Last October, I deleted my FB account
just to satisfy my curiosity
how my days will be without it.
will I be tagged a Cave-man
or called the anti-social guy
or some pretentious snob
who wants to stand out in the crowd...

The first couple of weeks were tough
and I craved for that juicy stuff
and every time I opened my browser
my fingers would press "F" FIRST

In the first week of November
I wrote my first poem
not because I was feeling like a poet
but I had to channelize my focus
away from the topics, my friends discussed
all the memes that were flooding
the Viral videos that made them laugh a lot

On one cold night, when
I think the moon was bright
or maybe I was too high on ***
I googled "Start a poet's blog"
and I came across "Hello Poetry"
I am sure my stars were too high on luck

Before I published my first one
I read more than hundreds of them
Some poured them arranged
some had a celestial range
a few "songs for their lover"
some stories of "How it got over"
Many of these brilliant minds
have derived out a way
to tackle depression
and suicidal cravings
through rhymes and words
I felt this is one of the best
support group in the world.

The best of all, I was overwhelmed with joy
when I ran through the comments
and I discover this blessed group of people
who actually  cared about your plight
they shared their own stories
and assure you with sublime affection
that "you are not alone going through this"

This is more than just a poetry blog
It is a whole new universe
where the thoughts are profound
and your feelings really count
no matter how filthy it is
when you write them here,
It takes the form of fertile ground.

And this is home for some of us
who find the world too distorted
but cannot let their "waves" go free
for they fear for the judgment
and the social decree
or the worst of them all
fear to be transported to some
asylum for behaving like a "Lunatic"

Till time takes a turn
and normal is "the real truth" again
I will make this place my nest
and let all my chaotic vibrations
get settled and be ready to harvest.....

cellphone to heart, mobile to immobile, electric dead to living

you know that sleep and I are but passing acquaintances,
when it drops in, to heavy my lids, it is through a cracked window slivered, just enough for a Pan boy to grab me and away me to Almost Neverland

when the alarms sound that it’s sleepy time,
(quite like that quiet verse)
no time to delist the “those pre-shluffy to do things,”
cell drop upon my chest, like an open mic,
then the raging observatory tapestry begins!

the cell lies directly above my ventricular chamber,
and communication is live, the brain cutoff switch, well, cutoff

all manner of imps, devils, rejected poems, angels and
Greek gods and some Indian as well, stand in line for to make
free calls via a beating human message call center, utilizing my friends and family verizon plan to register complaints,
close out unfinished biz, or just contact, friends, family or other
mischievous imps or even you, in other time zone worlds

though my brain may not interfere, like the CIA, it records all
conversations and give me a list of new poem titles, notions, stories glories and wrenching heartbreaking heartbreak,
requiring “fleshing out” when I awake from my three fingers
of scotch, glass eye tears drops made me drunk,

damning this transmigration chorus of voices that offer up a treasure of divine humankind’s hopes and travails,
and the occasional call on the divine’s 1-800 confession line,
hear it all, my chewing out by one particular god of mine who does not suffer my criticisms well of his ungodly actions, nope not sweetly and

when else would he dare contact me, except when no edgewise
words of mine can appear to contradict his mealy mouth excuses

did you musty misty mistake  my poems  as the product of
the miracle water wages of my imaginary inspiration,
no, not, from the replaying of your desperate exclamations,
the cancerous shrieks of loss and prickly investiture of the aesthetics of soft whispers and solitary foot treads,
that is where my insanity is bred, and tumbling s-words, sworn

don’t consider it eavesdropping as there is no signed rental agreement, consider this unfair warning, if you should secret use my cellular line, your everything is now ******,
your genetic material is materialistic mine and my poems yours,
this bittersweet sentiment is a measure of our bloods commingling,
your tears and impish silliness, are shiny hidden within mine

somehow I feel compelled to state this unique statistic:

I love you

4:47pm on 3/11

who writes poems like this?
silly old boys with gray hair, standing on one left leg.  but you knew that, right?

he lies sleeping under
the sage green sheet
on his side turned away
from me and my intrusive light

the sheet is gathers about him
like grass upon the mountain range
that peaks at shoulders and hip

at tne bead head, a tangle
of jungle vines curled and intertwined
and the sound of a bear embarking
on a short winters hibernation

at the foot, ten pebbles of varying size
attached to two size eleven boulders
of a sunbrowned material
aged by sun, surf and sand
yet on the underside
a pale pink, reminiscent
of the delicate  inside
of the finest seashell

the grass on the upper reaches
of the moutain range, waves
as the wind sighes in and out
of the bear-cave mouth
and the plains of the lower
shift in small earthquake tremors
before settling in somulant torpor

when my man mountain sleeps ,he sleeps

I had been dreaming
about eating bruised peaches
that grew from a tree
by the river, its water
thick and sweet as sap.

I thought I saw an old woman
shaking her dustmop,
but it was only the moon
and stardust in the dark
that never stops.

In the fields
there was something barren
like a journey
and echoes of salt
sprinkling on a table
with food laid out for a wake.

The fog from the dream
by the river was smothering;
I was suffocating lying there
where it is said a young mother
once walked into the water
with the pockets of her dress
stuffed full of smooth rocks.

I woke when I heard
shouting that tore out the light
as night came flying by
like a bird dressed for a feast
wearing his finest black feathers.