Run, run while you can;
while your toes can spring from the asphalt;
while time is on your side
and the wind is behind you,
and the world is a trail of blur.

The cartilage of your joints,
fresh and oleaginous,
pliable as your young mind,
can take you to your destiny;
can satiate wanderlust,
a bitter aftertaste for a time long gone
of a weary spirit
tenant to a rigid flesh.

Breathe
the scent of life in.
Let your lungs and air,
like lovers who have folded
the distance between them,
savor the embrace
throbbing in their minds at night.
Breathe the scent in,
in time,
they grow stale,
planted in water by the bedside
wilting with apologies
and well wishes
dancing to the music
of beeping machines.

Up the hills if you must;
through mist,
yielding not an inch
to questions
doubt pours on the road.
Against the unwillingness
of your body,
defy,
and when its defiance ripens
in its season,
your spirit shall burden
it a heavy swathe of obstinacy.
So run,
for the loan of time digs deep in the pocket to claim interest,
pay your heart in full,
before foreclosure.
Time inevitably demands its due.

—e.d. maramat | erwinism

Don’t be the man
Yearning
For the moon,
The one without a plan,
Not learning
From past failures and what’s
Bound to be coming soon.
Do not be the one who desires
For the untouchable,
The one whose fires
Are kindled at only one sight.
This is my attempt at shining a light
Upon your scars.
Though you wish for the moon
Amongst the stars,
Don’t you care
About the lack of air
Up there?
Don’t you know you’ll die
Too high
In the sky?
I suspect you’ll never be able to fly,
To reach the moon;
A suffocation I fear that’s coming
All too soon.

The tabs of my mind
miss your fingers
skimming through them
index first
middle next
till you find yourself
running till you
find
thoughts of
you

I come from the great unwashed
womb of the child
who didn't dare dream
from a scheme
where the last lights are embers
from ravaging concrete flames

I come from the house fire of
denatured childhood
abandoned architecture
indolence in adolescence and
wrestling with the will of the wind

I come from crawling smoke
lingering in doorways
lining streets paved with
pejorative and placation
where the insightful ask is
"wit are you lookin' it?"
and the answer is always
a wrong one

I come from malnourished minds
where the bytes outnumber
the starving they would feed
from where the drowned
still walk around
coveting concrete feet