Filed under: it's just me. you dont have to care.
(It might be
that)
when
a painted wall
peels,
on its own,
it gets
rid
of dusts and
cobwebs of
photographs
and
words that
injure
Silence
in its gut.
As when
a tiled floor is
mopped—it takes
away
the stamped
labyrinths
(of,
say,
two pairs of soles.
Tell me—
if this skin,
against
this flesh,
is scrubbed
off like the paint
on the wall
—will looking
at you
feel
any difference
as one should feel
leaving
without footprints?).
Filed under: cw posts
a rainbow of dirty clothes about
the fed-up pink basket
the dusts on top of the shiny black
leather-dressing box
jane eyre and the queen of the damned,
on the floor, flat and shut
a fancy pearl-earring sealed inside
the clear zip-lock cellophane
the dangling blanket on the bed-side, and the
loosing pillow-cases off the pillows
the desk’s shadow on the stuffed
travel-bag (the unzipped small pocket on its side)
an evan and jaron-song in altering high
and low volumes from an old cassette-tape player
like a drunkard in karaoke who can hardly
read the lyrics and shout with pride
the all-too familiar chorus
of a three-peso song.
*subject to changes during the cold, cold holiday season
Filed under: cw posts
i
lay
on
the
waves
and
the
folds
of
the
sheet
we
made
with
our
eyes
closed.
