Those calming voices that soothes my heart. Turning me away from the depths of whispering winds that plague my sins. As I lie in the mist of grief wollowing in my own sorrow. Fatherless without his love in the realms of pity. As I live in the unguided world of a ghosthood in a new fangled home. While I m steadfast as I stop running from my past I just hope us humans are built to last. Knowing these facade lines cross my path. Keeping me on the straight and narrow. So the only one should follow me is my shadow. Away from borrowed time in a sinuous presence over shadowed by loneliness. In a stream of visability showing wayward steps that burdens my soul.With hieroglyphs of life in a unimagineable perfection through space and time.We should keep away from fake personalities that tries to con us in a insulet world. To engrandize and modernize then to have our faiths try to control us. Even in front of holy eyes without unquestionable doubt this to me is a evil cell of terrorist louts. Knowing this will never be there last bout. As they look like smartly dressed hobbo's from a distant ghetto. Only after death will there spirts languish in limbo. Waiting for god to cast them all to hell for being under the devil's spell.

that fan the sky then
what am I? A black insect with
antennae, that can walk,
but cannot fly. Like an eagle

caged with a broken
wing I'm outraged when
my writing hands in a high
arm sling. They say a caged

bird still can sing. But who
will listen to my song when
there's no wind carrying my
notes? When my throat's sore

from breathing stale air? When
the sun is lost on the easy
chair. This patch I land on is so
small. Not room here for an evening

crawl. I'd be someone as a feather
duster, sweeping ceiling fans till
they luster. Gliding and dipping like
a gull at sunset! Just to get my wings wet.

Sown seeds grow into crops
on a wide field.
The longevity of the crop
is not always dependent
on the time taken to nurture it.

Too much water
floods the pores,
slowly seeping out,
no longer able to reach the roots —
and the shoot eventually dies.

Other external forces,
like pests and weeds,
reduce the yield.

The health of the crop
can be improved
by frequent irrigation —
not too much, not too little.

Frequent ploughing of the field,
regular manuring, and
assurance of no interference
is more than enough
to bear fruit.

...on love and romance.

(sonnet #MMMMMMMMMCCCLII)


Frogs chorus in the darkness sweetest scents
Waft through as if romance owns aught detail
Now tis May first, oh me! Just to inhale
Is to cull swooning til I've no defense
Where night'd intox'cate in a trice, good sense
As wont in lover's trysts quite perished, frail
Though aught 'scuse when you've nary hope t'avail
Upon the clock--is't lilacs?! or what hence?
Eat salad after hours, "spring mix" as t'were
With olives, shrooms, tomatoes, onions, to
Effect a treat, potato chips to cure
Aught cravings, what I want is to yield 'new
Where romance tugs upon my sleeve: is't poor?
Were not sweet odours meant to thereby woo?

01May25b

Wish we could meet
Each dawn again,
Let whispers become banners
And let our hearts play.

Wish I could be the breeze
That gives life to your hair,
Hold you gently
Let you know I'm there.

We've been rivers
For years gone sour,
The ocean's, sweetly, nearing
In time, we'll be devoured.

Fui a un concierto,
pusieron canciones de amor
y también de desamor.
La cantante cantaba con todo,
contando su historia,
y yo… me identifiqué con ella.
Estaba pasándola bien,
pero pensando en ti.
Sintiendo cada palabra,
con ganas de llorar.
Y la canción decía;
Déjalo sentir,
para poder sanar,
y soltar.
Todo va a estar bien.

Y lo tomé
como una señal.

I’m a barbarian in a woman’s shape.
I stomp into discourse with heavy steps.
Driven by impulse, twisting like switchbacks.

There are so many narratives...
With one hand, I hold a megaphone to my mouth.
With the other hand, from my heart, from my head,
I pull out jagged digressions and awkward arguments.

If I could weave just one logical thread
to see a common perspective,
to stop interpreting…

I would stand tall
on the pedestal of thorny incidents,
inept appointments, yet proud
that I would finally catch myself.

I know, I can only dream of
patiently knitting rushing words together.
I can’t stitch these threads into
a colored, beautiful patchwork,
that could give some warmth to the quandary,
or as a cover for chronic nostalgia.

Meanwhile,
within the conventions of social dreaming
I tilt my head from side to side
Asking myself with incredulity,
How is it possible that the voice
screaming inside me
sounds so weak and dull?

I could've just laid down if
I wanted to

ignoring the bells that echoes
inside my head

Let the earth swallow me
among withered leaves that decay
beside me

Let the world dry out
as if all lamented things
belong to me

I could act as if
my heart is an icy winter water,
never to beat, never to warm at all

Granite skies would drift above me,
haunting me in my night and
summer days

But in the thunder that frightens me
A swift lightning would pass me by,
a crack of gold in my darkest night

The flood crashing through doors,
through all the breathe that I've lost
I would learn to hold every air that I touch

All the celestial mass throbbing in my chest
The distant rumble of supernovas
that tears me apart,
and black sunshine that shines on my face

Even if midnight splatters beneath my eyes,
with all the stars that glimmer
that badly wants to fall

Even if half of my shadow is blown to nether
I would suffer everyday, and in my pain
I knew I could feel

I would die everyday, with all lamented things
and in all my deaths

I have learned to live