I ate my milk and drank my bread,
A backward day was up ahead.
I carried the train to get off the bag,
My thoughts were starting now to lag.
I saw a man his dog had bit,
So I grabbed a pup to throw a hit.
I aimed a stone, prepared to slog—
But I got bitten by the very dog.
And that is why, as tales unfold,
The strangest days are seldom told.
I was the particle
You were the wave
You ran through my body
Like x-ray would
Like x-ray would
You ran through my body
Ran through my tiny soul
Like I’m a particle
Like I’m a particle
You ran through my tiny soul
Your wave was so strong
I didn’t last long
You were the wave
I was the particle you saved
The surface level was at eye view
A dozen tiny legs walked the playground
Turning naive violence to innocence
With a plot twist of bored nuisance
Did they ever land the thought
Of some jealous friendship
and uncovered longing for
What makes them who they are
Her Pandan Latte has turned cold
Cold as her adolescent drive
For a chat with the boy she likes
Without his horny underpinnings
She was among those lovely legs
Unrecognized herself of her power
Over the world, where the boy begs
For a first kiss atop a hidden tower
She sat beside her mother,
that bored teenager.
She’s natural beauty bound.
She yawned and frowned.
She’s not interested at all
in what the speaker
was trying to say.
Success stories her mind
wouldn’t want to reach.
She has all the cliches:
dark blonde hair,
teenager t-shirt
with mosaic pants.
She picked her fingers while
peeping over her mother’s phone.
What is she texting?
No pics. No emoji. None.
For a moment, her only comfort
was the sense of irrelevance
by sitting there but
not being present. Yawn.
She was standing beside
a post-event conversation,
legs crossed, arms wrapped.
Definitely. Not. Interested.
She passed by, revealing
her father’s rough face.
She’s no beauty at all.
Just a girl north of adult’s way.
{END}
Talking about grit is rather similar to talking about faith: you have it when you have it; you don’t when you don’t. I’m not sure how useful is that.
Sometimes getting things done can be much harder than figuring out the best way to do them. Creators get things done, and some of the luckier and more diligent ones become thinkers and figure out the best way to do. And that makes all the difference in the world.
Shall I compare thee to Peking’s subway,
Thus I began my usual mockery,
which, this time, was interrupted
by him saying, “it’s Shakespeare
so it should be metro, not subway.
That actually makes sense,
but would break my puns.
I smiled back affirmative,
liking this Britishman more
like a friend than as a colleague.
The subway-metroism stays
in my mind and never fades away.
I wonder how the bard would
say about modern times—
he probably would cry instead.
{END}
This windy night
smells like marijuana,
despite the snowy rain
and the rainy snow after.
Her mild annoyance
is hiding behind her face.
She lies on my bed reading,
flowing gently into the night.
This hollow apartment
is a pipe of secondhand
smoking. Anyone, anywhere
can choke us to the brim.
Only one more month,
she just said, one more
month and we’re gone,
like forever, for real.
I’m sitting by her side,
staying silent and sad,
and writing this down.
Yes, we’ll be gone.
{END}
A dream of
disturbing sense:
The girl I just made love
to doesn’t have to exist at all.
I gradually realized waking up.
She was naked and had no face,
her long hair flows dark to the feet.
We were in a mini pool made of wood.
I was on top of her, and she under.
My hands between her arms,
And my knees leg-stuck.
Supposed to orgasm,
But I got confused:
Who was the girl,
And who was I?
Was she me?
And I her?
Life is not about how much confidence you have, but about how you tackle the confidence interval.
Fanz Hugo 