Hall of Memories

I route the exit to the hallway

And walk through my memories

It is dark here, not scary, but lonesome

Was I alone all this time?

Certainty is a nail in the foot

For a romantic

But to know that I knew, and that I knew people

Is a pain I must have to survive

These days, the rays roll over the cover

Like drops down tropical leaves

And the architect tells me the floor plan

Is water proof

As if that needed restatement


unfinished creative piece

I have a quick announcement. That fern, the one housing the stork, on the roof? It’s gone. It’s been there all our lives, or at least as far as we can remember (a month?–seems like perpetual history erases itself in a cycle of wabi-sabi that no one can remember, actually), and the nest was fine. The eggs were fine. The hatchlings were fine. The weather was fine. The fern was fine. But the fern is now dead. How a fern? How anything? I don’t know. It’s beyond mystique. It’s a whole new boutique. Opening up at the corner. The office down the street literally is opening up a fern boutique. And all that after the one on the roof housing the stork nest dies. Is this a response? A call and response? I have no indications. I’m not a medical student. You’d have to ask someone smarter. Anyway. It’s just how things go. I don’t know a lot, I don’t owe a lot, but those eggs, those hatchlings. Damn. They flew far far away from this wreck of a place. I wish the fern could’ve survived the summer. Turns out the thermal shit from the black tiled roof was too much for a tropical plant. Ferns? Tropical? Who knows. I make it up as I go. But it’s not the weather. It’s the pointing device.


BBC Boracay says: " We love green walls - fantastic also for the penthouse roof terrace..."

Random Poem

The folio, held over

Under rain under cloud of plough of share of

T hunder hit and run under frame photo under roof-top

Settler, shoopy, my nine cats run my nine lives sunder and grow

I wonder, how so?

Many go, I do not, there is a STOP at the front

Where the winds and currents clash, I dive without aim

To sink the treasure, for the adventurous

Only for the withered and sage

Like time, like garden oranges, I make whist I havoc I heave

In tune, fork vibrates like tamarin jumping for joy I fought

Hard, hit and run we wheel it back the barrow burrowed under

Veil of night, too stooped over to gaze into the rays over bridge

Over fortnight, over clemency so fast my name didn’t register at the signatory

Line, case, point, break

We make-make, it isn’t too much to do

Update, and a short poem

I’ve started actually researching the pharmaceutical companies that I’m investing in on Robinhood. $100, baby! Burn away. No, I’m kidding. So, at first I was just going off the volatility and earnings (expected vs actual) data provided on the website, as well as the one-paragraph blurb of the company, which I have to say are pretty minimal. I was up $2 for a while, now I’m down $1. I’m only invested in pharma and a little photovoltaic. So, I realize, well, don’t realize, but, I am looking at like the pharma product pipelines now. Turns out either you need a few blockbusters or a healthy pipeline to be a successful pharmaceutical company. All the companies I’m invested in that I’ve checked so far have pretty healthy portfolios, i.e. pipelines. I’m also invested in this solar panel company. They claim they’re the biggest one out there, though I’ve never heard of them. Not that I know the names of any solar panel companies at all to begin with, but in any case. It’s kind of fun to kick around a little money, and if this is a lot to waste for some of you, I apologize for being haughty and must say that I am not burning it recklessly. I do intend to make meaningful investments, and possibly profit if the morality aligns with it. Morality is such a weak thing, though, from my experience. It’s pretty disappointing (the fact, not morality). I’ve seen it lose. So.

On that uplifting note! I am playing music to our cat who is sleeping on her bed on my bed, for once. I realized this is something I can do for her. Give her a taste of the human world, seeing as humans are obsessed with music. Maybe not all of them, but definitely the stereotype is that they are. It’s trance. I think she likes it. It’s hard to read cats but if I assume my delusions are not completely factless, then there’s hints that she enjoys the music. That it’s enriching. I lost taste for music a while ago. I don’t know what happened. In any case, I’m not as passionate about it. I need to practice piano more, learn more fundamentals. Music theory is fascinating. I just say that but I don’t know if it’s true. Too much coffee only presents itself as a thing once you start exercising. For me, at least. I don’t want to project health standards onto others. Projection, that psychological phenomenon. If only they would invest more in social sciences. The omniscient They. You know who I’m talking about.

Vape vape vape. What a waste. Still on my medication, so I guess that’s that. Go back to work in a month. I hope I can function properly without having my brain psychically melted by the malice of coworkers. Anyway you can tell why I’m still on medication. It’s kind of funny they sent me a debit card where they deposit my disability payments. I think it’s funny, like here’s a card. Like it’s from a scifi video game or something. Reminds me of that one for SNES, Flashback. That was a pretty good game. Not that I can tolerate violence in video games anymore. Our cat is so healthy. Good lord.

Poster from my brother as a birthday gift now displayed on the window, to the outside world. Not that the courtyard parking garage staging area for the block is much of an outside world. I don’t know what this means.

Okay so you listened to or scrolled past my drivel; now here’s a poem:


The Toy Geography of Finance

Megacorp LTD. makes me shine shine shine

I put the dime in the bucket, in the claw machine

And out comes the toy

What joy, joy, joy

To have this funding, to have this income stream

I wonder where it goes, does it wind and sinew like

A stream through the cliffs

The rock ground down by fluidic market pressure

Tides mystically raising and lowering the stocks

And the pebbles shore and shove downstream like men on the trading floor

Dive into the ocean

Where the financiers, moored, gaze upon the riches

Short Trip to the Garden (Has Almost Nothing to do with the Garden)

Technically this should go in my personal blog, but I figured the tone of conversation would actually fit here more or less. So just hold on, give me a second. I promise.

I was passing the threshold of the glass sliding door the enter the garden in the back yard (small back yard, to boot), when a funny phrase came into my head. I don’t remember exactly what it was, it was like “meat lock” or like “meat pong” or something like that. It made me wonder what on Earth such a thing would be. A meat pong? What’s even a pong? Anyway. There isn’t much point to this one.

Then I sit down, take a few nicotine puffs, the cat jumps on my lap and she shoves her head into my resting hands as if to say, Now you pet. And I do with one hand, but she then finds the other, as if to say, No, dawg, this is a two-hand job. Both hands, please. So I did kind of lazily. I don’t think she minded. That it was lazy. Once I got sick of it I kind of tilted my lap getting up and she just jumps off, as usual. Meow meow meow. Anyway. There isn’t much point to this one.

Just some observations. Not sure if this all counts as poetic or not. I think I am trying to prove to myself that I can be like the good writers and notice the small things in life, and write them down to boot. So I’ll try to do things like this more often, where I pay attention to things I don’t normally do, and come back upstairs and try to remember them well enough to type it out.

Thanks for listening.

Wound While Doing Chores

Without luck, I thrice mend my wounds

Once for good manners

Secondly for caring

Thirdly to show

The triumvirate unites into epithelial cells rejuvenating

Not that I did anything

I swear

To toss into the bin, to mix it up, rotate it, cycle it

Coin, card, cloth

Warm to touch, ground still moist

Weathers me just as well

No mind for jostle or joust

Just a bit on the nose, in the garden

Lost tenderly and utterly

Bit of blood goes long ways, surely

Making time of the time to see my place surrounding me


I actually wasn’t sure what to title it, as is as usual the title came last, but I figured after re-reading the poem that this must be what the story is about. I don’t actually know. Maybe you know better than I do. Hurrah.