Sometimes life just happens. Even if you don’t want it to. Wait—let me correct myself. Life happens to you, especially when you don’t want it to. That is the curse. That is the blessing. You are a breathing paradox in motion.

clockwork

There he is. Holding a guitar as if cradling his first new born. That lingering melody flirts with the skin atop my ear drums. He messes up. He laughs. He charms. He’s forgiven. The room melted. It’s like clockwork and we are the numbers his second, minute, and hour hands gently graze and caress. Am I a pawn in your game of guitar and girls? I choose not to be. I’ll close my eyes and listen. Despite my efforts to resist, a sliver of my eyelid shows him serenading the microphone. There’s a collective sigh of women (and men!) who are so past hanging off his every word. Rather, they have swan dived—fingertips piercing in the waves—in his ocean of melody. It is hypnotic, and entertaining, and oh so seductive. I giggle. He holds his mic as if trying lure me into his spell. I can see it on everyone’s face, they wish their cheek was that mike. They wish he were inches from their lips, being pleaded to stay. They are drawn in to the thought of a kiss that will never happen.

He’s starting to reach for the high note.

He’s grabbing it. He’s holding on. He lets go of the cradled guitar to hold on to the microphone as if it were his lover and he had one last kiss to prove his worth.

I think someone in the audience fainted.

The song is done. He bites his lip. We clap, like clockwork. Oh singer, with your melodies so soothing, your lyrics so touching, and your smile so modest—who are you? Are you exactly who we need you to be? Or are you a jester in this court of kings & queens & lies. I’m not giving in. I’m not seduced. I’m not playing your game. This fabricated foolishness is a ruse. Your performance merits a different standard of standing ovation.

Yet, it’s weeks later, and I’m still intrigued by your performance.

I guess you did play your game. And I, a number caressed by your clockwork hands, exquisitely danced to your melody. Just as you wanted.

Bravo

Mother’s stretch marks were your hands opening for the blessed embrace.

30/30

Let us pray:

And on that last day
when the last breath is drawn
let the hallelujah be
more climatic than
the moment when
perfect clarity
entered my eyes
at the thought of You

Until then
these breaths
—drawn in anticipation—
will signify a lonely heartbeat
longing towards the enchantment
of an infinite You

Our first kiss
will be the end of this life
Our first kiss
will be the blessed marriage
I never knew 
Our first kiss
is being awaited on
by each longing exhale
and the saddened pursing
of these two lips

Until then
my fingertips will graze
the fine calming texture
of Your name 

Take this life
with the merciful kiss
of the blessed
within the
tetragrammaton 

amen 

27/30

Before breath painted your lungs
you were surrounded by Light

26/30

How to write a poem.

How
to write
a poem

—-how to
w r i t e
a——-poem

how to write
a poem

a poem to write
how? 

25/30

In this live
we’re still learning
the intricacies of
how to be
honest 

There will be times when you’ll get hit by the unforseen wave of sadness. You’ll grow impatient. You’ll lose the virtues you worked so hard to master. Tread the waters as best you can, my darling. To drown here is the worst tragedy.

18/30

Maybe if I stare at
this computer screen

long enough

something  brilliant
will be born 

Or not

15/30

lazy poem.

halfway through the month
finishing with the day

I’ve never realized
how life is measured
in moments missed
rather than risks taken