Vermis Meridiem

More Stars than There are

Something to Look Forward to


Spring is surely a most wonderous time of the year, but it is not a cliché comprised of magical healing, nor does it promise total restoration of all that’s wrong with ourselves and the world around us. One could stand amidst sceneries breath-takingly beautiful, and still be haunted by inner shadows convincing him/herself that nothing is alright, that there has been too much wrong for glimpses of hope to realize into change or mending actions. However, if one chooses to see in symbols, drawing connections between observed physicality and metaphysical connotations, then a natural phenomenon like The Spring has much to offer: look at the Dandelion, never planted with intention, even conventionally seen as a pest, a weed that besmirches the neatness of civilized gardens; yet without any positive expectations, they flourish nearly everywhere, scattering on the sidewalks, swaying underneath interstate speedways, and sprouting in the middle church yards (as shown in photograph)—embodying bundles of wishes, waiting for the eventual breeze make them come true. Now think of us, how similar some of our lives may resemble that of the Dandelion—outwardly without deliberate meaning: we don’t know why we are here, or what is expected us on a grand scheme. We are scattered upon our Earth to germinate all over the place like the Dandelions. But does this  mean we ought not to bloom like them and erect our individual bouquets of dreams and ideals out of the soil beneath? Should we do so regardless of how undesirable or lost we think we are? The Dandelions do…then as their not overly distant relatives on this Earth, could we learn to live more as they do? Make a sincere wish for yourselves this year, and send its silky winged seeds sky-bound—may it germinate and sprout into existence when Spring returns again. 


Spring Forgives

Spring was late to smile upon us this year—Her sweetness felt shorter than usual, yet it was just as reassuring as the all the eternal Hope that She embodies. We shall take in full Gratitude what Grace, regardless of how ephemeral,  that She has kindly imparted upon all of us—whether we opened our sleeping eyes to See or not.

Tough Love from Orwell

” There is no possibility that any perceptible change will happen within our own life time. We are the dead. Our only true life is in the future.
We shall take part in it as handfuls of dust and splinters of bone. “

George Orwell



Not Yet Ready for March

Crowded places filled with gazes of much un-needed Inquiry:
Curious, tense, lustful, and envious—mostly afraid—
Vexing to the extremities of bone.

Can’t a Brother eat alone
Without getting smothered by cloudy and judging glances?

damn unwholesome souls
lurking rampant on this Earth

so disturb me;
perpetually motivated from outwards, of which’s approval they seek;
must we ceaselessly suck like maggots
and compete with one another in nothing
but creature obsessions? 

Escaping the suffocating boxes of Men (and Women too),
Rows of densely packed Crackles sing like
Stereotypical Hispanic Aunties,
Fast and incessantly energetic—
Sitting on the power lines, they look like
Lines of blotched ink, so morbidly jet black,
That a weak mind may just mistake them
For a bad, bad omen—

and can we stop reducing our fellow creatures
into metaphors of our own mere understandings? 

You see, it might just be a rest stop
Along the journey of their mass, seasonal migrations—
Amongst themselves, a make-shift conference is undergoing.

A slow walk toward less crowded blocks,
Outdated Post Offices and Abandoned Factories,
Peeling Paints; Corroded Metal Beams—
Ironically, at such sights, the soured Heart sits more at ease;
Maybe they remind Us of our lost
But once True Essence,

Now empty shells, waiting to be swallowed up
Whole, down the fat, fat belly of the Real Estates,
and gentrified into “Creative Work Spaces.”

Looking into the dark corners of these obsolete Sentinels,
A pair of dimly gleaming green eyes peer back
in Innocent Caution; a Young Black Feline.

“Hey there, Friend.” You say.

For it is a rare encounter, after all,
On this humid Dusk quickly morphing into total Night Fall,
It is only you and the cat
Keeping Sigil at the Graves, six feet under which
Lay the molding corpses of the Earnest and Industrious.

Eventually, this on-foot excursion ended,
Leaving you atop an empty garage, possibly
Another tasteless fruit of some Real Estate Empire—
The view falls far short of what you anticipated:
Foggy flatlands scattered with boxes containing men and women
who mostly busy themselves glancing at each other.

A breeze blows, but does not freshen your face.

Oh February of 2018,
You stubborn Animal,
Must you so soon leave us empty handed?
I dreamt of more adventures in your bleakness.

Baptized Lot of Metropolitan

It’s been raining all day here in my city; it’s nice to have these temporary periods of freezing but ultimately refreshing showers, as if nature is cleansing all of us in a preparatory ceremony of what’s ahead. Contrary to the conventional morose connotations associated with overcast days with incessant, chilling precipitation, I wish to persuade all of us to see it under a different light: Rain Excites; it dawns upon those who are willing the physical manifestation of inner tranquility, and rinses the once dried-up-tight knots of both the mind and body. Rain is a spiritual symbol of the meditative, altered state of mind, as well as the carrier of life. 


No Substitute

a crisp electronica tune for people from both worlds today
P.S. don’t forget to UP the volume.

A New Friend

                                             a mutual understanding

Metropolitan Desert Rose

                                  not of flesh and blood they are made

Pilgrimage Song of Abolishing

Deeds of the fathers, grand fathers,
and countless fallen aspects
of the passed on elders—
Trickle down into your Being;

you the Reincarnate,
guided vicariously by Karmic arms,
inevitably let your feet doused,
bathing in Ancient Sins.

Chewing on the recycled fruits,
Are you on many-a-days,
helplessly gazing down the Abyss
of recurrent,  unsurmountable defeat? 

how little do you know—
Reborn and Embodied in You
lives a New Divinity?
Your seed carefully Sown
by Hands Eternal, and Blessed evermore in Passion?

How could you then
dare to contort effortlessly
into Another Effigy
along the Ancestral line of
Old Misdeeds!

Fight! Fight— 
Fight with all of Your Might!
Abolish the curse of age and history;
Your Spirit mint and radiant,
Defiant against festered creeds

Sins of the fathers,
rusty chains of shame
surely shall to repeat:

Sons and Daughters in the Living,
fulfill not once more
a destructive prophecy—
Conquer the Self, endlessly;
let the cyclic fouls be
Vanquished at your feet.




Necessary Vacancies

who are you, when it is all seemingly a void? do you confront or give in to the self that only emerges in emptiness? or do you become consumed by it, losing the sight of self entirely, for there has never been a definitive you in moments like this?