Tag Archives: Andy L. Kubai

Sentinel

by Andy L. Kubai


In the emptiest hours
of the deepest churning
oceans it’s tethering,

luminescent arm sweeps
across the sultry dusk

bringing letters filled with
pictures of lovers and children

in a beam of light

another beating heart
another soul battling
erosion,

wind and water

a melancholy sentinel
warding off the empty
night, guarding against

toothsome grinning rocks,

the disorientating fog
of life alone on high seas

even though obsolete next
to the glittering wonders
of our technological age

it builds bridges from
its rocky perch to
wanderlust ships creeping
through the cool night

standing guard over our
seasick world, keeping us
safe from the bloodshot

sirens of our fears
calling us to the reefs.

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Literature Unspoken

by Andy L. Kubai


I lose track of the
world as we sip
our coffee cups
over gasps of literature
floating in the air
in translucent letters,

gestures trying to
be translated from
fiction to nonfiction,
the words dangle above
us, the poetry of desire,
waiting to transcend
small talk.

The substance of
the universe floats
away with the coffee
steam, lingering
on your lips with

wispy foam, daring
me to lick it from
you with kisses,
crafting thoughts
in an attempt to
accurately translate
the raw power of
emotion

a tapping foot
a spry glance
a brush of the
hand or a shrug
of the shoulders,

the great unspoken
literature of your
golden brown eyes.

A Letter to Myself (circa 2002)

by Andy L. Kubai


Dear me,

If life is anything, it’s
a malleable clay that
I can edit in retrospect.
No experience can’t
be whitewashed by
the dust storm of
nostalgia. So, when
the sun sets on my
chicken noodle soup
life or my watercress
salad life, I will be
requesting your funerary
services, because at
this moment in time,
you are the only person
who can endure our
collective eulogizing.
Please,
don’t forget to breathe
deeply when the world
turns into a big skinhead
in a mosh pit that punches
you in the gut. Soak in as
many ashtray breaths as
possible (assuming you
still smoke), because
nicotine dreams taste better
than moldy breadcrumbs
nibbled from your winding
path along the sidewalk.
Say goodbye to whoever you
thought you were. He’s lying
in a sarcophagus in Bermuda,
sipping gin. You hate gin.
He’s already writing your
memorial with his trendy
attraction to self-destruction.
He’s pondering our so-called
glory days, those ramen noodle
nights, those sunrise whiskeys,
those coffee cup afternoons;
those days spent choking
down stale beer with
cigarette butts to avoid
the three-day hangovers
rolled into one day.
He’s already roasting
marshmallows in the
meltdown afterglow, surfing
radioactive sunrises, patching
old scars with duck tape
and throwing away torn
Valentine’s day cards.
Please,
forget to use a coaster.
We love leaving stains
when they matter, when
they’re covered in useful
hieroglyphics. Feel free to
stick pins into any map which
contains important places
we thought we were going,
lost virginity, lost innocence
found responsibility, found
voices. If all the dots don’t
connect, it’s ok.
Don’t be alarmed. This is
to be expected. Love the
radiation of civility,
bask in it, let it mutate your
heart in surprising ways.

Sincerely,
disheveled and in love
with thunderstorms and
bloody sunsets,

me.