The wind howls
outside my bedroom window
shaking me
my heart; my soul

it screams
while you sit there
drinking sweet-smelling coffee
a baby boy in Africa
cries of hunger
and aching ribs.

while you are curled up
under warm and soft blankets
an old and lonely man
wanders the darkest streets
looking for warmth;
a home

while you hide there
surrounded by light and family
with an aura of ungratefulness
you are lost in the rays of your technologies
with a frown on your angelic face
when a weeping woman
shakes and prays
for her gone children to reach Heaven happily
but you dare forget God to a screen?

my house shakes
from Wind's agonizing words
and a streak of cold
trickles into my haven
along with the words
"what am I doing?"

somehow
my stiff legs reach
a window
and the arms in front of me
pull it open
to reveal no sound at all

where is the wind?
did he leave just as
he touched
my heart; my soul
making me waver?
or does a gust not howl ,
speak,
and isn't heard?

no
the wind was here
for how else did the once-twinkling snowflakes
suddenly freeze
and lose all of their beauty?

no one but Wind
would take the innocence
of such young and beautiful white specks
just as they landed
in this cold,
dark world

no one but Wind
would flare you with reality
enough to make you cry with obliviousness
for this wind; my Wind
he is the voice off all those
who have faced
life's stinging brutality;
him
instead of
hiding under covers
and whispering morbid lies
that
everything is okay

I promised you roses.
Yet you took the garden.
Stolen,
Gone forever.
You took everything I had
and had the audacity to shatter it
As my obliviousness stared at the stars,
Entranced,
Like every other night.

I promised you love.
Yet you took my heart.
Pretty,
Sweet,
absolutely destroyed
Without my knowing,
While my obliviousness got lost in the songs we fell asleep to.
You threw my heart on the ground and stepped on it too,
As if to make up for any kindness you had showed me before.

You ruined the stars for me,
You ruined my love,
You ruined me.
All because I promised you love
and you took my heart.
All because I promised you roses
and you took the garden.

Once I was alive and full of mystery
But now I am dying and full of misery
Soon all that will be left is dirt and dust
My molten sphere will begin to rust

Fossil fuels, logging, factories and pollution
I am dying but yet you have found no solution
Yet you continue to consume without any thought
Pretty soon resources, there will be naught

Time isn’t on my side nor is the human population
Only your obliviousness and ignorance has put me in this situation
The weather cycles are getting stranger and stranger by the day
Heat is building up on the ice caps dirt and clay

The sea level is continuously rising
And animal species are slowly dying
Soon I’ll be nothing but disastrous ruins
You must stop what you have been doing

Cries of agony are an endless groan
I am slowly dying and all alone
Sadly my unrenewable products are beginning to run out
You destroy everything that gets in your way without a single doubt

You say you are humans but yet you show no humanity
You have brought me to my insanity
Animals and plants are only just surviving
But yet you humans are still thriving

You know what you are doing
My broken world will be your undoing
Perhaps you will never learn that my awful slow demise
Was because you never even tried to compromised

If in the end you try to save me from my tragic fate
It will it be too little too late
/gt

Alone within my emotional wilderness

A reverie along memory lane when, this lviii sea sunned
row man (stills paddles in oarlocks and serenely quizzically,
lackadaisically, and harmoniously drifts) along the slip
stream of time. Awash on his figurative manual navigated
opportunistic prideful quintessential schooner reflects,
regales, and revisits ebbing lapsed instances (fast receding
into the past time, when psychological instability grounded
fragile my self esteem (generated venting, steaming, and
piping hot brickbats). As a newly minted harrumphing,
grubbing, and floundering dada enmeshment (analogous
to a fish caught in a net, hence quickly ricocheting, rabidly
splashing, and sloppily thrashing) predicated my foray
into das fatherhood. Aye experienced nearest approximation
Bing battered, rammed, and torpedoed from glomming
(par for the course riot ting heaps) necessarily imposed
adult responsibility. Such metaphorical motoring across
avast Battle Creek with no landfall in sight, this then nada
so Grand Turk (key in the straw) Otto man continually
snapped, cracked and popped. This human ping-pong
fitbit part player papa felt akin to subjection re: thralldom).
At this juncture in me cross currents of existence I can
harken back to those most exhausting, fatiguing, and
grueling endeavors. Hindsight offers this aging baby
boomer the luxury to cast astern. Retrospective leisurely
trawls along the shoals throes of fatherhood allow,
enable and provide and opportunity to scrutinize per
chance, where arises this on account of the empty nest
syndrome. Ordinarily the wife (i.e. missus to appear
more formal), would caw out my name nonstop….
”Matt”…”Matt”…”Matt”…, but she opted to organize
the cluster of assorted household items at the apart
ment (located in Crum Lynne – Ridley Township),
we hope to move within a fortnight. Thy spouse
volunteered her own mini reprieve by setting order
to the miscellaneous fixings gradually amassed,
appropriated, and gifted thru out the twenty plus
years of marriage, which hodgepodge of personal
possessions downsized whence circumstance dictates
evaluating goods having keepsake meaning versus
anomaly of belongings to be unloaded, repurposed
for someone else, or ordained as unworthy to schlep.
Alone asper like a very brief sabbatical from marriage
finds stillness amidst the white noise of the whirring
fan. Thus, I sit here ruminating how to dredge up
some idea for a poem,  (non) fiction or essay. This
husband became acclimated, conditioned, and em
bossed with a mate a tete for two plus decades,
whereby both thee dos delightful daughters on
Track 742 heading west. Honest to dog, I miss
the role of fatherhood when either off spring
(with an age difference of approximately twenty
five plus months) romped, scampered, and trotted
as toddlers, and upon childhood, thy little girls
found exultant excitement dashing higgledy-
piggledy, hither and yon, to and fro across the
playground as most glorious human indulgence.
Despite the plaintive wail vis a vis Juliet saying
goodnight to Romeo (…parting is such sweet
sorrow) haint pleasurable atoll. Hitherto un
known that during the most vexing, trying,
and quaking bouts when both kin of thy ****
fought like angry cats would there transpire
the occasion of sincere tearfulness ululating
vain warbling. Now a pang of nostalgia arises
when I drive past their happy go lucky stomp
ping turf, or reflect on answering the trumpet
call to chauffer one or thee other to amusement
park, play date, mall, favorite toy store such as
Fivebelow, birthday party, et cetera. Even
certain tunes recalled to mind and/or heard
being broadcast across the audio logical spec
trum a cause for moistened tear ducts. Wince
with sadness also mixed with sigh lent bundled
expostulations of joy. Both progeny metamorphosed
into able bodied, minded and spirited lasses,
whose attainment far exceeded any projections
internally forecast. Initial onset of parent role
found me all thumbs. Prior to begetting two
darling dames, this chap spent disproportionate
number of hours sequestered within some hide
away, which frequently happened to be the
designated bedroom at 324 Level Road, College
Ville, Pennsylvania, 19010. Never did thee major
rit tee days of mine life point to babysitting or
working with that chronological demographics
comprising the adoring blessed innocence,
murmuring newborn obliviousness, that bespoke
penultimate unsullied, utmost virtue necessitating
interaction with tender infants beckoning being
cradled, endearingly fondled, demonstrably easing
fondness gripping heartstrings issue jetblue kinks.
Aye felt pitched headlong into this foreign territory,
and initially experienced utmost awkwardness when
attending, pampering and pulling (albeit gently)
upsy daisy, the nascent hint of autonomy. Remembrance
and recollection of élan, joie de vivire, and yea those
ear splitting threshold of pain screaming tantrums
all boxed into tidy wholesome Zen announcing
nuggets of greater meaningfulness and absolute
value. The above long winded reverie intended and
meant tubby a semi biography, but leave hit up to
his hie n hiss, he went way overboard, and will give
a one line summarization to describe his i.e. yours truly
life sentence fate decreed. He (this Anglophile chipper
chap lived under duress of extreme anxiety, obsessive/
compulsive behavior, panic attacks and essentially
schizoid personality disorder for the greater part
of his life and hard times, which raw bits would
warrant fleshing out to extrapolate how these psychic
pitfalls represented critical factors at various and
sundry turning points in his life.

"I age an eternity a moment,an eternity that is fleeting in a moment and you imbue the impermanence with your seraphic presence."

I am sitting under this tree whose leaves sway in circles like my memories fading into myself;
yet alone a few memories resist this disintegration,resisting the frailty of the life.one of those memories whispers your voice and how you said "father,I have a wish",the tone sweeter than the voice of the ocean,when you are about to sleep and it's your bed-time story for me,you continue saying,"I want to live in the sky and be an angel who floats on the clouds,when I want to swing I would bend the rainbow into the oonjal and with every swing I hit the clouds so hard that it becomes so ecstatic and produces a roar.when I want to come to the earth,I come like a lightening which tickles the earth....."
I love how you sleep in the middle of the story and how your voice slowly disintegrates into the silence like how you didn't say "now I take this sound and whisper it in this ear and you are going to bury in your heart, this sound that emanated from me and buried in you could resonate with billion galaxies".

Do you remember this is the tree under which we used to play with the mud,you used to pour the water in the sand and cover the leg with the mud till the ankle and staunch it immobile for a certain period and when you suddenly remove the foot,it assumes the shape of your foot which looks like igloo.I love how you break the igloos that is when you try to fit your head in to its mouth in the obliviousness that it would break because your head is too big to fit in,I love how the specks of silt get struck in the strands of your hair.

Every subtle detail here becomes enormously exquisite and with every utterance I am drowned with the memories to a point of singular abstract thought.perhaps in the next life,I wish to born as your child because I want to spend my childhood in your lap,I have to live those moments when you lift me up and put me on your shoulders and pat my head till I sleep,that is the part of my life in which I have missed you and I will claim and live it....

I still remember reading your short story and the male character in the story says something like "there is no brightness without darkness and you are the darkness,perhaps when you die,the sun,the moon and the stars would miss their light shedding upon you,but I am the one who will be devoid of the darkness that which creates the very ambience for this life,that which creates this inimitable life..."I wonder what it means sometimes and what made you to think to write something like that,that which produces an inseperable thought..and I think I am too old now to contemplate on what it means......


The tree and I sit on this light-shed early morning ,I think every particle of light which is reflecting from me now shares my memory,so I suppose I spread this reminiscence all over this place,all that is seen and unseen shares our memories....it baffles me at the very thought that every experience we indulge in reflects on the very existence itself.... I take your voice wherever I go and live,it's like a plugin to my heart and you always whisper from within me,even now,It's 6:30 now and I hear you saying "close your eyes",I close my eyes and fade into the echoes of your voice.transcedence.

"She is like a lightening passing now through me like a tickle and so do I perceive every form of limitation as a transcendence..."

I sit by myself in my bubble, alone
Sitting like this, the only way that I know
I choose this lifestyle because I know the way
A way like this will make my good heart stay.
I have watched from my house, watched the whole inside rot
While the outside stays gorgeous, the inside is not
Like a pretty cake exterior, but interior- it's mold
Everybody seeing it tricked that it's gold.
So here in my bubble is where I will stay
And here I am content to watch the children play
I stay inside to avoid the Roman Carnival
I am often compared to a bird, no, not a Cardinal.
And somehow when I'm needed I magically appear
I come to the rescue when it's danger I hear
My footsteps go unnoticed, it's silent indeed
I come out to assist when people are in need.
Other than that, I stay safe from the idiocy of this town
If there was an award for hypocrisy, you all win the crown
Your obliviousness I have not come to bare
So my innocent soul I will definitely take care.
I will not understand how you simply don't see
The man that you killed just left his family
And you're blind to the man that taught the young ones
Meanwhile you're pressing charges for fun.
So here in this bubble my residence is at
I'm making a choice not to be a victim of that
And if my staying inside just makes me a fool,
Do you honestly think that makes you more cool?
Because I know you inside- who you really are
Adults training these kids to reach for the stars
You hypocrites don't even know what to say
When the children grow up and get too old to play.
Oh yeah, the stars, you haven't touched them yet
My little bubble of privacy I am willing to bet
That you haven't even climbed outside this pretty little town
Haven't gotten better than this mold and this crown.
So continue that life and living your lie
I'll stay inside my bubble and watch the child cry
He can see the cruelty just like I can too
These children know me by the name of Boo.

What is between fingertips when they refuse to touch?
air? Electricity? Unspoken words and promises? Feelings better left denied or not felt at all?
All the things I want from you but that I will never get? And the reasons I wont ever have them?

I watch your fingers play with a ball of paper, kneading it between your digits like fresh baked bread.
Mine do the same with my key. I pretend not to notice your hands, you most likely really don't see mine.
I wonder if you imagine my skin, instead. I know I imagine yours.

This simultaneous obliviousness this awkward use of fingers meant to caress and touch and interact.
This silent agreement to ignore our desires. This goes against every instinct I've ever felt.

I want to reach out for your nimble fingertips, to feel the roughness of them. I don't. I look down at my lonely hands.
They will never be strong enough to break the unbreakable.

I.
The Sun.
and you the
Moon. Yes. We tend
the rabbits true, but they
die in obliviousness too.

I am not in love with her
Or lust, or infatuation
But nonetheless;  
She leaves her mark
Traces of herself all over me
Mahogany stains bleed through on my fingertips
Streaks of purple smudgings are left in my ear canals
Trickles of red wine are swept along my tender neck
Oozing down, down, down, down
And I cannot scrub this from my skin
No matter how many hours I waste
Lathering myself up into a foam of obliviousness
Still at the end of the day she is there, intriguing as ever
Trapping me again
In this foggy purple haze

those pensive ones
as they seem to me
birds on the wire
gazing this way
     and that
lost invariably
to their ennui
their melancholy
their obliviousness
to the point
some may say
     pointlessness
of their existence
in these moments
without reason
or incentive enough
to prompt one
     or the other
to take to the wing
embracing the bluster
of the ever-blowing winds
rather they sustain
this idle malingering
waiting listlessly
for that which none
can know