I imagine you're disappointed in me. I can't say I blame you. It is not my fault that I didn't become the laborer you dreamt I'd be, split palms stung by sweat.  It is my fault, however, that I became nothing at all.
  
  Our family was defined by a cardboard box. Your job was to move them, hundreds an hour. My brothers and I were raised by a box that puked The King Of Queens and censored 90's dramas. My mother buried Polaroids of frozen dance moves and eternal smiles, under fake jewelry in a cheap cherry box.

  And when I carried the box that ate my grandfather, I showed no stuggle, tucked in my shirt, not wanting to embarass you.

  And when I forgot the Sea Bass belt, I promised not to **** myself with, in a box at the ward.

  And when I carried the box that sealed my grandmother.

  And when I burnt the box of letters she wrote from far and away; trying to erase who I was.

  I think I have let you down, father. I can only offer myself the way I'd offer a box: disappointing on the outside with a chance of beauty in the inside, if you're willing to open up.

Writing becomes an exercise in humility.
I strengthen of my vocabulary
by using words I am currently
learning
and putting them in my poetry.

Do not tell them
You love them
Even if you do
They do care,
But not about you.

Such an ill-contrived endeavor,
I sit in a seat of sable steal
pondering the universe
and the quantum entangled states
of ideals that are not real.

Capriciously fools exhort
nodding their heads in retort
with dumbfounded stares.
Masses move to compare
old precepts to new ones
and discard the modern
for the medieval minds
that they prefer.

With consternation and sagacity
I dread the society placed before me
appalled by all I fear
certain a stint of dark ages will soon
reappear here
I importune,
I plead with the buffoon
but he finds me to be
so, jejune.

By the morning
as light pierces
my perfectly placed curtains
forcing my eyes
to flutter open
I wake with dry crust
flaking off.
Still stiff with
my unconscious lust
I shift to search
for an after image
looking for the presence
of a person who
filled my dreams
a stranger whom
I have never touched
or even seen.
But she is a ghost
slipping from my mind
like sand in my hands,
faster than I grasp her.

knee-deep in forest,
a wellspring of
multi-colored liquid
joy, bubbling
in frothy
peaks
my inner eye open wide
at the sacred wonder
of it all
glory of divine
earth water fire
wind in my soul
sunlit scarlet on
leafveins in this
garden feast of the senses
If heaven were imprinted
upon the runes of my body
a soulmind, shimmering
crystals in heart
then this
is it
nothing less
than spirit
coursing through blood
in untamed rush
a wild creek
teeming with freshness
and trout
deer peeping in shyness
and I am all
      lit up from within
as the hues of life
run through me
pulsing energy
filling me up
in deepest
strokes
of
air,
of trees
of mountain
here
even the stars
seem to call out
my name
and, in ever-depth
in focus of heartwave,
I listen

There ain’t no such thing
as love.
So, I sing
in poetry
about the cynic
I don’t want to be,
while looking longingly
with loving eyes
at a human being
who will probably
never realize
how entranced
I am by her presence.

Oh, how I long to be
the silent lips
of your poetry.
Eyes wavering
to and fro
like a pendulum
falling down the page
as you find my poems
and devour them.
Then,
I long to be
the one you wish to see,
so you can speak about
what you read.

I am probably the most prolific poet that paces the pavement at the prestigious place of academic play. Though I do not pander to the people that pay a hefty price I still politely have parley. Even though their precarious positions cause me pain, I still try to speak plain while avoiding the profane.

2011

It takes great courage to risk being hated to be loved for who we truly are.

Why search the world for a microphone
When there is nothing left to say
And no one left who wants to hear it?

    ljm