i don’t


a crushing normalcy.
long gray streets creep into the heart.
pragmatic, necessary, boring.
orange night skies…a dull murmor of heavy motors.
the night whispers everything, and the day says nothing.
y aquí te espero.
en esta tumba de lo banal. aquí te esperaré.
(taken from an old blog post. Tuesday, February 15, 2005. unedited.)

my house doesn’t make any sense.
i pay. i eat. i sleep. i stay.
my house was built before i was born.
i watch. i meddle. i swoon. i don’t pray.
living my time: i grasp. i reach. i tried.
the sun before it rises still is bright somewhere,
out there in outer space.
it burns hot for no one and all.


i live in a world of sudden meaning and passing sadness.
of transient culture and epiphanic minutiae