Apparently I wrote things this November

I imagine I could see for miles over vast expanse of pavement, grids and powerlines; Electricity running through each strand hanging from the sky, and a soft hazy mist escapes from your mouth and your nose when you breathe, resembling the exhaust emitted from the tail pipes of the cars. It's green so we'll walk following the lines, and I think about when I was young and unable to color exclusively within. But I am older now though still struggling to write between the lines and breathe life into the page. These trees are bare and thin that line the walk. Their knobby limbs extend and sway, just a skeleton, but I still think they're beautiful. City buses roar over the pavement, or what pavement still remains peaking out from under snow that fell last night and is still. I've never caught a snow flake on my tongue. Maybe I'm too impatient, I guess, so I don't try as we've crossed the street and stopped again at the next corner. But you do until you say your tongue is cold, and so am I. The traffic causes whirl winds, and my hair whips around my face obscuring my view of the painted white lines and yellow grids below my feet. The man glows, and we walk. 1-2-3-4 -- 1-2-3-4 -- I count my steps, and you avoid the cracks. What if we could be this way forever? What if we did? Horns blare in our ears. The bicycle on the road despite the season, the red car and the pedestrian in the crosswalk. It could have been fatal, but thank you modern vehicles for your antilock breaks. If only life came so equipped, you say, I'd never make mistakes. Black ice, was my reply, and you nod because you know I'm right, and we'd still be full of regrets.


Nov 5:
That kind of cold that sinks into your bones
So I know it's November again
And I can't help thinking about the
White rabbit without a burrow to call home
So he made one under planks of wood,
Nailed together to form our picnic table
In the backyard only a week
Exactly a week after Grandpa died.
And you wished you believed in reincarnation.

Grandma didn't know what happened.
She was asleep that night he held her hand and died
So she smiles as they lower the casket into the ground
Because everyone is here. All of her kids
And her kid's kids, and her kid's kid's kids
But I don't know if a white rabbit visits her
From the window

None of the babies cried, but aunts and uncles did
And there was still laughter despite tragedy
And joyous exclaimations all around. He lived a
Long life, and everyone was here to say farewell.
And so did the babies wave and say "goodbye"
They'll run to the kitchen window to look outside
And gaze at the white rabbit who calls
The backyard home.


Nov 6:
There's a church just off main street
Where my family lived and died
My Grandpa said "this church will be"
It was and then it thrived
People lived and came and went
And others stayed and died
They kicked out my uncle
And drove off my aunt
My mom she stayed, she tried, then she left
So they pretend we don't exist
The breaking of the soil
The bricks that were layed
Tears shed and prayers prayed
Are now nothing, vague somethings
Or someones. It's old history.
But I grew up within it's walls
I know all the tales
The man who went into the celler
And came out with his finger severed.
I know it's true, no fabrication
My brother told me the information
The way the lights would switch on
When no one was around
The breath on your neck
And you can't turn around
There's a shadow moving
From the corner of your eye
I know where they come from
And where they hide
The celler in the closets
That create a secret passageway
And the old roof still visible
Through the door
On the 3rd floor
Through the nursery where the babies lay
Asleep in the beds so soft
While the service went on below
And in the dead dark of night
(the alarm would go)
The red exit signs glow


Nov 13:
You can change the arrangements
Push them back to Fall
Disregard my plans
Because apparently my schedule is always open


Dec 13:
A month passed me by full of lonliness and poetry
It feels like a lifetime under lock and key
Just stay at home when it's cold, it's November
And everything's blanketed deeper in snow now that it's December
Ink stains my fingers, leaves finger prints on pages
I'm so empty and tried, I could sleep for ages

The paper is smooth with straight lines
Drawn horizontally across this that is mine
Flowers and green design, corners rounded
To contain all I think and I wish I had said

But I didn't say any of them. It's all in my head.


I could write a poem about snowflakes falling and start it from the 3rd line down. The way you can only see them in streetlamps at night, or if you're driving, a headlight. So I always hope for snowstorms at night, strong enough for an excuse to stay home from work, but I'm very rarely obliged.

Jan 8:
(Nicht Da)
I wonder how much is lazy and what is in store
All I know is I don't get bored anymore
No matter that I'm not doing anything
Everything feels like a chore

So I know
But I don't know.

I'm stuck in my mind where it's hard to wake
I want to move and get up. Be me for my sake
And I long to sleep early and to get up late
Look at me, where have I gone, what will I make?

What can I be from my bed
Where I scribble my words
Trading ink for lead
When I can't hold up my head
And all appears dead
Or lifeless at least
No reason, no meaning, just empty things.


A composotion of words to make the page flow. I'm not really writing this for show - for people to see. It wouldn't make me become anything. Nope, it's all for me. And maybe for the future. When I will not be. And someone will read this. I don't know, maybe they'll see. They'll find something that I never did, and they'll get bright like sunshine and wake up the dead. From their graves they'll arise. But who am I kidding? It's just words. My words specifically can't win any prize.