My joy is dead.

I used to think 

that there was a fine line

between love and hate,

but now

I take two pills a day,

and

that line

is all I see.

I know
That for whatever reason
It isn’t cool 
To capitalise anymore,
But still,
I do.
Maybe it is because
I never read enough E. E. Cummings, 
Or because
I never got burnt out on 
Proof reading copy.
Whatever,
I like capitals,
Maybe I Should Start Writing Everything Like Song Titles? 

When I was a kid
there was a girl I liked
in my class,
so I wrote her a note
saying
“Do you like me?”
(with three boxes; yes, no and maybe)
then
signed my name at the bottom,
and passed it forward.

A few
(long)
minutes later
I got it back, and
unfolded it as
the school bell rang.
She had added another box,
and marked it
“Who are you?”

That never happened;
I went to an
all boys school,
and was always too scared
to write the note.

On the day I was born
The president of the Phillipines
Was on the cover of Time Magazine,
She was woman of the year,
But I’d never heard of her
Before today.

That night
Away from home,
Free from our parents’ gaze
You drew me close, our innocence
Undone.

I thought I heard you talk 
About the meaning of life, 
It came in on a breeze 
And went out with the tide,
And I tried 
My very hardest 
To pay close attention, 
But it faded away 
At the earliest mention
Of a word I did not 
Quite understand;
I used to know this language
Like the back of my hand, 
But days spent lying 
In this hospital bed
Have led to growing rot
That spreads throughout my head.

Last night I dreamt I rode into a storm

And the feet working the pedals

Still had their slippers on,

And the fists clutching the handles

Were cracked and deathly white

And the eyes were wide and rounded,

To see by pale moonlight.

I wish my hands were bigger. Sometimes I could swear that my fists have the same girth as my forearms, which hairless as they are resemble two fleshy cylinders topped with scuffed knuckles or splayed fingers. It would be tolerable if my fingers were slender, my hands soft and delicate and suited for precision work, but they’re not. They are a man’s hands sized down, the tools of a brute shrunk in the wash; too crude for art and too dimunitive for force.

Muffled shouts, the sound of breaking glass, a dull thud. It is late, and I turn the volume up on my TV.

I am the prisoners, the guards, and the warden, and I don’t have the strength to escape my own boredom.