verify....
        that when
young we assigned
flesh to beach sand
inventing the echoes
of conch shells the
blued eyed skies
defying harsh gritty reality
expressing ....
         that which
young we wished for
on concrete sidewalks
relying on mass consciousness
to make the veil of our life, less
depressing....
         a slight twitch
a euphemism
for seeing and not being ready

Night of the kettle drum roll
Of black shrouds enflamed with
jagged prosecution
Of the gray coyote disoriented with invisible
confusion
Twilight of the elements hurtling a thousand miles an
hour
Night of the ever constant fight for power

If you're ever on the riverside
where the sun beats your head
you would see the old man
selling hats of palm leaf
but you care not to notice him
having already smelled the sea
and too keen to cross the river
travel southward on the island
till the saline wind scalds your eyes
your skins itch to jump into the waves
yet the man with the palm leaf hats
would not cease to tell you
how burning would be the sun on the sands
and so badly you need to protect the head
by parting bucks that mean nothing to you
but a world to the mouths he feeds
and before you stamp on him a final no
she has one atop her hair
beneath which her eyes flutter like butterflies
her sun rouged cheeks untimely blush
and two born anew lovers
merrily head for the sea
having bought romance
for forty bucks.

Low clouds come bustling in
Grumbling about being here again

Driven by the Crack of lightning's whip
Winds whip tugging at your grip

Apprehension comes dragging tension
The Crash-Boom for added demension

Raindrops commit suicide on the glass
Bulging in the panes break at last

Stirred in to added confusion
Missing roof is no allusion

Swirling winds puncture your skin
As the walls become vacant beens

Swept away from your stance
Poor you , you never had a chance

if
you
are
reading
this,

then,

you
aren't
alone.

your
being
-right now-
by virtue of
reading this

is
with
mine;

and mine,
with yours.

and even when
you go

away,
you

are still here,
existing in
my
little
poem,

smeared
light

remnants

rubbing up
against mine.

and even when i go away
after sending this off,
i too will still be here

like you.

all of our weird
written words
penned at a distance are

always connected
by some

strange
residual angle
and spin
emitted,
leftover
from our

small but
eternal

interactions;

alignments of the light which do not discriminate,
nor create hierarchies of strict titanic binaries
that demand and interrogate..

your
big
red
hearts
make my
little grey
lightning bolts

light up:

bright yellow strikes fluoresce

over and
over

and

o v  e    r,

again and again.

your
tiny torch
forever
charging  

me,

even as i
cool off

and

darken,

is much appreciated,
dear poets

of
mine.

Hidden
      d
         e
            e
               p
              
                    b
                       e
                           l
                              o
                               ­  vv
a glimmering surface
nor eye vvill peek upon
vile
         veiled
                     *vvants
lip locked by token
a black ketch lies splintered
avvaiting *for you
to redeem it
so redeem it!

Poetry is life in motion , a Niagara Falls of words , a super nova of emotions , cradled on the infinitesimal lines of creation .