– What do we remember about the dead?

He flew so close to it, also

So far. She cut herself

When cooking. Scarlet dews.

He must’ve died like that –

Red salt of the earth.

He died like Bible,

The plates, foams reminded her of clouds.

They whom were upon there,

All precipitated.

The weather forecast didn’t say

It would rain this hard.

Gaunt streets, my shadow stitched to

The ever-lowing sunset,

Heels glued to the ground,

stuck in a muddy kiss.

And you kissed me nightmare,

With your absence in bed.

You fell asleep just a bit too soon

For me to ask your new address.

And I can’t perform the act of sleeping

Without your soul awakening on my stage,

For I’m beneficial to your dreams,

Yet the only prop you forget

to take with you along the way.

You gave me

the crimson stories in my arteries

half of the cocoon breeding life

& the entire universe

soaked in a womb.

On the other side of life’s myth:

You fold my pajamas

into the shapes of letters

that I never get to write to you.

But you still hold on tight

to the intangible thread

trying to stitch up

my lies, my salt, my wounds


stubbornly.

I almost forgot your favorite sunset brand

– Mine is the one persevered in the balcony at home

Where you first taught me how to smoke.

We didn’t go to the sea together for a long time,

Now I miss you like waves, like salt.

Now you never hear about my seventeen,

But I don’t know how to blame a man

Whose messy hair, grumpy mood

And wordy heart

Descends in his daughter.

No one has ever told me the name of my grandpa.

He died

On a morning when my father hadn’t met my mom.

In my dream: Grandfather holding scarlet ore

Walking towards me,

Melting, as if his palms are bleeding.

The young wooden knife of mine,

Carved a cross on the diary cover,

Imitating the glistening marks on grandmother’s calendar.

Bed towards the west, still

Tomb kissed by God.

Thus, I’m still a man who hasn’t had a religion,

Still awakens.

To those

Who lived without leaves:

And I remember you,

For we sprout, harvest and decay

In our lifetime.

Fluently we died in the form of soil

Where all variations of light

Recycle, resonate and

Repeat in harmony.

Your smudgy remarks diffuse into my pond of dreams,

Algae creeps onto my eyelids, casting greenish shades.

Harsh grains cling to the interior of my throat,

Slicing the pounding flesh into forceless bruise.

Seasons ago, you beckoned like estuary,

Hit like flood. I walked, barefoot, alone the shore,

Polished like pebble, mellow as soil.

Your winds undulated, and I bent like reeds. Then

Land altered, the elastic metal, the solid waves,

Melt, leached, gone.

Emily, your white dress

looks so lonely

in the middle of the night,

like a patch of snow,

not ready to burn

a hole out of heaven.

I fold your translucent soul,

like folding a letter from home.

The land a giant corpse,

I trudge across the margin

of every single silent wound.

Emily, I’m waiting for my Godot

on a rainy summer day

where God feels like crying,

and I want to bless him.

My Emily Dickinson

is never quiet in a bookstore.

all the written tears have a

discount in the sale of ink:

Remembering her having more

moons than my stones.

removing a fairer night

that day to edit her

white dress and white death.

Enclosing her in the eternity

of dashes – here.

Dwell – Dwell: here.

My Ms. 1800s, dwell, dwell,

Before X was X, we learned to carry things. Atlas humping the Sky, limbs in the shape of “X”. He practiced the gesture to design Universe, to become the barrier for mother land and father sky to lock lips. He solidified into static strokes nailed into the ground, with lighting surging in his bones. Then the Greeks borrowed “X” from the Phoenician letter around 900 B.C., samekh meaning “fish”, and gave it a new name - Chi denoting the sound “S”. Fish carries ocean in its scales as well. We are always seeking languages to tell the way we are carrying things in the vast empty wasteland. That’s what X is all about.

My Minotaur, how many torches

Do you spend to pass the night,

To find your own hands?

Dwelling like spider cob, a thousand road

To escape, to die, to become hero.

Only one tunnel for waiting.

& You have no choice,

For the most beautiful Ariadne

Weaved this maze

Out of her blessed ball of wool.

His sky concise,
Verbs as clean as blood.
Kissed by a train
Along the journey
To the only place
Named after mountain and sea.
Wish I could undo
Your bones from the land.
But I can’t.
I stand there to witness
Your saddest poems.
I stand there to become
Red wheels, white forest.

As I said onto you, as

I’m always

Bleeding:

We just named yet another

Sun after a winter

With our harsh tears.

I prayed for you and prayed

For storms,

March is a good time to practice pain.

But one thing for sure we all

Have names

And a composition written

With/out blood.

Abusively artistically we attended our secretive sleeps.

Bored with automated glory. So let us

Carve our blood and water into sins.

Defeated desires through which we limp

Enlighted our hands to be reduced to clean

Flinch. Simply we kill &

Grasp on this life so wobbly. Tight. Being

Haunted is what is means to be alive.

4. Scribbled secret for poetry as deep as you get drunk outside

7. listening want to blow the mind of yr notebooks

6. No time. what will find its own mind?

everything, open, visions of exactly. Try “never”. 1

9. Be crazy from the bottom of bottomless own joy

But and wild

8. Write what you want that you feel Be in love with yr life

I send my Siren to reside at an island

& sing all the songs that shall be sung,

sink all of me that should be sunken.

If I were Medusa, I would buy myself mirrors

to defeat all my snakes,

to grow feathers, to grow scales,

to become my own stone.

The shore a Greek stage.

I’ve been humping my grammar all my life.

Sometimes my verses rip the ocean open