Dust particles murmur wishes in my ear
Turn violet in the heat

The way the season turns leaves
As they fall like paper scraps
And pile above the base of trees

My roots drill deeper today
Lines in my palm sharper than usual
Tell me I was born from the valleys of mountains

And floated past trees by streams
And streams of trees
As they grow into the full sky
The way stories on the back of photographs
Fill my empty curiosity less incomplete

Voices of my great grandparents
Lift me out the front door
Lilting echoes
A chorus of birds
Their melodies intoxicating
Like a cube of sugar on the tongue
I’ve heard this song before

The notes play as it rains rivers of leaves
There’s something sentimental about disconnection
Just look at my roots
Look at my notebooks
Whose covers fade in color
Look at these leaves
Separated from the branches they called home
But they’ll never touch home
The way my third world nostalgia

Itches on the tips of my fingers
Yearning to pluck China from the tree
Taste her sweet fruit in my mouth

These hand-cut persimmons
Leave a bittersweet aftertaste
I reach with my arms outstretched
Just inches away
Just in case fallen leaves need validation
That roots are always close

(*Eric's lines are italicized.)

The honey is bitter this morning

I wake up and say all the left words
Counterclockwise

Sweetness heavy on my tongue

I let the beat dissolve
Like these grains melt in the sun

Gratitude that night dissolved
When I slipped through dream’s fingers

Sieving out of love and out of season
All’s in order out of sequence

I look out the window and a bird flies by
I look back to yesterday and a year’s gone by

I’ve spent time underground and off air
Online and in-print
On-stage and in blogs
Counting days
Like they hold some kind of promise
My fingers crossed

It’s Tuesday
And I’m waist deep in myself

Today, I stand not just knee deep
In break beats with an old soul

Bones drumming on book pages
Splintered with coffee stains

My words live in black ink
My body decomposes in the white space
In this composition of colors
The voices of the counter-culture
Too shy to speak loud

(*Eric's lines are italicized.)