outside ourselves:**

in the few, brief moments,
staying inside the outer edge
of this webbing we've woven
for the the sake of this game
that's created in itself.

for the spider,
as he calms the tension
across his line
as the wind blows,
swaying him sideways.
driven practically by survival
hopeless in a world made by others
he's getting caught-up in his own web;
he's never seen,
but not seeing through just his lenses
that cover the top of his head.

over, calmed now,
the tension's applied tenderly.
the treacherous passing of past
passer-bys past his masterwork,
the unluck ones
only eaten, digested,
and then forgotten.
horrifically in complete sync
with the idealism
that had dulled
every subjective idea he'd had,
the spider found what he'd needed;
some calming peace and serenity.

We are open wounds with closed minds
And no one has to know what hurts inside
But why would we care anyways.
Just like why would we care if someone won the lottery
Or saved a life
Or fell in love
and the stranger next to me can win or lose
and its none of my concern.
The only concern I have is numbers under 21
And the somebody with the cards
And an ace of spades and a black jack.

I am only doing my best.
But what is my best?
What is my fault?
Sometimes I don’t have a club
and sometimes I don’t have a heart
and sometimes I don’t have an eight
but that doesn’t mean you can call me crazy


I don’t think.


This is a different kind of game
And there isn’t a boneyard to choose from
But sometimes I feel so alone inside I think maybe
all the advice Im hearing is just the bones rattling with defeat
and any second now they will shatter
like the memories we forgot to keep.

I hope that my luck hasn’t run out
Now that Ive lost all of the jokers
But maybe theres still a little crazy left inside me
Because sometimes when I play solitaire
I think there is someone else there.
But when I look up its only me and the deck
So I shuffle and hope
But most of the time
I don’t win.

So give me chess
Or dominos
Or dice
But its all the same.
We have chance
And luck
And statistics that tell us don’t do this and don’t do that
Like don’t eat too much meat
And get 8 hours of sleep
But even though I try
I still don’t get enough protein
And I don’t stretch after I run
And I cant cut the sugar
And I stare at the screen to long

And I tell mountains of lies.

The point is I’m tired of this game.
I am tired of losing
Against
Me.

Tired of making my own rules.
And breaking my own rules.

And beating myself up for the hands we are dealt
And the bets that we make
And the money we lose.

But Im learning.

Learning sometimes you get lucky
And sometimes you don’t
And we all get our share of luck and unluck.
Or we can hope so.


As a way of believing life is fair.

You're simply beautiful.
Not because you're cute.
Not because you're pretty.
More so for being you.
Which is simply beautiful.

Many wonderful scultpture folks place value on looks.
But, what you seems to be to one?
Isn't the image preferred by others.
If luck of unluck should be falls your looks.
Would you still be firm in your looks as before?

You're a magnificent creation.
And you don't even brags about it.
While others acknowledge your looks.
You accepts the compliment.
Which makes you simply beautiful to love.

Which will always be the better part of you.
Others could learn a lot from your ways.
Because you'll forever be great looking.
Even if your looks should fade.

After the first death,
Yiska said, there is
no other. From a Dylan
Thomas poem, I said.  

I know some one who
died twice. Unluck of
the draw, she said.

She crossed her legs;
the pale blue dressing
gown  rose up her thighs.

The locked ward
was silent. Early
morning. Pale light
outside the window.

I looked at the light
peaking through
the tall trees. Rooks
settled in the high
branches. All going
to die, she said.

She inhaled on
the cigarette. Grey
smoke rose when
she exhaled hard.

Dostoevsky said
something about
being in front of
a firing squad made
him realize how
much he wanted
to live or something
like that, I said.

Being left at the
altar made me realize
how much I wanted
to die, she said. She
watched the cigarette
smoke rise, flicked
ash into a tin ashtray.

You aren't much better
with your attempts to
go through to the other
side, she added. Why
did that guy of yours not
turn up on the wedding day?
I asked. She inhaled.

Looked at her fingers.
Said he didn't want to go
through with it. His father
told me. Undecided to
the last, she said. She
uncrossed her legs, sat
back, her head resting
on the back of the sofa.

He was a useless lover
anyway, she said. I looked
at her sitting there: hair
in a mess, no lipstick,
the dressing gown tied
loosely about her waist,
bare feet, unpainted nails.

Will you marry another?
I asked. It's snowing,
she said, pointing to
the window behind me.

I turned around. It was
falling snow, light, but
thick. She got off the sofa
and stood beside me,
peering out. What about
you, she said, breathing
smoke against the window
pane, will you try slit
your wrists again? Who
knows, I said, depends on
the darkness and unfelt pain.

L o v e
He sieves the sunlight through his fingers,
-Fine dust.
A questioning glance, a silent murmur, a lingering touch,
Greed, love, lust?

Pierced heart,
poisoned flames,
Whisper—"black magic”;
-why take all this pain?

Say, “Love is a rose”,
Can’t blossom on its own.
Bask in gold, sway in the rain;
albeit, ****** you when its grown.

She’s a wildflower;
a dandelion, a ****.
Unwanted; but pleasing to look at,
unaware of her roots- pays no heed.

His eyes trail back to his own,
hands shackled by their every word.
Eyes downcast, stumbling feet,
-Utterly incapable of being loved.

“It’s money,” they speculate,
For love is in beauty, love is in pain;
for passion to ignite and it has burning flames.

But time ticks away,
and they frail; them roses.
And they twist and turn,
- under the trials the wind imposes.

The mirrors, they shatter;
unluck-no trust;
When creases mark her skin,
and he grasps his hands around a cane;
Love isn’t beauty, only pain,
now only a bane.

- Every flame drenches,
  in moments of rain.


-Bareena.