There's a homeless man,
Just by the first escalators 
Down on the way to the metro. 

I don't think I've seen
Just such a light in men's eyes
As when I told him "Good night!"

Like the light of a lover 
Just before a kiss, huddled 
In mock cold, hold her tight-

He is wrapped by a glove
Of lone nights, averted stares
As cold as dark as reality's plight.

Men of few words are the best men
Shakespeare's Henry V
(Act 3 Scene 2. Line 41)


yet men still
pleasure themselves oft,
the music of their voices
soothes their conscience,
even as it irritates
those unchosen few
who must deign
to listen to the
ration of their excuses.

I fare not well
in this endeavor,
for as poet and
recorder of all that be
known as human folly,
more is always best
or at least, better!

for no man knows
the limits of his import,
his web of self-deception
cast far and wide,
for it must perforce
hold him aloft,
on all the tissued lies
he hath convinced himself
to be the absolute truth,
and nothing but...  

so let us ascribe
to those fools
who call themselves
mistakenly, men
a smokey, fleeting honour,
for many words
they do employ to
plead their case,
proving well in
a fashion most
contrary and contradictory
that their worth is
worst, when they speak
long and eloquent of their
vainglorious heroics and medals,
watch their words ascend,
and like smoke, forever disappear.

that is why, young reader,
heed the lesson of the
American cowboys
who say little,
but walk tall,
and sit straight
in the saddle,
and sing consoling songs of
lonesome love around the
dying fire.

The mirror stained with our memories, pictures
I am not in many of them
I count;
four pictures, we look happy
The bleeding sky was the only thing that gave  us release
Like the winter would fill our bones
and cigarette smoke would ignite the fire in our eyes
that had long since burned out
we lay on that floor on the balcony till dawn
talking about how
we will never be good enough and
life is pointless
I show her my scars apathetically
nothing effects
me anymore
My bubble cant be burst
surrounded by static
scream
want to scream

On the day you finally broke
you let every bit of the control you valued so much, slip
slip
away
And I loved it.

On the day you broke I pushed a button I knew I shouldnt have
pushed
and between your anger
I named your fear
"You're sccared." I said
Between your anger and your fear there was no more room left for
control
so you broke and broke down.
As broken down a control freak gets
Shaking, you spat out the saddest sentence I have ever heard
come out of your beautiful mouth
Hair crackled with the ferocity of your hatred you said
"IF. I could change everything about. MYSELF,  I would. My ****** zip code, my zodiac sign, every. *******. thing. The good, the bad, the ******* joyous and the ******* ugly."
You whispered the word "everything" as if I did not yet understand.

My father only taught me how to be a man but my mother taught me how to be a human being
And I too know how heavy armour wears on your skin
Even soldiers sleep
Even vikings take their armour off at some point
Even a captain removes his ******* hat
You
you sleep with clenched fists and gritted teeth
I havent heard you
yawn
burp
****
****
***
or snore
you are
the one eye open on the door and I'm
the kitchen floor cleaner going back for more
ill unload your baggage
just  tell me where you left the ******* keys to the trunk

The Riddle

One of you has seen my face.
One of you knows where I live.
Stuff. Important stuff,
like the locale of
my hidey-holes.

My email and my
cell disclosed
soon to be
on sale on eBay
for a trifling sum.

So now I must
disburse to parts
more remote,
reappear in a
nouveau identity.

Just a necessary precaution.

Moreover, methinks
you have grown
tired of my waning voice,
waxing ineloquently,
opining too frequently.

feel like a
thick wooly straw
welcome mat,
edges unravelling,
grown raggedy,
roundabout the edges,
or like a
paperback book,
tho well thumbed,
nonetheless,
consigned to the
bye-bye
discard box.

riddle me,
me be the riddle,
when I scribe
under a new
Nom de Plume.

will you recognize,
my signature
hid amidst the
restless words that
still need a home?

are my poems
worthy of a
second glance,
do you predispose
your attentions on
your favorites only,
the newbies squeaking
ignored and unattended,
whose ranks I have
now rejoined?

did you ever meet
a poem
you did not like?
did you ever greet
a poet
with palms
outwardly raised,
saying, no mas,
had enough,
no time for you
and your
clouded clarifications?

need you.
need you to judge me,
without the saddlebags of
predisposition and imposition.

if you need me
just give me a
loud holler
in my sleepy hollow.

tho sadly my
country road,
has listening posts
on the telephone wires,
I will know, when.
you call,
your voice,
I will come,
if you ask,
always.

I'll be riddling
in plain sight,
if you have the taste
for and of me,
you will find me
soon enough.

HOWEVER,
in emergencies
all you need dial,
my digital signature,
911 and
ask for the
Poetry Hotline.

The passing feet
That stops before him
He greets.

Come sir stand here in peace
Get them shining at five rupees
Five minutes’ please
For just five rupees
Then, sir, go on your way
Have a nice day.

While they stand
Deftly moves his hand
Dabbing white cream
On pairs of five rupee dream
An intent drive
Rusted leather must come alive.

Then he let go free
Grabs the five rupee
Gets back his eyes on the street

*He needs many more feet to greet.