It takes one to know one swift fell swoop
like a bat out of hell and certainly the belfry.
If you've something to prove to the birds and the bees,
I won't bat an eye at your rhinoplasty.

I'll take two hoots, 'cause I sure won't give them.
Find somebody else to get up and go;
I cry like I fly like a carrion crow
and I've two left feet and no time to tango.

It takes three strikes 'til it's not just company
any more — it's a crowd and my agoraphobia
is making this worse, so I might disperse.

If you don't quite care, let's put two and two together;
playing pretend we're birds of a feather.
I could commend, but that's such a no-no;
you're more like a doornail to me, less like a dodo.

And if you don't much mind, I might just take five.
I'm chicken-livered, but at least alive
though I feel like a dead duck, dusted and done.
I won't be there, I'll stay fair and square,
right back at square one.

Now can you see how this is cyclic?
Makes me feel one sandwich short of a picnic,
up the wall, and driving me sick.
Apologies, I don't mean to nitpick,
and I know I've a number of bees in my bonnet,
but I've zero interest in your haiku and sonnets.

So here's one for the road,
turn by the way the devil drives you home,
and one good turn deserves
another.

In a white room
thirty people
empty and plain
yet full and lively
everyone different
everyone same
stuck in a system
for hours every day
preparing for a future
that may not exist
existence destroyed
by being uncreative

in a white room
thirty people
just numbers
in a system
different numbers
but no name

In this layered darkness,
deaths are mere numbers
carelessly scribbled on
a blackened wall, unnoticed.

Grief is left out in the open
like orphaned children,
no one bothered to count
as it has no significance.

Isn't it  meaningless
as darkness festers still.

Every war claimed won,
leaves behind heaps of
mutilated corpses, that
in nightmares of living,
get up and walk speaking in tongues
with blood letting bodies falling apart.

So many concealed graves are
camouflaged, hidden from the eyes
of the people,whose time is precious
to waste  for such things as war crimes.


But these blackened graves break
the hearts of countless families,
where laughter dies for ever,darkness stalks.
Faceless loved ones of the killed,
widows and children uncontrollably cry,
cursing their lives  for this walk through the dark.

Every love life is an invisible bound book,
of many stories of pain, recounted in tearful details,
not easily erased, but much more lives are forgotten,
like cattle killed during long season of celebration,
when people eat, drink, and make merry till they faint,
sleep long hours to sedate their consciousness heavy
with guilt for what they do repeatedly, remorseless.

9 times turning those cellophane pages, looking for a little sliver of comfort in between the lines of "thou shall not's";

8 years old when receiving my first condemnation to hell;

7  nights spent wondering what will happen to my soul while the molecules of my ashes find themselves stuck to the walls of hospitals and picnic benches and gas leaks on gleaming wet streets;

6 times I stared at a kaleidoscope of holy colors and listened to the words tumbling out of the pastor’s mouth like children playing sharks and minnows -- but couldn't hear;

5 times the hymns of love rang out in the steeple, and 5 times that warmth and love was able to seep through the pores of everyone, but me;

4 pairs of hands and faces turned upwards, smiling, like a child running to meet its father in an airport;

3 moments I watched salty tears drip from closed eyes, merciful mouths moving, grateful to be accepted, grateful to be saved, bodies swaying and auroras mixing in a mess of hues;  

2 times I willed the chills of spirits to roll down my spine and fill my mind with the answers I can't seem to find;

1 God I am told to put my trust in;

0 times I believed.

The world isn't clear as day or dark as night
Right could be wrong and wrong could be right
Life is like numbers
All positives have negatives

So be careful about the decisions you make and the paths you take
This is a new era and a different world
All roads no longer lead to Rome

Words to a page,

Numbers to paper,

completely different but still written.


I paint pictures in my mind imaginary tales and things so define,
while he slots the figures and logistics in between.

Can words go with numbers?

Will the real world meet imaginary?

I believe so.

Because I still need someone to count my words,

and he needs someone to pull him away from reality,

Once in awhile.

I saw the planets on the wall -
a horse, an elephant and a snake magical
they had numbers which were important
one to five, two to nine, five to eight heaven sent

My birth date, car and house number put down
added, reduced, disected by a master of renown
I was told that there were bad and good dates
the best times for which everyone waits

I was given hope - told not to be concerned
there was more to come after things you'd learned
after God working in his mysterious ways
there was good fortune ahead in future days

I had my share, plenty, now it's your turn
your best interests at heart are our true concern

The night between 6 and 7
Has a magical power.

First,
it came as a nightmare
separating my body & soul.
I used to float above my body
Asking for help.

Running in the midnight
Trying to fix the balance,
I saw a slight change in her eyes.

November,
everybody was there
like 6 and 7.

December revealed the truth
and January was a teacher
of a source of love.

February, in a fairy tale
March, a treasure box
and April showed me what to appreciate.

In every 6 and 7,
I’ve had so many teachers—
like a conversation
with an unheard voice
6 and 7

Numbers, Colors, bodies and souls
Inseparable relationship
of my 6 and 7