Chicago


City lights endure,
permitting protection from darkness
cutting into the general surroundings, with
unequaled brilliance. I, alone in the night
lost in clarity as a memorandum of
fog, forged by decaying cigarettes, left
unattended by pedestrian eyes signaling to me the
cracks in the sidewalk that supports the city.
Supporting the daily commute and crime,
murdering my childish smile when one cigarette
smolders out making me notice
blood drops on the concrete.

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If This Is Me


A two a.m. reflection dazes me, as
if this is me:

If this is me, I,
still remember to never forget you, too.
If this is me, you know.

You know I think about you,
wondering meanwhile, how am I.
If this is me, speaking clearly in private
unable to let gravity pull those words
into and out from my mind.

If this is me, walk softly: dance
around my reflection with your eyes.
Tread the water that fills mine
and float slowly out of sight if
this is me,

just know that patience drifts
on with the two forevers that
have haunted me since I realized
it is me not you.

Impulse


My uninspired attempts at masterpiece
sear the tips of my fingers that charcoal infinitely 
onto innocent paper, scarring its symmetry with
coarse words whose sounds scrape, strangely
unaware of their existence, against each other
etching impulse into, my, reality
that of imitation mass produced 
norms that confound the essence of  life. 

The Insomniac’s Kitchen


A lone wicker stool intricately cuts in half
the hardened kitchen,softened, by oaken branches
hoarding moonlight, preventing the crystal clear
cups from revealing the faint smudges
left on his face as his breath slowly
fogs a curved reflection, the cabinets creak
and slowly splinter, chipping in disproportionate
patterns connectable only through the dots
of wormhole marks left under their natural stain,
marble counters hide droplets of spilled milk
in creamy camouflage until they overflow their
self created edges with the unbounded salty
abandon of another sleepless night.

Fabric


If I was cut from a different cloth
a silk that could bend but not break,
finely woven with hand-me-down threads
actively aging, blended colors and adorned
by frayed ends breathing off small strands
of personality distinguishing my
quilted spirits from one another,
perhaps cloth covers would be
a relief before a means to disappear
unevenly, from the world.