Light bleeds through red curtains painting the brown walls a muddy shade of maroon like dried blood on concrete
Sticky and hazy
The whooshing movement of fan blades fill in the would be silence
Tugging air with dull blades rapid and quick similar to the staccato of a heart beat
Wubbing its low hum sound the t.v static of a mundane morning
Sunday's have never held much meaning
Other than the once suffocating stuffiness of a dusty church bench
Listening to hell fire and brimstone in a place that smelled like death and hand sanitizer
Where children are paraded like prized cattle in front of relatives
Valued for their would be talents and their potential to redeem their parents mishaps
No this day was greeted with the smell of *** and the taste of syrup still lingering in the dry parts of the mouth
Legs tired from walking and stumbling at the bar
Eyes still wearing the specter of blue eye shadow
Lips the muted color of sin
No Sundays are special kind of sacred

It was loveless, lost and seldom planned,
Penned obtuse in steady hand,
We dreamed aloud as old men lied,
Then took their place as old men died,
And lay with what hope we could ration,
Drawn away in stiff staccato fashion,
To another dismal city street,
Holding on with trembling feet,
As time still breaks us, all we know,
Keep faith in loss and letting go,
This sacrifice, once worth the cause,
Now only good for cheap applause,
But maybe somewhere chance still carries on,
To catch on to us before we’re gone,
As we color outside limits and lanes,
Seeking freedom from these rusted chains.

When you’re off the shore there is an empty recap,
The mind who fell from the moon
And thoughts that struck the deepest of the depths
With memories and stories and a whole lot of emotions
Streams a new location for this resonating soul.
When the rooms get smaller and the boundaries –
Make no sense, there is the field you spoke about
We can go back, sip some tea and talk endless
Till the morning breeze kisses the red spot of your sky.
We were total strangers until the first lazy scribbles
But you spoke of bamboos and the music that flowed
With similarities and glee coupled with few lines of poetry
That you made me realize, life is worth living.
I know your son, your mom, your wife, your dad
I know your little girlfriend and your dear little diary
And I know the person who is ageless and nameless,
I know my friend, you are someone unusual.
When it rains, I know you’re coming to talk about-
Ganges, journeys and cravings and feel so excited
When you get the touch, that somebody is there
Destined to share the same feeling and the exact thrill
Of every moment and cherish memories.
Let us go back to the days- you the song and I the poet
And our days that we never shared
But we will someday meet at your ranch
Talk endless without the distress of judgement
And walk a little longer and paint red, red and white,
You can drive me home and I can drive you to endless letters.

Playing in my paper tin
Where the fun ain't got end
Two drops down the rabbit hole
The melting melding mental fluctuations
Burst like stars with each exhalation
Floating exhortations and relief
In the misty cloud of disbelief
Billowing out that acrid smoke does play
Touching tasting an empiric ecstasy
Where the stunted movement of hands follows the solid sound of base thump rhyme  
Keeping the pain at bay
Away from the things I wish to erase
Maybe I'm crazy
Maybe I'm weak
But despite the chaos
I feel complete.

I want to be a travelling teacher.
I want my life to be a lesson.
Spread a psalm of love to those who remain ignorant
In the dark corners of the world.

I want to hug every decrepit old person
And kiss the forehead of every baby.
I want to relieve the stress of the working class
And show mothers that I understand their struggle.

It is only through love that we can change this place.
Compassion be the sword that cuts through bigotry.
Let us heal our wounded spirits.
Let us feed our young.
Let us forget, even for a moment, the law of the land
To reenact the basic laws of man.

Be gentle, and kind.
We only get one life.
Use it wisely, and maybe,
Our children will grow as the lotus,
And bloom above these murky waters
Of selfishness and ambition.

Come together.

I remember her
Running up and down the bridge next to our house at midnight
I remember her screaming
I remember her body, almost lifeless, as we tried to pull her out of bed every morning
I remember all the things that were said when she wasn't around to hear
I remember agreeing with them, then hating myself for it
I remember the back of her head on a staircase when I was twelve
I remember her diaries
Our mother crying while asking me for advice

I remember all the bad days
Bur I cannot find the one that quenched her fire
The one that made her whist

Match the sleep up to the fire,
Words alight in bareface glow.
Take your knees and hold them tight,
Tonight's the night that Dragons fight.

By the river lives are woven;
Fabric soft and hugs the skin.
As the shadows dance about,
Throw their arms and scream and shout.

Froth at the shore - take care!
Who'll hold you back from the tale?
Don't lose any grief.
Each story's a thief.