Drastic measures must be taken to overcome the afternoon lull.
Seventeen obscure hardbound essays to consume, spines flaking
and half-eaten by dustmites. Their goodies
can only be extracted by torture, but my instruments are dulled
by shriekless hours and the fuddy-duddies
beside me, who god help me I’ll never become,
though I’m already bearded, and have started showing some dome.

Time, I think, to give something back:
a single bogie on a lone mission
to retake Stevens’  Noble Rider and the Sound of Words.
A big ask, I reckon, but this mischievous frisson
is deepness: It’ll probably be half, or at least a third
of my life before anyone finds my sleeper, my double agent
Amongst horses shedding their coats for the summer.
I smile at no one in particular, and return to my stack.
Keyboards clatter like rain, drowning out what little glamour
remains of the microfiche, leaping silent
over centuries in a smallish room in the corner.

Death is a ******
who never misses.
He stalks us all,
calmly awaiting
the proper moment,
takes perfect aim, fires,
and thinks we are gone.
Looking anxiously
over your shoulder
will not avail.
Death is patience incarnate.
He is a gatherer,
ceaselessly collecting,
eternally foraging,
and when he finds us
he slips us into his bag
and thinks we are gone.
Death is a messenger
delivering the telegram
that says our time is up.
He reads it to us
and thinks we are gone.
Death is a conductor
who calls a stop,
sees us off the train
and thinks we are gone.

But death is mistaken.

Death is certain,
but it is not final.
The world we touched
is changed forever
by our journey in it,
however brief or long.
Something of us remains
in a child, a garden,
a painting, a poem,
a kiss, a caress,
a gasping ******.
Our hearts stop beating,
but breath does not depart.
It floats in clouds
of atoms that we were.
Those we leave behind
have only to inhale
and once again
we are with them,
and within them.
Bodies die; love never does.
Each life, sacred and eternal,
inspires Creation.
We are never truly gone.

A song, a tone a scent that curls and spirals across the room
it all comes back
the lid of your eye
the corner of your lip
another moment
in folded time
now matching then
and for a brief moment
I dance again with you, then

Jennifer is my cleaning lady.
Very efficient, and reasonable.
She comes every two weeks.
She knows all my shortcomings,
She empties my bins.
One week, she left me a note,
With a poetic question.
Two weeks later, I waited for her
To discuss her query.
Jen is lost without love,
Lost her love,
Wants to write about the pain.
Quid Pro Quo, thought I,
We were soul mates,
So I took the opportunity
To ask about stain remover,
And behold,
Her poem is born.

Age grew a hat,
Youth wore none,

Sun touched
Madness.

Snow peaked roof
Now rain snow sun

My age
Grew a hat

Thin black silk veil covers transparent porcelain white skin and an illuminated red heart flutters wildly within
A mouth with the shape and shine of the moon echos with melancholy tears and laughter lost and a touch of lunacy for the dark side of things
She would fake a smile and say she was okay just to comfort her family and friends and it was easier than trying to explain the things they would never understand
She could handle the weight and the darkness and the monsters didn't scare her as much as she scared them and there was pain in every breath on the worse days and numb on the bad days and the good days seemed to pass in mere minutes and it never slowed down the wild red illuminated heart fluttering madly within her chest

It was yesterday that my past spoke to me
I heard familiar chimes ring
I heard the faded chords of songs I used to sing
Oh, how they twinkled
How the pulled me back to a realm only I knew
A world I long forgot

Where daydreams were once painted
Where nightmares now crawl

A world endlessly empty
Where I once spent most of my slumbers
Dancing with sparkling dreams
And waltzing to their tunes
Their ballads and lights lacing my dreams with hope

If only those dreams never came to an end
If only this world of mine had something left
For me to cherish
No fragments of wilting dreams
Their ashes stain my sleep
No more twisted song, no more broken chimes
Those songs live in the hearts of my nightmares

It was yesterday that my past spoke to me
As I ventured a place where my dreams used to be

Nary a rime
On the grass-

Barely a ****
In the trees

Hotter and
Wetter
Each passing
Winter-

When will this
Be Mars?

if i die,
I want to be content,
Solemn
and atleast happy
not
lonely

-on my mother's last months, or how
to do the final step without moving

I am not ready to go, she said.
I accepted doctor's verdict;
still, I ask: why me, why now, why?

     I hate these vultures, mother,
     that eat you from inside.
     I faintly see them through your skin,
     not even trying to hide.

I am not ready for resignation.
I am so angry about all this.
I am so angry with you.

     Your heart is cut in half
     and all we see
     is darkness:
     distrust, anger, fear.

I am not ready for all the answers
that wait for me on the other side.
Oh, let me have my questions please.

     Your brains are chopped to pieces.
     Little spans of time -
     that's all you keep in mind,
     and dismiss again with ease.

I am not ready to go.

     A premature Tibetan burial,
     a cruel death while still alive:
     witness of your own decay.
     So that's how Mother Nature will finally arrive?

I'll never be ready to go.

     Wait until she comes over the top,
     an almighty demon, an enemy from within.
     So that's our clean, sober, rational world:
     a cold, efficient killing machine?

I'll never be ready to go.

     I'll never be ready to go.