All We Have Is Now

It's The Flaming Lips "All We Have is Now"
playing on repeat, repeat, so why
do we always take the trash out on Sunday

And let truths wait, while money's disappeared
into coffers like indulgence in days of old
when we invest in a future on a promise

And think we can get something in return
for so little effort? My love is languishing
in the procrastination of a cold argument

Gone on for too long between myself
and my unknown self, neither of whom
is brave enough to make a go at it

("You and me were never meant to be
part of the future - all we have is now -
all we've ever had was now.")

On the Moon

Once again,
I watched this lunar party
streaming by.

Once again,
I met no transcendence,
only strains.

I need to break down
these walls,
the ten tons roof

My heart is pressed under
and that the spirit
can barely hold up
(the roof? the heart?)

Yet I know,
I always knew
what it'll take.

If you're pushed
into the water,
you hold your breath.

If the water is deep,
you must swim now,
or drown.

And if you let go,

you'll float -

On Sixty Minutes

On Sixty Minutes Sunday
is a story on ordinary people
with extra-photographic memory,
they can recall the details of any day
in any year they've lived - the good, the bad,
and all the in-betweens we remember
only as generalized repetitions -
they got theirs compartmentalized
and can pull out on demand in an instant,
their dreams don't merge with their memories
the way ours do. According to researchers
how most of us remember
is where adrenaline marked the spot -
your so-called passages of life,
the earthquakes, floods, 9/11.
And as to the rest of the details,
well, I think, sometimes,
they're just like the pins you dropped
into a shaggy carpet in a gobbler of a room
that you don't remember ever of having dropped -
except when your feet find them.

be not long

be
not
long:

long
not
be,

not
be-
long.

Hide (or the kind of poems one writes while listening to High Violet by The National)

Everyday appears the same
from beginning to end
with details in between

You don't see the whole
of, and if you ask,
I will only tell you

In terse half truths
you won't remember
the beginning and end of.

It's my way of living
in the overlooked silence
of the world

That after an age,
discovered like a diary
on the dust strewed floor

Which you then read
from beginning to end of,

Filled you full with regrets.

Writing

Kahlo, Mona, their gazes
silent and contained
are pictures I have on the wall to look upon

In between the picking up of pen
and a few clicks on the keyboard,
those semblance of efforts
in a few gestures made

Where no word comes out,
not even in a rush of shades,
desperate and homeless.

(Yet it is the silence that mattered,
is a form which leashed the form
to guard the form from light.)

What I would give to leave the dark.

Instinct

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