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Procrastination
Text
A Check for $2.55
This afternoon I received a check for $2.55. In my eyes, it seems
rather pointless to even print a check for such a low sum. Therefore,
I have created a list of all the things of equal value, or less,
that I would have rather received.
A small box of colorful pens,
A dinosaur tie clip,
A plain-jane candy bar,
A bag of salt and vinegar chips,
A pleasant song from iTunes,
A small superhero figurine,
A sweetly worded letter from a sugary lipped ingénue,
A Japanese knick-knack from the heart of the rising sun,
A tiny stuffed dog full of love but not life,
A guilty pleasure movie from the bottom of the bin,
A dust covered almanac from a desolate garage sale,
An exasperated glance from an austere librarian,
A small coffee from the safety of my regular corner shop,
A hot dog from the gas station which I'll regret immediately,
A hug from a friend on a cold windy day,
And, most importantly,
Above all else,
Anything except $2.55.
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my face
my face is not a face,
but instead a mule
straining underneath the weight
of it's own unbearable load
my soul is not a just a soul,
but a prisoner to the body it wishes it was
yearning for a chance to expose itself
to the cold, december sun
my quest is not a quest,
but a question
'how can i let them see me like this?'
'how can i sport my deepest weakness like a badge of honor?'
the craters of the moon,
the imperfections in a hand-made cabinet,
the troubled intonation of a struggling orchesetra,
the undercooked misgivings of an ametuer chef,
yes, my face is not a face,
just a burden i must wear.
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Shinbashi - Tokyo, Japan
Instagram - @inefekt_japan
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Chance Meeting
Salmon flowers cover the soft landscape of your navy dress
Your trembling hands carry little strands of hazel lies behind your ear
Milky, oval windows darting to avoid my gaze with no success
Stale unfeeling conversation injected with a year-old fear
Stand at attention, little solider, you feel you did no wrong
The fallout of an infantile trip through a cross-fade in our lives
Frames of plastic memories through a grey projector ring a hollow song
For the girl your mother pushed to ensure the bloodline survives
Should I regret the spark I set deep behind the bars of your ribs
Should I regret stoking, tending, and losing control of that brilliant fire
Should I regret the growing mountain of white lies, 'okays' and inexcusable fibs
Should I condemn myself for so easily falling into this bear-trap of desire
I wish we hadn't met today
You turn around and plod away
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Haiku- Scaffolding
Cold unfeeling place
City of sturdy metal
Hard work warms the cracks
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Stanley Park
Do you remember
The pavement hugged tightly by a
Desperate dew, conscious that by morning
It will have vanished, leaving no imprint,
No evidence at the scene of the crime?
Do you remember
The liminal backdrop of the verdant mountains
Cradling a living creature in its arms
Kissed by deep blue waves
Gelid, but woven of only passion?
Do you remember the Irish waiter
Who lent me his pen and laughed
A crisp, white laugh
Which escaped from the tight edges of his genuine smile
Amused by my request of a 'sweet iced tea'?
And do you remember
the southern boy, or at least
The boy who seemed so far below you?
And maybe he was,
Maybe he was two puerile children
fighting over one battered, baby blue airplane
In a sandbox overflowing with boiling, scalding tension
Maybe he was the raging, deafening, unbearable calm
That set in after another long, hungry storm,
A dichotomy between the old, brutish clouds
And hopeful, flaxen skies
And maybe he was meant to be in the basement,
No, the dungeon
Mixing chemicals like he mixed up his own
Shallow pallet of dreams and morals,
Blessing the ammonia that scorched his nostrils because
At the very least,
He could feel.
Do you remember?
Do you remember the kiss of our palms
As we vanished into the labyrinth of taciturn foliage
Content to be lost in each other's company?
Do you remember the strokes in your hair
In time with the strokes of the jazz drummer's contorting sticks
Bending, deviating, Impish oak
Resonating with the impact of Mylar in 6/8?
Do you remember the taxi ride
Dissolving into that open gate,
That empty black canvas of a chilled autumn night,
Boyish hopes and naive giggles cascading
Into a thick, comforting blanket of dark?
Do you remember me,
Do you remember Stanley park?
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