  the 3am thoughts

I see and write. Holding hands,

stealing kisses on necks,

the smell of a whole day of mundaneness

washed away by a late night rain.

The roads are empty, emotionless,

surreal.

Neon signs are sleeping.

It’s just you and me, and a thought of a city,

roaming around like nomads, drinking the leftovers

with passion.

 

[Photo by Masashi Wakui]

 

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The Sea

Flowing between my future and the past

is a gray abyss. Liquid thoughts

have pooled inside it ever since,

choosing tidal waves to

show presence.

 

I’m a lost albatross who only

knew Galapagos, and not

beyond. While whales and shoals

of reality have migrated to

warmer shores, I’m still waiting.

 

Someone saw a dead body in

Easter Island once. It was also a

bird, shaped like a human,

looking at the sea.

 

[Artwork by Henn Kim]

Natural Disaster

The topology of a natural disaster is simple. It

rises from nowhere, and ravages everything in sight.

Some say there’s a soul in the tsunami. A decay so

wild, a longing so great that it has become

relentless.

*

You eat like a pig, someone had said to me

in a city afternoon that was smelling of o – of loneliness.

Meandering into the thicket of clouds,

my thoughts were singularly focused on

making love to her.

*

The notes, the messages on the phone, the news headlines

were telling the same thing; that some natural disasters

have souls, and all of them

are out to destroy.

 

Saudade

A cold, wooden almirah full of old bones.

A dresser full of clothes that are choked by more clothes.

A gray river full of emotions that are dumped carelessly to the sea.

A toasty morning full of morsels of depression in a cereal bowl.

A lighthouse full of people that vanished one day and never came back.

 

The calling is almost visceral.

The disillusionment gnawing at you like hyenas nibbling flesh out of

a carcass.

The only truth seems to be the mirage of a past

that never was, never will be. It’s like a saudade

for the ether.

 

Picture Courtesy: Blendscapes by Oriol Angrill Jorda

Metronome

Every morning is a mixture of hurried showers,

a cereal bowl deep bath of granola in almond milk

and an ocean of emotions typed

on a computer screen. Thousand others dying

to reach the surface, a calmness

that is spectacularly similar to rigor-mortis erupts.

 

A weatherman is complaining about irregular weather.

There’s an accident in I-85.

All in a day’s

worth.

 

artwork by Haechang Sun

Finite spoils of war

Smelling love on a day when the yellow cabs were on a strike,

she had bared herself out, naked

in the streets of passion;

Twenty minutes of sweat had turned into war.

Bearing shell scars between her legs

she had dug herself out of a grave

and jumped right back into

the madness.

 

drawing by Ariane Mayumi