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 Mar 2016 Sia Jane
Busbar Dancer
Arachnid fingers
picking at my heart
like the peach pit
torn from its soft, sweet home and
swiftly discarded.
Stuck to the side of a garbage bag,
perhaps one day it will take root
in some far off landfill and
grow into a clumsy metaphor
for beauty
amid heaps of ****.

That girl
with the cotton candy colored hair at
the corner of Fourth and Chestnut
struggles
with four garment bags.
Where the **** is she going
with four garment bags?
I see her every day,
sweating,
shifting her burdens
from arm to shoulder,
then back to arm.
Except when I’m running late;
quarter past whenever.

At least tomorrow is Friday
when we can all gag on our toothbrushes.
The privilege of a clean mouth
should come
with some discomfort.
But **** girl, for real. Find a steamer trunk. The kind with little wheels and a telescoping handle? You don't have to be anyone's Sisyphus.
 Mar 2016 Sia Jane
Busbar Dancer
I didn’t shower this morning.
That’s fine since
I intend
to bathe in sin
come evening.
The above is a true story.

The fine people at New Holland Brewing make a bourbon barrel stout. Dragon's Milk. It comes in 4 packs and bombers. Start with the bomber. Trust me. I'm not shilling, as such, its just that I'm sure there a lot of good poems at the bottoms of those bottles.
 Mar 2016 Sia Jane
Busbar Dancer
When the ground jumped up to meet me
it was with the warmth of a former lover
left on good terms
(the timing just wasn't right.)

Surrender generated complicity.
Pound foolish, long face
betrayed something lost;
So with arms spread I fell
and fell…
and fell.

Lessons taught, forgotten...
Something about having big dreams.
A house doesn't need ghosts
to be haunted.

Send in the gods
so I can spit in their faces
one by one.
Just not Shiva.
Not yet.
 Mar 2016 Sia Jane
Sally A Bayan
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^  ^Diaspora ^  ^
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Tonight,
a jumble is taking place
in the small wilderness...outside my window
...cicadas...crickets...lizards...
all night creatures...even the trees
join in the dance.....to survive
they could never go against the swooshing rhythm
of the rushing kingly wind.

as i am tonight...lost in my own wilderness
i feel so limited...turning left to right...to and fro
as sparks of thoughts and images...come and go
scattered ***** bouncing here and there
from corners and walls of my room
now, they're here,
later, they'd disappear.

mind is a mess...bright ideas, scamper off
fleeing from their temple...their home
refusing to be captured...

simultaneously, some known sounds
the cries...the envisioned giggles and laughter
of familiar voices, are now hidden somewhere
have sought refuge some place else.
faces...names...smiles...words...good spirits,
one by one,
slowly, have gone...

...there is only the damp darkness
of a vacuum.....an emptiness...
created by an absence
of inspirations
of people who give inspirations....but, have left
some are about to leave
thank God for those who came back,
missing fellow poets...good friends...and their works
missing the placid waters
that once surrounded us

i miss reading...feeling the sweet music...the rhymes,
the free verse of good, wholesome friendships...
of kindred spirits in poetry
in poetry...where we all started...where, in one way
or another, we all have metamorphosed...
i believe, i know...our paths didn't cross for naught.

::: ours is a small world...existing within a bigger world :::
      ::::::::::::::::: there needn't be a diaspora ::::::::::::::::::
        ::::::::::::::::: i miss us ::::::::::::::::::
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Sa­lly

Copyright March 11, 2016
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
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