the glitterball in space
wrapped in wormholes
caressed by distant quasars
peak at optimum speed
before floating falling
toward the muted aromas
of space age earth

the bile of industry
smears the planet in neon
one giant shinning marble
city lights stretch
in the haze from pole to pole
whatever hemisphere
whatever timezone
whatever continent

aqua is the precious mineral
few places exist where
hope springs life eternal
rivers were rerouted years ago
run by power corporations
who package it in sachets
with dehydrated memory

a planet of consumption
tectonic plates stitched
stapled, bridged and woven
the fabric of the world

we unzip to consume
revel in the electronic tune
that breeds our contempt
for the the lost seasons
our reason dilluted, polluted
by the tune that remains the same;
beautiful stranger
dream a dream for me
because now all we have
between us
is acid rain.

Each town that I walk through
every person I talk to has the hue
of dull grey.
This day is no different from the last
another town passed
another chance wasted
my taste buds are chastened
I have hastened too long
I should settle down in  the next town
or maybe
these feet will betray me
again.

Footslogging dogging the days
finding the pathways that lead me nowhere
and I share this alone
in a muted tight groan that issues deep in my soul.
The hole that I've dug has become the shawl or the rug that warms me
warns me to go on
don't stop
not for no one.
The whisper that chants in my ears
seems to have gone on for years and for years,
and for years I have listened
lay in the dew that glistened as it dripped off the end my nose.
In a field by a road with a rose in my hand
I stand by the signpost that reads,
forty miles to the end by the bend in the lane.
I can't explain what that means
but it seems like I must go on
perhaps I've come to the end
or the place where they send
wanderers.

I wonder about this,
is this life giving me the kiss off
the big fix
the deep six
or is this a test?
Staying in the last town would have been best
but I've never been good at being that.
With my cane and my hat
and my clothes in a sack
I don't look back
never did.
Whatever is hid behind the shadows that slip behind hedgerows as I pass
shall remain secrets
and the towns which I slipped through that never knew me
saw through me
remain
unknown.

I gave blood today; I wanted to be a Good Samaritan, help those in need. My blood, after all, is healthy, pure. The thing is though, is that as I watched my life slowly ebb into the pint-sized plastic bag of rescue, I was imagining how lovely it would be for all of it to flow out, into a bag, into the bath, into the universe. To be empty, weightless, cold. As the blood pulsed out of my veins and my arm became weaker, I wished for my eyes to close and for my thoughts to slow down, for the discombobulate realm I call my life to slowly disappear or at least evolve into a breathtaking pasture of wispy freedom. Once my arm was emptied and the possible end was stopped, they told me - drink up, drink up, eat up, eat up - replenish the sugar and tiny hemoglobin cells that I so gracefully supplied. I took hold of the juice, and I took hold of the cookie, but once out of sight, I tossed them to the side. I wanted the feeling of faintness, dizziness, the insecurity of being caught in between two worlds. And as I sit here now with a muted mind and a slight headache, I am slightly pleased.

You are as confident as broken nails
and as filthy as a rodent smells.
You're like infidels in cheap hotels
where prostitutes have body sales.

This guilt was berthed when your stomach fell
forever deep into an endless well.
This is as tragic as a soiled veil
as you've become an empty shell.

Cigarette smoke climbs the walls,
but broken alarms sound muted calls.
Out here, there are countless brawls.
Your city sleeps; our city crawls.

Vomit vacuum sucks the drainhole
of my gut up into splintered-silent ribs.

Each breath rips whore nails
from inside dusty lungs
to find muted screams
in a soft throat.

The dog’s breathing
slows to regular
and my own breathing
gasps to follow
suit.

The dog’s cough
sounds better
than before
and his scars
are healing
too.

He sleeps
through
the night.

The moon is lower now, mattress
visions of caskets snap closed,
eyes roll back & shut & roll to pillows.

The neighbor down the hall sniffs coke &
practices drums & karaoke with his girl
‘til 4AM, moaning hair metal,
sex songs,
more metal,
80’s rock, Michael Jackson,
until they argue
and start throwing chairs.

The sounds of screams exchanged
show love,
because someone
should really call 911
before someone gets hurt.

I swear


the dog

is smiling.


Eyes taped shut,
forcing sleep,

I
have felt love.
have felt love.

have felt love
that comes, comes,

& ends a notebook,

or struts
around the track
with the flag
without winning
the race.


This is where the hour is one too many.

Where laziness falls asleep.

Where Bukowski slaughters Hux.
Where headlines befall images.
Where I tell not show.

Where I do not rest,
but instead feel the weight

of all I have resolved to learn
of all I have resolved to feel
of all I have resolved to change
of all I have accepted as unknown;

of the rain pressure mounting
behind the patched tin ceiling.

for M. Perhaps,
this will be the
last.

I.
It’s funny. How words try to eschew
from my mind whenever the table
topic calls your name. How the prompter
tries to say your name but my fingers
refused to dance to its rhythm. This

II.
has to be the last of this joke. This poem
will not speak. Muted. Like how it

III.
is supposed to be. This line
on my right palm is nothing

but an illusion. Because often times they are
trying to connect to yours. This has to be

IV.
the last time I will think
about your cruel punch
lines; my drunken lines; and these
unsent letters I am trying to bury

underneath the midnight darkness
just because I am afraid of them
as evidences for the trial I am
setting upon myself. Because it was
always been a crime—

it always has been.

V.
This has to be the last joke. And

I am done
being the laughing stock

for the crowd that is waiting
for us to falter

and leave me

hanging.

1
Never ever lacking in drama,
since the day he knew her first,
as he races  his car, at breakneck speed
to reach her point of departure,
one last time, right on time,
mind flits to arenas different, in real life,
Shakespearean dramas to Greek tragedies,
from where memories of her come alive.

A maze of roads he sees in front,
they appear from nowhere,
then from all four sides, like other peoples' lives,
come in to contact unawares, run parallel-
for some time, get entangled like serpents in heat,
like it happens after frenzied mating,
quickly get separated as if by post coital hatred,
then, goes missing for ever, like her,
till the last moment.

2
                                 Though  roads appear divergent,
and destinations seems varied, all roads in the end,
one would understand, converge at one point,
to transcend and dissolve in the embrace of infinity.
The present, past and future the three time frames,
are rivers; clear, dark and hopeful blue they appear,
but all these  Niles, come to the confluence when
the illusion of time vanishes,
then, color doesn't matter, final destination is the same,
there isn't any other.

3
He parked his car at a distance, watched mourners
filing past, a muted lament meandering;
a sluggish python,
slithering slow, after gobbling too much.
Its a ritual, all of them came from far and near,
none he knew was there, an eventful past fully obliterated,
isn't it strange to say the least!
Once played the lead, he is now just  a relic, a stranger,

                                                                              a discordant note

A whole new cast was added later, after his exit,  he learns
here they are, from different places, some flew down,
others took trains, coaches or drove down in cars
as if meticulously planned for a flamboyant farewell
to the queen bee of the hive, who knew how
to rule the kingdom she takes over,
by defeating and trampling on the puny kings .

4
Every queen finally bows out when her part is  fully played,
on the way back his mind was empty like a concert hall,
just after the performers have left; this show packed up midway though.
Can anyone plan, the journey to the point of no return
as a victory lap? He was asking to himself,
At last all stories reach to the same  sad end,
the songs, words, tunes and best laid plans stand changed.
Time is a mirage, but it rules us, it can interfere with the plans
of man.And change everything the way time flows.

It was getting dark, rain  lashed making him drive with
caution, while passion from the days of past
visited him like gusts of wind pushing him backwards.

5
A thought murmured in his ears, like a beetle,
with her memories dancing in the background.
" One needs to drive slow, look around,
hear the hum of the wind in the ears,
and when it rains, let the water wash and heal,
feel contended, move on with the sun,
tomorrow is another day"