Isbin has been in the old barn Shalby shall be, after spinning yarn Isbin and Shalby aren't often far apart Isbin's been wastin' And Shalby's been stocked Isbin's been askin' And Shalby shall talk Isbin's been barkin' and Shalby shall squawk Bark and squawk Peck and talk and by and by the barn's been bought been bought and sold to who knows who and Isbin and Shalby Don't know what to do
A writer's mind there is no other kind, creating as we live life Embedded in who we are That will take you to a place, that is near, but so very far, as creativity, can never be measured, even with velocity
A man's dream was eaten by death and there is no funeral for him. He's trapped in an old broken memory. And the death is singing loudly, And the love of women he missed, And all the way she goes. The pain is ready. The pain is silent. And for every suicide that was never recorded. And every poem he's written that never tell the sad story. And for the unsorrowful dying of the smell roses coming down to the sea.
Indonesia, 28th December 2021 Arif Aditya Abyan Nugroho
Last night's debauchery is washed away. The front stoop drenched in morning light. Blood fades into a stain that looks like Jesus with a wink and smile. That happens in Queens.
I wake from dark dreams in a room deluged in sunlight so bright I'm blind to my ugly truths from last night. I could eat a horse. I find the diner. That happens in Manhattan.
The heat is long shut off and I light Sterno to melt some ice for a spot of English tea. Sunlight won't come this far north past 96th st. It knows better. This happens in East Harlem.