The silver music
That kisses my sight
And memory.

(c)LBouazzi, 25 November, 2O18

She wakes me up deep in the night.

I understand you, she smiles
snuggling into me, her nose,
pressed cotton soft on my cheek

I have no strength, I cry
not one, for you

I love your weakness
love you for your weakness
her breath wafts into mine

and the boy stuck in his age
floats in the web
of the girl forever
forgiving.

Where are you Devi ?

Up in the Kailasha
in the arms of Mahadeva
snowclad silent in meditation
while down below in their settlement
humans in the belief you've come down
adorn you with flowers with their hands
and with those same hands **** own blood
rob own kin debauch mothers and sisters
crowd your place of worship with no piety
but for selfies with your image on the background
for Devi unbeknownst to even you
you're no more the Shakti
the prowess against the Evil
but a commerce, a commodity
in the hands of men of 21st century
who know to worship only money.

Face up against the window
Eyes full of road, plains grass,
and a far away mountain pass
The sweet smell of summer
creeping through a window
that's slightly cracked
in a beat up old Volkswagen
with a broken 8 track

Mom's sleeping in the front seat
and dad's got some country music
singing sweet serenades softly
through twitchy speakers in a broken
door panel while we work our way
across God's country from
sea to shining sea

There's something magical
about a road trip
black asphalt
and the sight of a farmer's sprinklers
at sixty and five miles an hour
two in the afternoon
on a hot and dusty strip
of road between hotels and night's
long starry pauses
and sun's yawning rises

Nobody loves it more than
little boys and girls in a backseat
with a blanket
a pillow
and some snacks to watch
America come to life on a
window-cranked movie screen.