Would you let me hold your hand?

Why would I want to do that?

It’s warm,

No

and soft.

I don’t want to.

And you would be the very first one.

…

Ok, ignore me.

…

I still like you though.

Yes

What?

I will hold your hand.

Why?

I just spat on it.

I will still hold your hand.

Good. Because you still have my offer.

Is my hand warm?

Did I spit on mine?

Must be a yes.

Yes

Is it soft then too?

Do I think you’re cute?

I think that’s a yes.

That’s a yes.

I wish there was a device that could temporarily remove all of the language I have in my brain that it uses to define and categorize my experience.

I would turn it on, listen to Beethoven, and might literally be transported to heaven.

Alan Watts describes music as the truest form of artistic expression because it mimics the nature of reality. Music which references only itself, that can't be explained, exists merely for its own sake, it creates and embodies an experience of some kind unique only to itself and when it's finished, it's finished.

The human mind made tangible.

was a baby,

I knew nothing

of what life was.

was young

my parents gave me love,

and sorrow

never touched me.

was a teenager,

another love

touched me,

but it was crushed

when she went away.

was a young man,

where bombs fell,

blood spilled,

where friendships died,

and I cried for them all.

was in love,

where marriage

brought children;

our children

brought grandchildren.

was an old man,

when I buried

my true love,

next to my parents,

next to two sons.

was in my quiet time,

alone

and waiting,

tears falling,

awaiting my turn.

Spiraling thoughts dangle like stars fixed around my head. By the rate at which they are traveling it is surprising that they don’t crash into each other more often than they do. They simply hang there, filling up empty space and adding to the weight I lug around with me all day. My head seems to be the Sun to the solar system of thoughts that call my orbit their home. My head space is colonized by all of the thoughts or desires that are able to penetrate its barrier and become synchronized with the steady flow of the orbit.

Tick-tock went the clock....

Sam placed her hand on the glock...

Then she waited for the hour..

When she would meet the dour.

She could not see their faces—

They were covered by masks.

They had come to take her face.

She raised her weapon like an ace.

They surrounded her in a blink of an eye.

Sam was not ready to face these masked A.I.

One tried to reach for her gun.

She jumped over it, & started to run.

But they were faster,

& she was captured.

Nothing/No one could save her now!

#TICK-TOCK

14th Oct., 2020 ~Wednesday.

What could I say about you?

In a hundred words or less

Like how you take my breath away

When I see you in that dress

The way you care about me

I just don’t understand

The sparks that travel down my spine

When you go to take my hand

When you tell me that you love me

It makes me want to cry

I don’t know what you see in me

And it makes me wonder why

That out of 7 billion people

I’m the one you want to touch

I don’t have the words to say so much

you... my honey-coated galaxy of hushed sprinkled breaths

luminous matter dipped deep into creation

tasting your stars on the tip of my tongue

fingers dripping with you

liquid light that touched the moon

dusk embraces us

the night calling our names between the trees

that breeze from the ocean

filling my veins with the memories

of a thousand lives exhaled... and thousand more to come

mmm... with you in my chest

expanding those tender raptures

my clustered stars

bursting at the seams

Porcelain dolls now fractured under army boots, and freezing hands sift through the rubble. Families cower, begging for their lives as they are picked off one by one. Blood was staining the snow. The youngest soldier slit the neck of a cowering old man and smiled at his commander, who nodded approvingly. The man was choking on his blood and his family was screaming in fear behind them. Another soldier was silencing them. The soldier went over to the commander with a shy smile.

"Did I do it correctly?"

He kissed her forehead and smiled back. "You were perfect, darling."

I worked on the 65th floor of 30 Rockefeller Plaza.

He worked at a tiny café in the basement.

I worked 9-5 then went home to my mom.

He worked 8-4, then ran downtown for English classes before heading to the Brooklyn apartment he shared with four guys.

One day, the receptionist in my office asked if I had seen, “that cute guy” at the café. I hadn’t.

The rest is history.

Recently, I realized (31 years later) that she never went with me to point out “the cute guy.” I went alone, our eyes met, and we knew.

Kizmet.

Your eyes are the opening

to your soul.

You try to hide

your emotions.

Your face

is unreadable.

Your actions,

calm.

But you forget,

that our eyes speak

for us.

I see your pain,

your sadness,

your guilt, and regret.

I see the translucent tears,

that you wipe away

when you think no one is watching you.

I can see your hope and dreams.

I can see your fear.

Your eyes are the opening

to your heart.

The opening to your soul.

I can see what you feel,

but do not worry because

I will always be there for you.