THE WEIGHT

For the creatures our kind
it isn't that life seems dark
nor that sarcasm is the legacy which
governs our thoughts
nor is it the "drama" we are accused of inventing

rather,
it is the weight with which
events tumble before our eyes
that makes the heart quiver
in pain or delight
The way perturbance keeps you sleepless
after watching the neighbor
from the building across naked
rocking back and forth on the floor
wakening the night with a dire cry
that repeats itself like his rocking,
wrecked in some sort of attack.
The weigh seeing the ex-love on the street
with the girl he cheated you on with extenuates
the burning terror of the epileptic ceasure you
witnessed that morning and
the weigh the ceasure suffocates the trivial
moans of the wounded heart.
The weigh indifference towards the death of
[emotionally] distant relatives enslave you
in self-doubt
The weigh your friends' love stories
turn your sighs into vast paradisiacal winds
The weigh laughter feels as climatic as orgasms
The weigh fear of bumping into certain people on
the street turn you into an alien
The weigh friends abandoned you in your most
feeble moments and the weigh guilt replaced
gratitude for those who didn't leave
The weigh the sweetness in pineapples make
the day more bearable
The weigh dresses fulfill my child-like princess fantasies
The weigh making new friends feels as thrilling as a new date
The weigh age makes empathy more common than sympathy
The weigh the bruise left by a loved man will be nursed
by an unknown woman
The weigh you can mourn the terminated presence of somebody
whose aura you savor
The weigh sensuality becomes an approach to living
The weigh small sounds are so terribly startling, the
residue of panic lingering even after realizing their
innocuous source
The weigh excitement over simple stories steal
my ability to speak
The weigh a downtown apartment can feel too quiet
The weigh the tragic tales of others will efface loneliness
and sporadic feelings of exclusive martyr
The weigh hearing music on the street
or listening to another's pains will make you cry
The weigh of feeling trapped in mistakes
The weigh buoyancy strikes with the sound of
articulated speech
The weigh internet chat can either thrill or
spill emotion
The weigh accomplishment feels lost in
the passing of time
or gained with the student's learning
The weigh poetry can lose its pretention
and assume to be sentimental
The weigh you desperately want someone
to witness the high of ecstatic bliss
until the weight of the ego brings you down
like colorful balloons eventually fall
or the lover's flower wilts
the weigh my beauty shall wane with time
The weigh thoughts can be dangerous if there
is too much or not enough
The weigh love-making makes me want to cry
and lack of it changing the way mornings rise
The weigh the love-making bed can feel too
large or too small
The weigh games must be played though
no longer fun
The weigh hope keeps you afloat with the same
force with which disappointment buries dreams
The weigh weight can be a burden
or the gift of sensitivity.

SEA

A friend once said that having
a love is
having a witness to one's life
someone to applaud your mild jokes
and dread over trivial pains
(like a bad haircut
or menstrual cramps)
a love to know every crease of your body
and memorize the subtle gestures that
books will never teach

eyes that see the multi-dimensional
roles of your persona
and the private intricacies that
separate you from the rest

someone to keep a mental diary
of the frailty of your innocence
and the regret in certain thoughts
the endless abyss of your sensuality
the anguish in your guilt

It's like writing on blogs
hoping people will read your soul
or being on stage where
anonymous faces thrill at every skill
and slump with unforeseen mistakes

a love is the closest way to fame
his eyes like the paparazzi lens
guarding seconds of you
worth a million dollars

for living unwatched
is like being dead
if no one will witness our lives
who will we live for?

bird

I had thought about deleting
ancient words
and rosy memoires
of illusions cloaked in velvet masks
allusions left to guess
delusions meant to dress

confusions to confess

the thickened mold
of innocence lost
crawling through our dreams
leaving no cushion
nor space to invest
on soft laments
nor feeble tears
nor nostalgic yearns
nor time to question

its hardened case
the graveyard of hopes
that lets everything be
its inexplicable self

and all the women gather
and huddle their hearts
nodding the heads
pointing the fingers
their eyes enlarged with vile stories
the coffee thick between the lips
the eyebrows exasperated
by the men that huddle around
their hungry looks so easy to compare
their cliche lines that cry worn out
by the rusted paths they've walked
and the aimless circles they've talked

we'll nod our heads
and let things be
for the heart certainly does cure
at wonderful speeds
the repeated falls
making stronger knees
the only terror remaining
in the bird between the legs
its freedom flight
a dangerous journey
the chance of death
a taunting idea
that marks the body with regret
a once sacred site
now carelessly tainted
by child play's mistake
leading to the dingy road
from which we may not ever awake.