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Untitled.
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.
Untold Imagination
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.
Grave of Butterflies
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
texts
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?
Samsara
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
They would be afraid of
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.
Impressions
"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