You have brows like bushes,
eyelashes like webs.
Shoulders like a steep cliff,
arms like bridges.
Ears like deep wells,
endless and bottomless
in sight.

Snout filled with cigarette grain,
and the breaths
you seem to hide away.

You have hair like a little girl's soft eyelash,
falling down upon her innocent cheek.

Your chest heaves;
I am lost listening to the pulse that brings you back to me.

You lay like a child;
I do not feel the need to engulf you.

I allow you to exist just so.
In your land of banana hammocks,
and bittersweet stars.

I graze the freshly cut grass
of your chin.
I see the lines of shadow
remain permanent on the concrete,
and my mind goes on in complacency.

Gradually -
I keep tumbling,
further down the hills of
dead grass
and unspoken ink,
to join you.

She sits across from me now
Similar in so many ways
2 children
About 8 years apart
Arms and back display
A climbers strength
Or a dancers grace
I'm not sure
Gentle lines around
Her eyes and lips
A subtle line of veins
Through skin of hands
And I see so much of myself
Maybe she's older than me
Younger though, I don't think
Her laugh is light, unaffected
There is no smoke
No mirrors here
I hope I am seen
as clearly as her
The lady that has
strange symmetry

Hazy veil
of mazy
grey-white-jade
abstract cumulo tangle
quasi-close to the ground
accentuates the beauty
of the mighty river
at the edge
of a dangerous
denim cascade
leading to a free fall.


At every step
fading spiral shades
of lighter hue
entrenched in white
rashly caress
those fine
fascinating fringes.


The rugged rocks
hugging dusky tone
have fought
the flowing frenzy
of the heavy fume,
tried in vain
to obstruct the drain,
but at the end
laced the azure
with a golden chain,
witnesses the green
that grows within.

Today, for the first time in my life,
Got bored observing people.

My look at those gazeless eyes
Other times plainly happy for the shining lights.

My definition of 'shining' is not equal to their's,
Of 'success' neither.

Finally alone I felt lonely for the first time in a while,
Guess all friends are away,

Except for a few inanimated ones.

How can I love you,
Say so little,
But mean so much,

How can a punch and kick,
mean I love you,
but it does and it did.

How can music move you in a good way,
then tear your soul apart,
but it will and it does.

How can a child be unruly,
They are what you made them,
But they're individual,
They are you.

Stare into the gray.

Watch as I grow, billow, and loom over all.
Drown in the depths of me,
for I am an ocean pregnant with precipitation.
See the stark contrast between the green of the world
and the enormity of my existence.

Stare into the gray, for I am he.


Stare into the red.

See how I do not demand,
do not obscure, though I once reigned.
Follow the streamline of my form
splayed on the horizon,
for I am waning in my brilliance.
Feel the warmth I still exude
even as darker hues force me aside.

Stare into the red, for I am she.

Five years or more
Or perhaps less,
Does it matter to you
Or me?
Isn't time a relative measure
To make sense of other conducts.

I was here, this city
My idea of the west
That still can and will
See me as of this land.
People were bright,
Were too busy in their lives
To yell at you about the dent
In the car's bumper,
People would narrate so.
That was to me, a declaration
Of our true values.
Probably that's simply a story now.
But either my mind grew
Or the things,
Who will attest to it?

In my car, the fan on full blow,
The heat musty though,
The sun burning with a new found motive.
In this city of people with hearts,
I looked out my window,
Rarely looking ahead,
Maybe this is why I fail
To memorize roads,
Or streets in my own place.
But the car halted and
The driver mumbled,
The accent a lovely northern,
One that sounds too polite
To instill any fear,
To pass as a slur.

My eyes darted ahead,
So calmly the man in the driver's seat
Sat, his both palms griping
The wheel a little too loose to turn,
His heavy chin on the back of his hands,
His back arched forward,
So calm and serene.
The man on the bus,
Sat same, his back though
Stretched way too forward
From his seat,
The distance greater,
He, struggled to keep that pose.

Both man on the wheel stared
Through the double windshields at each other,
If I didn't know better
I would say they were friends
Playing games.
If I didn't know about the traffic,
Blaring horns louder more by the second
I would say it was a new game
Likes of the bull and the matador,
Tad bit less dramatic,
And less action and work.

But my mind grew,
And I could tell this was a fight,
Raging between the eyes,
The victims of the peaceful blows,
-Everyone behind them,
Beside them.
Other people screamed at both,
None flinched,
Them, as sturdy as their vehicles,
The elders grew despondent,
I couldn't stop looking at them.

This was a quiet revolution
Of the new age,
The calm, polite age
And I wanted to watch it bloom,
Like a sunrise,
I wanted to clap to it
And yet not disturb it.
This was on a busy street,
Two men on their thirties,
Fighting for what they believed in,
In their own way,
It was funny
But it was also beautiful.
(I knew both of them were wrong.)

The driver curved around them
And my view was a passing glance
Again.

I watch sky darken
As I relax in garden
Big trees look like hills