winter

she says winter is her favorite season. when everything that is dead are hugged with snow. people try to take that away, leaving their footprints behind, but winter never gives it. it keeps covering and covering; all that is dirty. and it holds on. until lady summer comes around; giving life to those that were once lost. and winter, being modest and humble in nature, just steps back and waits. until the dead needs a blanket again.

let go rhymes with echo

I’m positive
very positive
the voices inside 
my head lies
inside a mountain cave

where others can’t see
or hear
the wall that throws back

I promise to take
all the pain
                 away
don’t you want to-
fly? even for a little bit
all I ask in return
is a share 
of your red

and how would you tell 
your family- friends- 
lover, there is an homicidal
echo on the loose ?

so I turn on my t.v.
crack up the radio
and hope to god- it’s loud
enough
to play my heartbeat

mundane chores

washing dishes
over and over and
over and over
again; next to
an old cereal box;
citing: 
EVERYDAY
I AM STRONGER
everyday; every day
every every day
I am  
shredding old documents
- junk mails
sweeping up dirt and stains  
dusting things unsettled 
clipping coupons- saving up
for something 
more

sensitive

early middle school years, i had violin recitals. i don’t remember much of playing the instrument in itself. i do remember my friend’s mother asking me where my mother was. after couple of recitals, she stopped asking. and i would always wait outside school with a teacher six feet ahead of me.

i would tell her i had someone waiting for me some block away. she would nod, like any adult would when catching a horrible lie. and we would wait. fifteen minutes. thirty minutes. her eyes on the road. an hour. mine on the ground. 

i stopped playing violin and as i mature, i do regret my decision. some days my mother would ask why i never stuck to anything. because, it’s such a waste to let go and i don’t know how to response other than, “the notes were hard to play.”   

the wolves

the wolves might be outside 
teething
who wouldn’t want a taste
of something
so sweet
so succulent 
so pure
you- you; but
blue jays still fly
and those wolves; those wolves
no matter how fast and fierce they may be
they will never reach
the blue jay that knows
how to be

This is Water - David Foster Wallace (Part I & Part II)

crumbs

crumbs 
you left crumbs
for me to pick up
and when you ran
I followed to
and fro
without trusting
my feet to give
in; I kept thinking about
the crumbs
and how; now, easily
it is for me to bend
and swift up the
lost and unwanted 
feet kicking 
in and all 

porridge

my mother used to say people often took advantage of her because she was too kind. too trusting. too giving. and maybe that’s where i got it from.

she tells me there is nothing more she cares about in the world but i still believe her i love you’s and the way she makes porridge. washing away the outskirt of the rice but not too much because a little bit of roughness is good for you, they say. 

she instructs me to fill the pot til about half full. and i see the relief in her eyes when telling me of it’s forgiving nature. “if you add too much now, the porridge knows to soak up the excess. anytime the water runs dry, just add a little more to keep it going and simmering. it’s quite simple,” she tells me as she turns. and i see the back of a 50-something years of disappointment. making porridge.