That prick is on to me
And he has a scheme
I don’t know how
I just know
That gut feeling…
I remember a past life
That full moon…
It was an entire life
I still have flaws
But I moved on
I left him behind
‘Cause I would’ve died
I never thought
I was important enough
To be chased by
What I once loved
He doesn’t me love back
And it’s only a matter of time
Before I hit back
And make this prick cry
The truth is so painfully obvious
But we don’t want to believe the truth
We just live in the moment and moments
But where were the moments before the first?
And where will they go after the last?
It’s a movie we won’t ever see complete
A tree and flower we didn’t see born
A once living carcass we didn’t see let go
What happened before, after, and in between?
It is as an individual we all know
But as a collection of only things
Things that came to be from inanimation
Only few within would painfully know
“I have nothing to brag about. When I do have something, I’ll still have nothing to brag about.”
“I always have to tell myself that life is gonna turn out okay, but even hoping for just okay is too optimistic. This place and these people broke me. This broken world created a broken person.”
-Edward La Rosa, Hoodhaven
My body is beginning to betray me… But it’s not too late.
My eyes have seen a lot of blurring… But it’s not too late.
My skin is running out of room for scars… But it’s not too late.
My hands don’t hold like they used to… But it’s not too late.
My teeth are growing irreversible holes… But it’s not too late.
My cracked bones from a previous life are saying hi… But it’s not too late.
My lungs have breathed in toxic dust and smoke… But it’s not too late.
My liver now aches with all the drinking… But it’s not too late.
My colon now tells me it can’t stand all the eating… But it’s not too late.
My bum has experienced some rough passing… But it’s not too late.
My heart feels too heavy to keep on beating… But it’s not too late.
My mind has been going to waste… But it’s not too late.
My stupidity has gotten me into trouble… But it’s not too late.
My life has mostly felt like dying… But it’s not too late.
My hope may be losing out to despair… But it’s not too late.
My time has been wasted on worrying… It’s too late.
And then I die
La da dee.
It’s time to clean.
…
La da dee.
I’m cleaning.
…
La da dee.
I’m in the kitchen
taking out the garbage.
A glance:
An edible-looking kiwi.
Why did I throw it away?
Its shell is intact
but if you press it,
you can feel
the mushy insides.
Imagine squeezing it.
A banana peel lays there,
its insides taken a while ago,
most likely by me, the culprit,
with black blots as if it were
a rotting corpse.
Ground coffee sprinkles
the top of the heap,
fallen this morning,
like snow on a mountain.
Somewhere else in the world,
you can look at the same thing
and zoom out to find
acres of a landfill.
…
La da dee.
I’m cleaning.
!
A fruit fly
hovers around.
I nearly dropped the garbage onto the floor
for a chance to clap my hands together
and flatten the pest in between.
I thought about the virus
going around in the world.
One sick person means
many sick persons.
Spring started two days ago.
One fruit fly means
many fruit flies.
Here to the hope that cleaning
will put a stop to the fruit flies.
…
La da dee.
Clean.
The world has been ending
for quite some time already.
Words have been getting lost in places
where people used to stop and think.
The world has been dead
for quite some time already.
People are there
but it feels like
the world
is still empty.
What is the meaning
behind these words?
Think.
Slow down
And think.
What is happening
behind these words?
Could it be late-night exhaustion struggling to stay awake?
Could it be a mindless stream of nonsensical consciousness?
Could it be an alternative haven from the feminine chatter
occurring in the vicinity of where I am supposed to sleep?
What about your words?
What about his words?
Are they moments of teaching? (Yeah, right.)
Are they instances of sharing to the world?
Are they pretentious and naive impulses?
The need to appear to the world
that he matters?
There is a life behind every word.
There is … life behind every word.
Lives that have…. built names for themselves.
They could even be
Lives that haven’t built names for themselves.
(That’s me.)
Me?
Who am I?
Think…
But not too hard.
In the pouring rain,
your love is high octane.
You have a way with words.
In the setting sun,
we are still having fun.
You have a way with words.
In the morning sun,
let us keep having fun.
You have a way with words.
I will show you love expression.
There once was a man
who held in his hand
the entirety of the world.
Then,
came and stayed,
a heavy fear
that brought with it
a lot of hurt.
The days
were dark and black,
even if he…
Said…
Thought…
Otherwise.
My right forearm / wrist has had sharp pain
since work Wednesday morning
when I took out a garbage bag
filled with matcha pudding.
I missed work on Thursday
and I took care of my hand
using a homemade sling –
actually a resistance band.
I downed a gallon of chocolate milk
for the protein and calcium,
and what do you know…
I could’ve been a decent doctor.
When I returned to work on Saturday,
there was some hope that somebody would notice.
I told a colleague
about my boo boo.
And I reaggravated
my boo boo.
But nobody really cares about your problems.
There’s a sink at work that has stabbed
nine tiny holes on my other forearm
plus a long gash for good measure.
I feared looking like a heroin user,
but now I see a constellation.
I told a co-worker – she saw it happen –
and she said it doesn’t happen
to anyone else.
Only me
because I’m some kind of dummy.
Why me?
Who really cares?
For a couple of years now
the arch of my left foot
sometimes has sharp pain.
Maybe it’s because of the weight gain.
Maybe it’s because I jumped off
a twelve foot boardwalk
one day during my Dark Era
and an old foot injury says hello
from time to time
after all those years.
Sometimes, I walk like my father now
with his short, quick strides,
a slight limp,
and a pissed off look on his face.
I wanted to be my father in some ways,
but not in that way.
I should’ve cared about his problems.
It could be karma.
I don’t believe in karma.
Occasionally,
when I go out for a night of drinking,
I could feel the dull aches of my liver
trying to tell me
that it can’t take it
like it used to.
Nobody ever really cares about your problems.
But I hear you, body.
I feel you…
But…
I think I’m proud of these “scars”.
I used to be scared of growing old,
but there are some things that happen
that make me contemplate
if I really care.
So, body, who really cares?
It’s no longer Edward.
Edward is my father’s name.
He made a life out of it.
I didn’t.
My name has always been Lawrence.
Edward was just a phase.
It’s still my middle name,
my second name,
but everyone knows me as Lawrence.
To some of my family, I am Tatang
which means “old man” in Tagalog.
(I’m SLOWLY growing into it.)
To those assholes in high school,
if they still remember,
it was Bulldog, Potato Head, Scat,
or whatever else they came up with.
To my lady,
I am Lover,
or Daddy,
which I always thought was
a self-fulfilling prophecy.
When she’s angry,
she calls me Lawrence.
So, no more Edward.
It was only a phase.
My writer-looking-for-a-new-name phase.
My put-a-past-life-behind phase.
My my-enemies-know-me-as-Lawrence-so-I’ll-change-my-name-so-they-won’t-find-me phase.
But I’m so Lawrence
that I forgot to tell people in my new job
to call me Edward.
I guess I wasn’t dedicated to being Edward after all.
Also,
when I started to want to be called Edward,
I met a guy named Edward.
He’s cool.
He built a life out of that name.
I didn’t.
So, in our circle,
he’s the only one who deserves to be called Edward.
So, I’m Lawrence.
Call me Lawrence.
If you didn’t get the memo before
that I wanted to be called Edward,
Then disregard this.
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