if you kill a dreamer

i am the quiet boy who spared my last bag of flowers 

to the rising town of bacnotan.

“from every spectacle of a great spectator, 

i wish to be ghostly intelligent and fun at all times.”

the sunset has passed down historically 

to the midnight sea i want to be in.

i galloped the unheard sirens:

“you have to live like the others sometimes.”

it was a trivial thing with myself. i hushed-in 

and descended like a modern caveman.

i haven’t written much of anything for weeks.

just write: first drafts are like first born stars.

i would like to start far but in-between the lines

of a possible supernova, forged

into bridge-like pendulum, like the sea,

        always coming back to what it has called before, 

or to where it sweetly bends, like a better dreamer, 

away from a place that pays 

to kill mine:

“if you kill a dreamer, you also kill its ability to feel.”

stone age by heart, i must learn to love a dove’s

good ecstasies, writing about songbirds and melancholies.

it’s never like this before as i always call for home, 

even though i know i can’t do it all alone.