Monthly Archives: September 2015

Fears

everything is crushed
pursue your pigeon holed direction
I’ll drop you in a crevasse
you can boss me around
dance around with a crown
but you’ll receive your due
I am pursued by nothing
but I keep on running
right towards my fears
to shed light on darkness
they all have no substance
I wonder how much I can endure
nestled in pockets of air
surviving after avalanches
they behead me
these royal cards in an afternoon tea party
use my head as bowling
but I always draw breath
by some lottery draw
the fates give me reason
for keeping an even keel
on downy pillow clouds
too often fallen through

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Mad Max Laundry

Folding laundry to the Mad Max: Fury Road soundtrack has revealed to me a pocket universe of mayhem. As if every moment a sock implodes– a star burning it’s last fuel, or when a shirt is folded diagonally an all-terrain-vehicle does a somersault sailing heedless onto some contorted wreckage, a drawer staggers outward erupting in a vociferous conflagration licking up the walls fed incessantly by an awakened backdraft. I feed the beast with more shorts and pants, oil in the engine, but it thirsts for more, insatiable for the sacrificial cotton and mixed nylon sources. Laundry will never be the same.

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Time for Everything

that strange passage of time
with both rythm and rhyme
I tried grasping for it
but I had to let it go
With every period
begins another sentence
every sunset
promises a sunrise
erosion and rust
tectonic plates rubbing
drifting apart further
this land sprouting
vines and moss flourishing
overgrowth
until the wood rots
and decomposes
and it all becomes superfluous
breaking all apart
but matter can never be
destroyed
but is only the transferring
of energy
to live
we must take life

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No beauty pagent

This isn’t a beauty pageant

or a dating website

or popularity contest

so stop framing

and filtering shadows

and Photoshopping blemishes

and grains of dust

out of your life

stop wasting my time

as we walk in slow-motion

down the street

to our own soundtracks

because silence

of ourselves, our thoughts, our feeling, our desires

are too often frightening

a million people

trapped in our own prison dance clubs

of our self-constructed asylums

we only look in the eyes of

ourselves in the mirror

ignoring exposed hearts

bleeding slowly

twitching on the sidewalk

who will be a Samaritan?

we only cross the street

to perpetuate

our consumerist tendencies

to define ourselves

by these clothes on our back

and these shoes on our feet

and to meet mirror image friends

who persuade us further

into hoarding pocessions

which begin pocessing us

I’m perpetually flabbergasted

by a self-aware madness

of denial

and refusal

to say we are a puzzle

of an imploding system

built on the foundation of imaginary funds

and digital debt reaching beyond the Himalayas

of fantastical speculation

of an unpredictable broken

roller-coaster

This isn’t a beauty pageant

but who will be a Samaritan?

and who else

will we need to squash like a bug?

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Alone

you can leave us alone
away from you in distant proximity
you placed us here
and we’re all busy bees
inventing
concocting
organizing
breaking
with our blinders up
heart never skips a beat
as this record keeps on spinning
as the sheep keep on bleating
and are sheared
maybe a scratchy voice on the radio
maybe a crumpled paper on a stage
maybe a U turn on an one way street
maybe some evaporating mist after the rain
keep our texts short
but they get lost in the depleting ozone
we wait for a reply like a farmer waiting for rain

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Patience

you practice patience
long winded and ancient
layered folded skin
dischevealed but leveled
we come home grown
from the rogue’s island
where they grow marbled concord grapes
sneaking into sanctuaries
downing tiny sacraments
playing pass with bean bags
lost above the entrance doors
we used to play hide and seek
in the baptismal pool
and now they’re part of these
stain glass windows
multicolored emblazoned
memorialized memory
both saints and sinners sit together
while the dust mites crowd our shoulders
we fan our faces while sweat drips
an aversion to any fateful meeting
what did they expect to see?
a reed shaken by the wind?
sign away permission
take away my heavy gait
don’t tell me I’m too late
promise me that everything will be fine

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Four Winds

was it enough

returning back home

notwithstanding your heart

caught between

a ghost here or there

teleportating particles

you shake my hand

touch it with emenating heat

afterthought

firebranded with alcohol

searing heat swallowed whole

jonah deep in a whale

complained of the air quality

you are impregnable

untouchable

inscrutable

handcrafted

in all particularity

bearing postage

swayed, nay bound

by the four winds

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