A Friend and I
Like to,
Every so often,
Crawl our way out
During vacant nights—
Plunging ourselves into
Places
Where we would hide.
Cloaked under loud music
And dim lights,
We play wolves
Who never tire—
Gorging on skin beautified,
Flesh tenderized,
All by the forgetful
Darkness
That brings
Temporary delight.
The Rain came down
And washed all the Noises
Away—
For the first time,
I was taken astray,
Far away,
To distant Lands
Where I would find myself
Steady,
Free to breathe the same
Air
Of consistency—
So that no matter where
My feet settle—
The Sierras or
The Himalayans,
I would still keep
That which
No Man
Can ever take away.
The Wheel of Fortune spins
On and on—
There will be days
Of Prize collecting
And days when Luck
Is seemingly gone.
But It Goes Like It Goes—
Not much Beef
In what’s been done.
So go on and on,
Counting winnings while
Accepting losses—
The Days are very bound.
A Brother told me
That He cared for
Other people, and that
He wished to help them.
Though He a Brethren,
I could not believe Him.
Maybe it was because
He wore a passé
Track jacket, and
Sweat pants full of lint.
Or it could be that
His face was covered in
A slew of horrid
Craters—
Something that pegged Him
For a serial killer.
Or was it me,
Who is of little Faith,
Had simply refused to believe
Any Good?
Love can be a torturous thing,
Like poisonous tumors under the skin—
Thousands of desires itch and fidget
Manically
In the Iron Cage
Of veiled longing—
Terrified to tear apart
The vague friendship
That Kindles a secret,
Lonely heart.
I am doomed to not know the Silence
That I desperately need to find—
Even in this strangely isolated, luxurious place,
There rings an irreducible noise in my head—
Which for most of the time,
Hums like a muffler,
Drowning out all the fine things
That could be otherwise verbalized.
But every now and then,
This Droning would up itself several notches,
And become various buzzings of the uttermost
Jarring and painful kind—
Rendering me handicapped,
So that I should Speak peculiar, alien sounds—
Impaired to divulge;
Failing miserably to even identify
What was it
That I originally intended to clarify.
Is Love so serious,
The more we think,
The less we know?
Is Love mysterious—
Holding tight
When we should let go.
It’s early afternoon;
Gentle sun and silky breeze.
The leaves flutter and
The branches sway,
Together leaving patches
Of shifting, speckled shades
On the pebbled ways.
Sitting on a bench
In the midst of it all—
Friday’s concluding outflow,
Never too different
From its morning influx—
He wondered
If they were just a big,
Unwary herd after all.
Jazz, Jazz—
All that Jazz.
She leaned back and
Watched the daily round,
Where certitude lies
Forever long.
Brown tiles and tanned walls—
Seats and sculptures in shades of gray—
The institution sits
On heavy, concrete bricks.
Full of rigid corners and
Filtrate air—
That which so asphyxiates,
The institutions build
Big, burial grounds
Over Intellects.
If I were to Perish today—
Dropping Dead
Like a gassed lab rat,
Falling over without performing
Its last act of a Pirouette—
I’d love for no one to care.
Dare say I hitherto disappear—
Pulverized to bits,
Like a factory farm swine
Unsuspectingly churned into batches
Down the meat grind—
I’d beg the worms
To rapidly fill up
On my remains.
Suppose I promptly begin to wither—
Disabled and helpless,
Like a sinking Horse
In the Quicksand—
I’d hope none is near.
How pressing must it be,
To be rescued and
Given living refuge,
Only to reveal
That I am nobody Dear?
Particular Moments 