resisting a memory

it has been a month.
your memory has haunted my dream last night. your shadow is forcing itself unto my consciousness
i want to forget you. i’m trying to forget you
my brain is writing a beautiful ekphrasis of us but i will let it fleet.
documentation will only forge the memory stronger.

this is how it feels like to resist a memory
you suppress it but somehow it still bobs into awareness

and this malady is affecting how i read
how i need to go over a sentence over and over again

so i read…

“that date coincided with the end of the reconquest, the long process of ousting the arabs who had occupied the south of spain… ”

“that date coincided with the end of the reconquest, the long process of ousting the arabs who had occupied the south of spain… ”

your smile the way our skin brushed against each other the comfortable silence the uncomfortable silence

“that date coincided with the end of the reconquest…”

say what?

if that sentence were steel, you would see scratches, manifestations of the deafening clawing, that scraped the steel over and over.
if that sentence were wood, you would see splinters that emerged from viciously going through the wood again and again. splinters that can cut my delicate skin

let me read this book.
this is all i have now.


my art in the park excursion

two things i am guilty of:
(this breaking down of thoughts into numbered buckets heavily influenced by the recent exposure to spoken word)


i passed by the booths perfunctorily.
after all there is a deluge of art to be seen in so little time. hence each of the artworks got an average of only half-a-second gander.

but contrast this against the thinking, the careful crafting that must’ve taken hours and hours, and emotions the artists have devoted to each of their works.

the paintings and prints, deformed iron and wood, faces animals still life aliens, paint blots and gradients, deliberate or not,
they don’t deserve my peripheral half-a-second glance
they deserve a sincere connection
for me to study the theme the intent, to ogle the lines and colors
they deserve an attempt to be understood
they deserve to affect a human
to make someone vulnerable



i’m sorry that i’ve gone to the park without an intent to buy

words 6

the faux poet finds his words in places where sadness hangs like dust in the air
(that is why all his poems talk about sadness
though sometimes they are about solitude, but isn’t that sad too?)

when he looks in his bag and finds a memory
a string of grieving letters will toss itself unto paper
to prolificate this bittersweet recollection
while the eyes hold back an ocean