Attestation

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.Being afloat, I sense nothing, no more or no less, just the dark energy closing all in.
I am slow, the Universe is slow.. I am less expansive now than ever..
How much of me is dark energy?
How long have I been floating?

I dreamt of you last night. It was a real dream.. Yes, it was… I certainly recognized it as a real one since I’ve kept so many of those in a box under my bed…
In the dream, you and I were watching the sky. Suddenly, you sobbed and said.
“How about afterlife? Is there or isn’t there one?”
I answered, “What about it?.... We will never be there anyway.”

we'll never be there anyway..we’ll never be there anyway…we’ll never be there anyway…
It echoed through my body.. I trembled and woke up, and it’s 3:06 am.

I am not Aristotle. I am not Descartes. Neither Locke nor Kant. I am not Hegel. I am not Kierkegaard. Neither Nietzsche, nor Russell.
Hence, I can’t be metaphysical.
But I live.

I live therefore I weep.
On countless nights, I merely gaze at the sky and weep because I feel alone. Living is such a lonely realm. As much as we share within us, I am still alone, my love…. I am so on my own.

We sing. We dance. We love. We hate. We eat. We drink. We kiss. We hurt. We give. We take. We pray. We cry. We stop. We continue.

Amazingly, it all started with an extremely concentrated and unstable energy.
Now here we are.. you and I, trees and the oceans, pyramids and empires, constructions and destructions, art and music, philosophy and religions, breeders and killers, money and technology, cubicles and depressants, KKK and www.

…and still, we are all on our own..

Don’t you feel that we are being pulled towards the black hole?
After which, I am no more… you are no more…
we are no more.
Till then, let’s float one more time…Let’s gather in the dream one more time.
Carelessly and heartily.
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My love, I want to stand with you before the first 3 minutes of us, this Universe. I want to meet and greet you before it went all crazy.

Perhaps, perhaps, you would still remember me then???

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My First Ballet: Love Poem: A Suicidal Note

I love you

I love you I love you

I love you I love you I love you

I love you I love you I love you I love you

I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you

I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you

I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you

I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you

I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you

I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you

I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you

I love you I love you I love you I love you

I love you I love you I love you

I love you I love you

I love you

I love

You

I

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o

v

e

y

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u

Betrayal

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Aging knocks around the imbalance of my living room—

disassociation, a used couch, a worn-out blanket,

static on an old TV, a couple of paintings,

repeated defeats, lack of the whole thing.

Love is the last drop of wine remained in that dirty cup;

Still more, you make me weep.

On a Saturday morning,

Or a Tuesday’s or a Monday’s,

doesn’t matter! doesn’t matter!

Weeping hurts; it pains the whole process. Not that

I am weak or strong, not that you have

a permanent tattoo on your psychological self.

The outings, where can we meet? At the

front porch? On the swing? Near the

lovely lake? Your choice. I would listen.

But again, outings are not

outings without a damage.

Outings are merely where we nibble love and talk

nonsense, and pine for Tibet and Kyoto and Irrawaddy.

Senescence knocks me dead. You wither

like a summer flower, so does the last

song we sang together.

Your voice echoes:" Plants teach us how to live

….O Plants teach us how to live!"

disposable good sense of yours

has told me so.

-->

Alas,

I get mutated inside out. Alone

in my living room. Just next,

next to that old,

static TV of

yours.

“4:14 am”

At the dawn, the night

meets yet another

soaring soul

I long for Rangoon

there lies a thousand birds which

can take me places—

bridges of the past.

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Hands

       

I am not scared..

But I’m afraid…

This morning when I looked at my own hands, I couldn’t believe that they’re gone..

years of nurturing them… years of showcasing them… years of abandoning them…

They didn’t even bother to say goodbye.. just slipped away like strangers after one encounter..

…but, wait… now that I remember, my memory is on again all of a sudden..

it’s me who chopped them off!!

But don’t you worry; there will be new breed blossoming before long…

Spring is on my doorway…

It’s time…

Time for a pair of newly fresh hands out of this bamboo plant I’ve been staring at the whole morning….

..yes, they are.

….Arriving soon…

A Decade of Its Own

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If time and space are correlated, I have just passed another decade, a systematic framing we use to structure our sense and experience.

I am not old, nor young, I am not here, nor there, I am not passing, nor passed by.
It's just happening and non-happening..

The sunset outside my window has the same face, it's just me who is not used to it..
.... It's just me who has never been used to it..

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