Though he counted himself brave,
she saw teardrops rolling down his eyes
that could be interpreted in many ways
perhaps on the plight of human life
in this planet, makes him sympathise.

"Brave heart, don't grieve" he heard her whisper,
"Don't see life merely as a balance sheet
of profit and loss, just in terms of money.
It's a system human mind created
for mere transaction of commodities,
emotions clothed in flesh and blood,
you are ideas too, that have mind and limbs,
that touches lives, moves the world,
you can't walk in the reverse, Never.
Be what you were once, you've made history
as well as mistakes, as a tree you've borne fruits
propagated your seeds, satiated the demands,
and alas, littered the surroundings with
dead leaves and rotten fruits, that stink.

**"Brave heart, nothing is perfect, nothing lasts,
it's within the complex cosmic design, that's all"

Wor(l)ds cross pollinate, it seems,
our most modern thoughts
reflect ancient minds, if so
words lose or gain meaning?

Money wants to be spent.
It sits in your pocket and bellows at you,
it tugs you into shops and boutiques
and weighs so heavy on your mind
that you gasp with relief
to be rid of it.

I don't like this, but I get it:
I accept the hypnosis
and resist when I can,
and perhaps it oils the system
which keeps me comfortable.

But I am fearful that our feel for time
is going the same way.
Hours are things to dispose of:
days, once spent, are lost and gone:
all our energies ****** us on
to the next thing, and the next.

There is no sense
of accumulation,
no glorying in the growth
of knowledge, experience, wisdom.
No respect for things which have been
and thus we shuttle, rudderless and dumb,
Barren, and infinitely poor.

how many coins do we have? you count
and I’ll see; call out as you count, tell me
how much exactly; and then how many days
it will take us to…Little Boy with his crutches
can buy a new one, maybe
and a new shawl for mama…
throw it, one coin against the other as you count;
I love to hear the clink of coins…ha, ha –
you know, sometimes
I even lick a coin to see if it’s pure…mama says I’d get sick
if I did that…yeah, certainly not as sweet on the tongue
as the grapes and fruit we sell, but certainly tastes well
to me in my mind
have you another coin in the other palm?
this day a Lord’s servant bought
some grapes in the street corner;
she said it was for her master’s table,
and our grapes were glowing and fresh
much as what her master loves…and she was kind to me…
did you count the other coin? sometimes I wonder, you know,
how many coins we will need till the end of our lives,
like to the time, say, when Old Boko died last autumn –
how many coins will it take to see us to that moment?
Yes, and of course, how many grapes
would we need to sell to collect that amount?

my laughing is a sign of panic
due to the indigestible actions;
the piercing made me *****.

slowing down to an interlude;
the interest is waiting patiently
for you to make your way through.

destruction of self is a bar fight:
joining in those actions isn't on
my schedule this evening, nor
shall it be for as long as I can help
myself from myself, in the reflections
of fear that are so often transparent
when I find myself surrounded by
those who only wish to forget.

the forgetting is what forces me to focus.

crowds are a collective of nervousness
and a strangely large number of people
who refuse to be honest because they're
trying to hide the fact that they care about
what every set of eyes has to think, and the
self-centered inner voice
that thinks they actually care
about what they themselves are doing,
or look like.
the sad and beautiful truth is that people
are too worried
about themselves to think of anyone else.

I have written you one
hundred and eighty
one poems about stars
and blackberries fat
as thumbs, and your
hands and sweet
plums, because that's
what I do:
word play, cabaret –
but if these are just myths
I perpetuate because I'm
a perpetual liar, believe me
                                            anyway.