In this society
of souls from the millennium
Invigorated by validation
Drugged only skin-deep
With toxic actions and words
And prices ruling like
A silver-spoon-fed princess
The value of an individual
Plunges deep into the depths
Of the shallowest mirror-like pools

I can only sigh
As I sit in this new class
Alongside new faces
And the absence of the professor
I think of refunding my expensive tuition fee
When I pay my utmost attention
To everything around me

a blend of orange and yellow lights
smell from markers
sound echoes from the cube room
chairs are arranged
light traced the room from the window pane
swiftly, pen and paper work
noise and undescribed joke,
like here and go

money get in my mind
career path has choosen
now i'm sitting on office bench
talk about you and us

Red prints are scattered everywhere,
On the wheels of industry,
The ballots of democracy,
On the clothes we wear.
We left them on initials,
At ATM's and One-armed Bandits,
In stone, I'l leave mine chiseled.
I saw them on the beggers's cup,
He wasn't asking for so much,
When I looked back, I saw my tracks,
Outlined in red retreat.
The message is on the road maps,
The vericose veins of land,
The arthritic grip on sanity
Is dripping red demands.
Dark rooms of photography,
Invisible ink and trickery
To get you to sign,
On the dotted line,
In red.

I don’t think I want to go to class today
But around you I don’t know what I think
I think I thought that you think I think
But I thought you thought that you loved me
My senses are nonsensical
My thoughts are a jumble
Of words and phrases
So maybe I should go to class
Just this one time
Because then I put these thoughts on paper
But I still can’t say them to your face
Because then they come out like
Class I maybe have shouldn’t gone thought to

Poetry workshop experiment

Gathering a crowd of pen-holders
Using colored inks, sheets of papers
Asking them to write a few words
Guided by a quickly- scribbled prompt
Asking them to make poetry upfront
With a dose of courage and imagination
Asking them to write a few random words
Telling them that they’re making a poem.

Finding an impromptu rhythm in two lines
Trying to grasp that pattern and persistently
Improvise to capture that flow that uncertainly
Found itself thought out and written on the page
Percolating the images behind the associations
Entering the subconscious minds of the pen-holders
Telling them that they have become writers.

Not on a whim, not just for me, but because
They were not given the consequence or cause
Of their talent but simply, certainly
The reassurance needed to write poetry
Without getting drowned in rhythm, devices and sound
Of what they have created they are undoubtedly found

Pen-holder if you are,
Take patience and courage
To write on your white page
You will discover a writer
If you persist and resist
Daring to trust the rush, the lust
To write, pen-holder, you must
Be aware of the unknown
Flow of words that can be sown

November 22, 2017
Lyon

I dreamed a class of history
When I was riding on my bike.

A giant man was tussling a fierce lion
The one wins, eats the other-
Shortest tale of Darwin's theory;
The one fits, survives.

Group of men killing the other under the crowns of kings
Winning flag slaves the losing flag
Dirtiest game of thrones;
The one wins, rules.

I winked-
Emaciated begging hands are stretched along the roads
On which I have been travelling;
I have been riding over corpses of people starved to death.

I am scared now:
What kinda dream my daughter gets
About me and about us?
Are you too scared, now?