confession

"now
let me be honest
i don't want your love
neither your passion

you have a beautiful face
that i appreciate kissing and such
but wanting is all too different

you see
i could live without kissing you
what i can't is
stand so dull here
while i want my legs around your head"

"i could give you

all the things you ask for

and even more

but i need to want it too

and you see

while i wouldn't mind your legs around my head

i'd rather have my hands grasping your butt

yet all of it seems all too irrelevant now

 as it is funny how

 our useless arms and legs burn with licentious passion

in this restaurant"

Like Entries in a Diary

As fun as writing

is, finding something

to write about

isn't. Not that it is

hard -- nothing really can

be that hard, except

maybe for opening a

bottle of beer with bare

hands, and that's why

we have bottle openers.

"What if I write like

a bottle opener?" is what

comes to the youthful mind,

and there seems nothing

better to do as September

comes to its youthful end.

(I hate it when months

die prematurely.) I have 

been living in April since

March, and it seems like I

will until next February. So,

let's give April "The Month of

the Year" award -- is there a 

point in posthumous awards 

though? Only love remains as

beautiful in the posthumous

universe, and I can't give the

scarce love I have to April --

not again. (I can share my French

press coffee with her, which is

real good, which actually means

a lot.) It is 1:00 PM as we're

lead into the miraculous October,

which is not even the eighth month

of the year, which really bothers

me. It deserves at least that much

after all it has given to us,

and not asking back for anything,

not even a cup of coffee. Maybe

that's what brings you the eighth

though, the selfish demands August

seems to always have. Anyways, real

Fall has just started, and I

am looking for someone who can

prove me that you can say the same

thing to the same person perpetually

and not be bored of it. You should,

too -- instead of wasting your 

time with this bottle opener.

Something Extra For Sadder People

Life seems less and less interesting

with every passing night

without explorations

and I’d love to explore

you and her and him and it

               but it’s too cold to fall in love

                         and blanket days are not here

                                 yet.

           

I never thought, though

        that I’d think of love

                 on a night of sugarless tea
                      -- it's not that i like tea bitter
                             there just isn't any sugar under
                                    my reach

but who needs sugar in tea

            when falling in love all over again

                      is such sweet joy

                                as the radio plays

“Nat King Cole Sings”

        yet I cannot

             but I can fall in love

                      which is enough

                            which is better than

candied earl grey.

ORANGES

Foreword: Thank you Mr. Frank O'Hara.

------------------------------------------------------

I

It is weird to write

poetry for school. Yet,

I find myself dying

to do so, trying my best

O’Hara imitation. Maybe

I should just be myself, but

can’t I only project my image

on the reflection of another

man? I suppose that was what

god did through Jesus, and

what we do through god. I find

the idea of a personal

god very appealing, oftentimes

dream about it. As I lay in

my bed and think why on

Earth would god create humanity,

a truth strikes me. It is uncanny

how the girl’s eyes become the same

color under the dim sunlight as the boy’s

sparse hair, both of which have

a little god in them. I suppose

colors don’t strike us as beautiful until

we see a sweet coincidence,

which obviously is more than

a simple occurrence: something

that is meant to happen, something

that ripened and aromatized through

a course – much like a fruit.

I find myself lying on my bed,

thinking about my god, and my

poetry assignment. I like the fact

that I wrote it, but I am not

a real poet. I can only hope

to be.

------------------------------------------------------

II

I will not write twelve poems

yet

but a second deserved to be written

either by me

or by the wind

on the faces of small children

and leaves of fall that are

turning a little more

luminous everyday

the poem belongs

to the sun and the air

at least as much as the wind

-if not more-

and they too

shall sing it in grace

even before it is finished

everyone will hear it – the girl and the boy

and the girl will wangle the boy

and the boy will woo the girl

and the clouds will witness them

on Travessera de Gràcia

and before the sky can even hug them

they will be together

they will embrace the sky

and fall – but not apart

like two leaves bonded in the rain

and as they waltz nearer to the ground

and as she sees that she’s the one that is wangled

she’ll smile

it’ll be glorious

and the sun will light up her face

with the same color

that fall leaves

have.

------------------------------------------------------

I cannot thank you enough.

What Have You Done This Summer?

I have realized how small
the world is. Then, I've seen
how big it can get on the eyes

of a keen individual.
It is only a matter of
finding that thing -- hidden
in the heat of the summer,
that'll draw the curtains, leaving
no shadow to live under.

For me, it was Prague.

There was something so peculiar about Prague
which made it so easier to love, and
I do not know if that's watching sun come up
in the garden next to the opera building,
or the cul-de-sac that seems to continue
eternally into the warmth of the bricks,
or the workmen having cold, foamy beers in their breaks
with their sweats still hot on their foreheads,
or the beautiful girl with the beautiful eyes and
the beautiful walk who rolled the sleeves
of a sweatshirt that reads:
"I love Praha." (gosh,
I wanna stop her and scream
"Me too!"),
or the possibility of seeing a McDonald's or a
gothic catholic church, so old that it looks
grotesque and gloomy -- even under the shining sun (yet
not as grotesque as the McDonald's though),
or the record shop who sold me the Moody Blues
album for so cheap -- amongst Bee Gees and Nat King Cole,
or the Asian family who looks lost, who looks
exhausted under the sun, who still silently appreciates
the beauty of the streets,
or the musician around the corner, that is either
an old Soviet soldier, or an American expat who has
seen the most inglorious depths of war,
or the homeless man with a smiling face
that spells pain,
or the fact that I got drunk so easily
for so cheap -- even cheaper than the records,
or the kind man in a blue shirt and dress pants
and fancy shoes, his hair combed, asking me
if I would be interested in a bible study,
or the stars that still shine in the
Prague mornings, or the brother, who
eagerly offers me a smoke,
or the river and time and boats and emotions and life passing by
under the Charles Bridge.

It was either that, or
falling for something is easier
at a younger age.

Then again, I don't
really need to know why --
I'm in love and I'm fine.