Intervaled Insomnia

A dream was had,

In between

Bits and tads of sleep

Vu’ed Deja

At the age of


That should not

Be had.



I used to get

(And still)



At times

Now always somewhere

But no such time for fret



Inevitable, you see

When what once was

Becomes belief

Of what is wished

To still be.

Such sanctity defiled

For vile

Self deprecating assurance.


But this dream

(As this poem originally schemed)

Seemed to deem

Visions of you,

Above all else.

There was touch

Though ‘twas memory

To feel

How you

Once felt


And smooth,

And soft-

Or so such nocturnal visions

Pulled so taught.


Until waking

To the blinds of staggered light

For despite

All my tardy might

In my arms rests nothing,

Lies no one,

Not you,

The soul these arms

Used to know.


Stringing Sayings

Words can trickle,
Be fickle,
And cause pain.
Toss blame
Bring shame

Claims humans make
Promises break
Hearts shake
And quiver
And shatter

Hands can sew tatters
And touch skin
But words can go within
Without doubt
Or with it.

(In fits of rage)
And passion
Make bedmates
Of a fashion
That timid souls
Cannot bear
Or cannot see
If that’s how
We choose to be

Be see
And hark!
Now listen to me
Yes you,

For the words
Can wander
And meander
But no slander
Shall fall from beyond my teeth
For when I speak
I mean to say
Thoughts I’ve buried
Tried to make dead
Inside this head
This skull
(This soul)
Owes all to you
And will
Until this body,
An organic space ship,
And wanes
And grows old

Or so goes the story
These words have told

Subway Name Days

Woe would be me,
Between Asians so sleepy,
On anniversary
Of falling into this world

Woe would be,
You see,
If it were not me
Mr. Lucky
(If such a thing could even be)
As I, despite deserved justice
Have not been discarded
In fact, rewarded!
For the fool I am
But better,
The fool I try to be

Boldly attempting
To balance glee,
Or its subsidiaries
Against the ache
And pain
And breaking of heart
I have made

So cheers to me
Twenty years plus three
For having something
People seem to redeem
Or at least to thee
Who matters most

So to you,
I give this toast

Bad Jokes that Make Laughter

in white rooms,
And old Sammy’s writing tomb
Thoughts that loom,
Of days once blooming
Before losing.

Perchance the silence
Will turn to talking
And walking,
For the sake of stalking
A few hours more alone,
Yet together.

Canine physicians,
Those living musicians,
We danced a night away to
Like Marvey made those Irish do
With lives so sad
Yet inspiring-
The urge to retire,
In someone’s arms,
Or someone in mine.

That bastard,
Cast so far away
Decided not to stay,
This fool, named I
Made beauty cry
To try,
In vain,
As was known,
To romanticize loneliness
And pain.
To what gain?

To remember
Hammock rides,
And the passing tides
Of pages
We young sages had shared.

But one in particular,
Still drunk on rage
At no one,
For nothing,
But the self
Cries for help
And gets still,
Beyond his fill,
Of what is deserved.



Oh, how they scheme

To remind this mind

Of a rash decision,

Of rationalized madness

That made sadness

Out of joy

Just to toy

A soul employed to loneliness.


A short age,

Regretful rage

And page,

After page,

After page,

Of literary therapy

To inspire thee

To give a chance,

A second chance

To break the trance

Of memory,

Sweet memories,

That were once such grand realities.


Selfish, I know,

To have shelved this

Just as it was to spare

A heart ensnared and bitter

For with her,

He was free,

And now without, he can see

The fool that used to be 

What’s One More?

‘Twas I

(cue sad sigh)

who had that

for which most

don’t even get to try.

But why?

Oh! Why?

Would one ever let her go?

Supra-man himself could not know,

could not show,

the bastard fantasy

for its fallacy.


While reality,


all grand and dressed with passion,


abandoned in a fashion

no true knight ever would.

Yet dreadful hindsight all included

I refuse to stay secluded

for just a chance,

a single chance,

for one more dance

or lazy morning

with all the glory

of skin so soft

and eyes so longing

to get inside a soul

some poor coward

would not let in.