Our love dynamite
The sky pours stars over us
A crackling future

Ulysses

Bound​ by these chains

I am forsaken.  
Abandoned by His blessing

I am ******
to a suffering eternal.

The shackles which grasp my feet grow tighter with every step I take.
The unbending ​fastening held by the constraints around my neck becomes narrow as it breaches my flesh
Granting me only enough air to stay conscious

But I am not apperceptive, I am not cognizant,
I do not understand.

I would sacrifice my heart for the savor​ of authentic human affection

For the sensation of a kiss can only linger in my mind for so long
the saccharine taste shall cease eventually
Oh, my sweet, sweet propensity

Like Ulysses
I wish for wax, to block out the melodious call of that siren song
To impede the outside noise of those whom I will never truly feel

I yearn to rewind time like the wheels of a broken watch
And return to yesterday,
For I met affection then
if only for a moment.

Death is the hand
That touches us all
In so many ways.
It touches our heart,
It touches our soul,
Caresses us to sleep
Gently tapping the body,
'tis then it takes its toll.

Its cold grasp holds us
As it touches those around us.
We lament but to no use
For the hand that holds
shall touch us too
In the end.

Be not afraid,
For tis just the hand of mercy.
Fear not, cry little
For quick and easy is its touch
But its grasp,
Squeezes so
That we cry and cry
But it never lets go,
For we refuse to let it.

Tis not mercy's grasp at fault
But we who struggle.
Her grasp only tightens
As we struggle to get free.
But if we cease to lament
And embrace this hand called death
For what it truly is,
We find she follows her namesake
And loosens her grip,
Yet never lets go.
For if she did
We'd not be with Mercy;
What a horrible fate that would be.

America I've given you all and now I'm nothing.
America two dollars and twentyseven cents January
        17, 1956.
I can't stand my own mind.
America when will we end the human war?
Go **** yourself with your atom bomb.
I don't feel good don't bother me.
I won't write my poem till I'm in my right mind.
America when will you be angelic?
When will you take off your clothes?
When will you look at yourself through the grave?
When will you be worthy of your million Trotskyites?
America why are your libraries full of tears?
America when will you send your eggs to India?
I'm sick of your insane demands.
When can I go into the supermarket and buy what I
        need with my good looks?
America after all it is you and I who are perfect not
        the next world.
Your machinery is too much for me.
You made me want to be a saint.
There must be some other way to settle this argument.
Burroughs is in Tangiers I don't think he'll come back
        it's sinister.
Are you being sinister or is this some form of practical
        joke?
I'm trying to come to the point.
I refuse to give up my obsession.
America stop pushing I know what I'm doing.
America the plum blossoms are falling.
I haven't read the newspapers for months, everyday
        somebody goes on trial for ******.
America I feel sentimental about the Wobblies.
America I used to be a communist when I was a kid
        I'm not sorry.
I smoke marijuana every chance I get.
I sit in my house for days on end and stare at the roses
        in the closet.
When I go to Chinatown I get drunk and never get laid.
My mind is made up there's going to be trouble.
You should have seen me reading Marx.
My psychoanalyst thinks I'm perfectly right.
I won't say the Lord's Prayer.
I have mystical visions and cosmic vibrations.
America I still haven't told you what you did to Uncle
        Max after he came over from Russia.

I'm addressing you.
Are you going to let your emotional life be run by
        Time Magazine?
I'm obsessed by Time Magazine.
I read it every week.
Its cover stares at me every time I slink past the corner
        candystore.
I read it in the basement of the Berkeley Public Library.
It's always telling me about responsibility. Business-
        men are serious. Movie producers are serious.
        Everybody's serious but me.
It occurs to me that I am America.
I am talking to myself again.

Asia is rising against me.
I haven't got a chinaman's chance.
I'd better consider my national resources.
My national resources consist of two joints of
        marijuana millions of genitals an unpublishable
        private literature that goes 1400 miles an hour
        and twenty-five-thousand mental institutions.
I say nothing about my prisons nor the millions of
        underprivileged who live in my flowerpots
        under the light of five hundred suns.
I have abolished the whorehouses of France, Tangiers
        is the next to go.
My ambition is to be President despite the fact that
        I'm a Catholic.
America how can I write a holy litany in your silly
        mood?
I will continue like Henry Ford my strophes are as
        individual as his automobiles more so they're
        all different sexes.
America I will sell you strophes $2500 apiece $500
        down on your old strophe
America free Tom Mooney
America save the Spanish Loyalists
America Sacco & Vanzetti must not die
America I am the Scottsboro boys.
America when I was seven momma took me to Com-
        munist Cell meetings they sold us garbanzos a
        handful per ticket a ticket costs a nickel and the
        speeches were free everybody was angelic and
        sentimental about the workers it was all so sin-
        cere you have no idea what a good thing the
        party was in 1835 Scott Nearing was a grand
        old man a real mensch Mother Bloor made me
        cry I once saw Israel Amter plain. Everybody
        must have been a spy.
America you don't really want to go to war.
America it's them bad Russians.
Them Russians them Russians and them Chinamen.
        And them Russians.
The Russia wants to eat us alive. The Russia's power
        mad. She wants to take our cars from out our
        garages.
Her wants to grab Chicago. Her needs a Red Readers'
        Digest. Her wants our auto plants in Siberia.
        Him big bureaucracy running our fillingsta-
        tions.
That no good. Ugh. Him make Indians learn read.
        Him need ******* *******. Hah. Her make us
        all work sixteen hours a day. Help.
America this is quite serious.
America this is the impression I get from looking in
        the television set.
America is this correct?
I'd better get right down to the job.
It's true I don't want to join the Army or turn lathes
        in precision parts factories, I'm nearsighted and
        psychopathic anyway.
America I'm putting my queer shoulder to the wheel.

                                Berkeley, January 17, 1956

...
That lonely tree Jarul(জারুল)
Standing as a witness of the century
In the crop less **** field
Near to his feet
New tidal waves come down
at the young Hari(হরি) River
Leaving the impression of simplicity
On her outskirts
Life mingled with the distant cemetery
Afar in the bend of dream
without boatman a lonely boat
Maybe waiting for someone
who is attracted by
the downstream song
.....
@Musfiq us shaleheen