Don't Blame the Rain

When you’re forced to abandon
that long anticipated game,
don’t blame the rain for
stealing away that terrain just
because this way is the only foe you see:
I saw the clouds progress to
the control of the invisible wind
bringing those drops towards the play
Yet the wind is not the culprit,
say, since without clouds would the
rain soak up the plain? The sun–
that helioradio ball of gas unable
to contain all that energy, endlessly
spewing since 8.3 minutes before
you even began to punt.
But ho! you forgot about gravity,
that attraction of the nearby dusts
collapsing these in a giant sphere
fusing to produce these “byproducts”
radiating the convection drafts.
What causes gravity then, you pray,
let me put a rifle to his head.
Perhaps the Big Bang or the Planck Time–
who inflated our universe? 

The Integral of Nature

Must I let nature fight against itself
when all that will avail is lost heat and time?
I mean, the derivative of nature is still nature, right?
Or is it humanity, and the derivative of that technology?
If that’s the case what is there to fight since they occupy different dimensions and depend upon each other for survival?
I gasp, gasp—no, technology’s the integral of humanity, and that the integral of nature, for through all those efforts we know and can create.
Still there should be no war, no need to be so harsh, on the one less that worked to create you.
Whose side are you on?
Nature has given up on a cohesive agreement to maintain society for they realize the synergized effort will only lead an integration of nothing.
I shall keep suppressing, hushing the beasts to return me my sanity
I am no longer fond of broken habits.


We love the weather, that–I don’t
know exactly what this is even
though with what I have–naked
observations, raw smell, distant
experts, etched experience and
soaring satellites… I can declare
what should happen the next after
the next before that after that I
can’t even whimper with confidence
–us poets! Even in the pouring
rain we wonder whether the trees
will survive this torrent, whether
the sun shall evermore arise…
when all along we know it’s a cycle,
and are so conscious of it that we
feel the need to create an imbalance
so strong that we endorse the rain,
points it as the tears of human
disaster, only to forget this continuum
continuum from which it matters
little whether or not we feel. 

A Push

Sometimes all it takes is a push,
a slightly above zero net force without
a constant gravity or friction
and it will start.
Even if the opposition does increase
as you gain momentum
remember all the weight you’d gain,
those followers, supporters, family members
that will maintain this energy within, without and any where in between.
And all it took was that effortless push. 

Snow is white—but why?

A few days ago I learned
what makes snow white, soft and crunchy
instead of clear, tough and slippery,
despite being just as water as ice.


It’s actually the crystals, invisible to our eyes
forgotten in random orientation.
They are microscopic ice cubes intertwined
into columns, needles and plates,
reflecting, by the same law in physics,
their unique waves from above,
returning all, completely, the colors
of the world, which combined,
in our eyes, mark the purity and sense of space.


We can’t always resonate.
We can’t always stay at that frequency so perfect–up to certain place after the decimal–
that we simply just oscillate with an amplitude that great.
I will be tired, you know?
I will have days when I cannot ride the train
even though I have overcome my motion sickness for them
because old symptoms relapse
because my biological memory will suddenly remember that I physically did not want to stay at that frequency, that I was my own soul, 0.000001 below, but nonetheless unique.
And if I were to lose to that place just to stay with you forever, I would never have the chance again to realize what it means to ride the waves together.
I would only be riding you.

Do not all charms fly
At the mere touch of cold philosophy?
There was an awful rainbow once in heaven:
We know her woof, her texture; she is given
In the dull catalogue of common things.
Philosophy will clip an Angel’s wings,
Conquer all mysteries by rule and line,
Empty the haunted air, and gnomed mine
Unweave a rainbow, as it erewhile made
The tender-person’d Lamia melt into a shade.

On Average

It’s hard to imagine that the average world is dead
–of dark and low energy irradiation–when all around
life teems with wonder, albeit with struggle and dread
that too is buried underneath the bustling life abound.
It’s hard to imagine that really is the average world
when even at night there is no such corner as dark
no such color as black attached with fear; truth be told
it’s become a pollution–not an amazement–to the sky.
It’s hard to imagine of a world so empty when to me
it’s about “cherish, relish, embellish” and then “reduce,
reuse, recycle”–I’m trapped in this closed imagery
of abundance calling for an endless, careless abuse.
Until perhaps when the mother Earth we must leave,
will we finally realize what normalcy we brought to cease