Lifted into

the glass prison

Rows of silk and satin inmates 

Some hanging

Some hanging

by their threads

Face-pressed windows

Potted nightshades 

Dark red siren lights 

Sitting down at a table

Ordered a cookie and Coke

Your face clawed by tears

Stared back

His kisses are laced with poison.

He intertwines his fingers with mine

and guides me through a desert of sorrow

He left me there and promised

he'd come back for me tomorrow

An eternal optimist

with a hopelessness complex

Winds blow the sand

and there is grit in my teeth

I squint, but the grains 

slap my face and make it to my eyes anyway.

Red-rimmed eyes and tears of betrayal

I should have known better

He leaves me for dead

To drown in sand dunes of sadness.

Thoughts shape reality. Synaptic neurons forge the brain in real time. Perceptions are created and acted upon seamlessly. Imagination lies in between your thought and action - a source of profound new possibilities and a frequent visitor of ancient, ageless worlds. It is the strangest, best part of your mind.  

Every once in a while, I go to my graveyard

Where I hide all my books and some photographs

Every once in a while, I retouch the smeared drawings

With some salty memories

Every once in a while, I let some bats come inside

The big mausoleum and they turn out to be

Some golden butterflies

Made out of feathers and silver lining

Every once in a while, the withered trees surrounding

That graveyard turn into friends who guard all my poems

In every single leaf I write my verses

In every flower I draw a picture of a lover

During Blue Moon nights I let the sorrows be carried away

By the reaper with a golden scythe

She says she is not there for the living

But she is willing to carry away all of those whose hopes had faded away

In every grave I hide my doubts and penalties

And every once in a while the picture of unrequited love

I offer bad funerals for moments of love that went bad

I giggle in funerals where everyone seems to be blue

And all those golden butterflies turn into bats

When I get to read about my own lugubrious events

They turn to hairy darkness with sharp, poisonous fangs

And all that place illuminated by lanterns turns into a storm

Then far away, watching, she observes reflecting her empty leer in her scythe

-"You've failed."

DA 2015

She might also be there

Tell her to call me now

Just got home

Ofcourse i love you

Where's the next destination?

Yes ma'am i'll be right down

Nope not yet

We'll be great business partners

How are you?are you alright?

When's the cremation?

Open your lesson slots today and happy teaching!

I miss you when can we meet?

One must assume that

Life is never ending

That love is round

And the Sun is pleasing

One can't deny that roundness

Is everywhere and yet is absent

From those who break its circles

Full of promises and continuity

We are all trapped in Samsara

An ancient Gehenna of wedding rings

Of golden coins, of transparent teardrops,

and of dancers twirling in ancient theaters

What is it then that we are so unaware

Of these lapses that keep us captive

In harmonious mayhem

and chaotic meditation

What is it then that we don't keep in touch

With the place where all endings meet

Where is the red thread that connects us all

And is untearable

If Samsara is where you are standing

If Samsara is trapped in my closet

Or maybe in the cold guavas I tend to eat

Eating them riskily because there is no way to know

If you're going to eat the bitter or the sweeter one

There is no way to tell

There is no way to assure

That poets' love

That lovers' promises

Are going to end

For Samsara is that way to Nirvana

For it is some kind of Gehenna

Of saddened lovers, angered bankers

And lonely poets with a pen.

DA 2015

how much my eyes could see

their dirty lies

unmistakable thoughts

wrong doings

Unfair treatments

Undeniable madness

over useless and nonsensical things

And how they take advantage of

and look down on my

weaknesses and kindness

towards them

They'd be afraid

Because it's what they try

so hard to hide

But they can't

because it's written

all over their face

They'd be afraid

because they'd know

that I could leave them

anytime.

"And yet I see a light in the distance so clearly;

if that light disappears now and then,

it is generally my own fault."

~Vincent Van Gogh

I read the words of Van Gogh

and the words read me.

From my vantage point,

fragile Cirrus clouds

like bone china, streak

the powdered blue firmament;

their strands suspending the

softest billows like picture

frames hung on a wall.

Spring is springing,

all around

and where I have been

waiting for words to fall,

there are none.

The leaves on my trees

are falling;

this the absurdity I

essay to make sense of;

putting thoughts to words

in hopes I might part

the very clouds

which have obscured

me from them;

words which sporadically

leak in prisms their Ebenezer-like

visitors

I am in want of a poem

where my words will form

some Migratory V

and soar the skies in search to see

where none return as though in vain

tracing rainbows through the rain.

These words I look for,

but they will not take flight.

...

Early this morning

a salt and pepper squirrel

scampers back and forth

along the arms and under

the sprawling umbrella of my

White Oak tree.

He's in a twitching frenzy

for Sunflower seeds

scattered along the fence;

as if somehow I thought him

unable to forage for himself.

My very colossal and

olde love of a dog

makes a valiant effort

for the warm blooded prize,

but with eyes

now resembling more

the clouds he used to chase,

falls short this night.

Reaching down to scratch

behind elongated tufted ears

I validate his efforts

and he presses into my thighs,

returning the gesture

with a humble wag of his tail.

An ineffable beryl yellow butterfly

flits about his head

but he pays no notice.

...

The hours have whiled

this day from morning

to dusk like a high speed camera.

From the pulse that is my home,

Cornish Hens have satisfied,

allowing bits and scraps

enough extra for two dogs

who lap up clean their bowls.

I've stepped out onto

our back deck and

into the breeze of the evening

with my noble foot warmer

and truer half of

'Till death do us part.'

He settles into the familiar

fluff of cotton ticking blankets

I've piled for him

where he's curled in the corner

by the birch stacks

licking away the aches and rattles

from his bones.

I'm hoping for a little while longer

with my furry companion,

not taking for granted the days;

believing soon

he will be chasing rainbows

instead of clouds.

I know full well when he

decides to leave us

he will have taken with him

a very large season of

what was our life together;

and for a moment

my breath.

...

An awesome spectacle

is overhead tonight.

The Westward sky

is boasting a painterly

crescendo of colors

in palette knife strokes

of Turquoise.

The ethereal Beryl yellow

of earlier, is V'd into

an impasto thick

Blood-red orange;

bearing the footprints

of a master

impressionist's

marks

...

I am warmed this moment,

under the canopy of its colors;

which has generously

wrapped within its splendor

a poetic offering to me all its own;

one for which I had

been eluded earlier.

A heavy curtain of clouds

has parted, making way

the stage for a setting sun

to take his final bow.

I stop on cue and follow the star

paying homage and knowing,

at least for the moment;

it is not

a want for words

I am after,

but silence from them;

standing beneath the one

before whom

all my questions

seem to fall

away.

photo credit: becky e

location: austin, texas

date: april 2015