The stranger in the bus..man in the black suit..who I seemed to know since ages now.. The man with a diminished smile, seemed like he had a taxing day to cuss..
We shared a bond of more smiles and stares and less words spared.. But in his eyes, he had the world locked like the pandora..
To open it was calamity, and to keep it all in was fatality.. but he was brave, went on burning his soul in the fire of the heist..
I always wanted to ask him about his plied, but I was scared of the explosion, he might endure his own Big Bang..
This stranger in the bus, the man in the black suit, who I seemed to know since ages now, was inordinately restless today. And I couldn’t guess why..
Flicking his fingers, frantic and hasty.. Teary eyes, who was once my persona for strength, put me to deep thought..
Deciding to trade a word today, this harmless stranger extends a clumsy mind, oh how he is like mine.. the trouble was little to wild,.. He was lost in his story.. and I was compelled to listen, pay attention.. because this man that I seemed to know since ages now, was peculiarly blue..
They said talking helped, but we shared more smiles, words lesser spared.. The lump in his throat did most of the work..
While I got lost in his unshared troubles, i learnt something tonight..
Melting cold nights, rumbling leaves at the height. Such loneliness and abandonment and the hurt that is caused, is all a game of our own minds.. they tell us of our existence, of the blood and flesh and the running emotions.. which would never loose weight.
And the stranger in the bus, the man in the black suit, who I seemed to know since ages now..
I finally sense him now. He held my hand, asked me one simple question.
"Why do we wimp ? Why are there storms and tempests inside our tiny hearts? Why do we feel wounded by the mighty loneliness ?"
How smoothly he filled all the blanks. The blanks inside my gut. The blanks inside me head in a rut. The blank in my existence. In my excitement.
I see the man in the black suit everyday now. In the mirror, in my thoughts, in my walk and talk and mindful tirades.
The stranger in the bus, the man in the black suit, who I seemed to know since ages now, is inside me.. he replaced my loneliness. After all, consciousness is a mystery less..
And now we look out the window together, and smile more often.. the storms seem sorted now and bitchy loneliness sits beside me, not inside me..
For the stranger in the bus, the man in the black suit, who I seemed to know since ages now, has taken shelter, camped in the void that was inside time..
chew me up, spit me out
break me into bits
shred me into scraps
do whatever it takes
to make me fall apart.
i'll rise from ashes
i'll glue myself together
piece by tiny piece
every little microbe
every drop of blood.
like kintsugi art
there is beauty
where the cracks are
there is gold in my veins
there is stitchwork in my cells
there is inferno in my heart.
break me down, build me up
transform, rebirth, rearrange me
make me resilient
make me relentless
make me right
make me new
Mirrors stand on trial.
As my reflection has become treason.
Iris' clawing itself out of their sockets.
Screaming for blindness.
This cannot be who I am up close.
This isn't who I am on the inside
As touch becomes apocalypse.
Finger tips shaving and ripping
romantic runs down a spine
into an escape from hell.
The monster, applauding my imagination.
All fears confirmed by reflection.
The monster is me, stalking to taking stage.
Every pulsing orifice oozing out reality,
bites and endures flesh.
Pieces of everyone I try to get close to
Leaving the gluttons pink-red and full.
No dimension displayed without cauterized scars.
Deformation of the mind and DNA
Playing jazz backwards as the big band
Scolds its tune from the inside
I can hear the power tools of natures orchestra.
Brackish change, Chimera's blushing to proposal.
This is my favorite song
And it ends with anxiety of a new face.
The mirror telling it all.
Clumps of hair,
Eyes in hands.
Festering humanity in fetal position begging for death
Blowfly meals for two lovers, eaten alone.
God's hands in face peeking through her fingers.
Blood dripping from immortalities ugly head.
Tremors of night and knocks on the door.
Coagulating depression finally answers.
This is what I am on the inside, up close.
Make a plate for your eyes.
Anxiety is on the menu.
As I stand barefoot on the grass I begin to feel it; coming in the air tonight. Have I been waiting for this moment all my life? Probably. Rooted to the spot now, I feel the white light of ancient wisdom. It seeps into my feet and they begin to grow into the ground. Deeper and deeper they grow, splitting and separating into earthy tendrils that each in turn do the same. Slowly, the light rises inside of me like early-spring sap, up past my thighs and into my abdomen, filling every last blood vessel and suddenly I’m blooming from the inside. The light reaches my shoulders and pours into my arms causing them to outstretch and extend. My fingers grow and twist and contort and split and keep on growing. Green buds of chlorophyll appear before blossoming into veiny leaves of intricate beauty. I tilt my head back and wait; I feel my skin harden and thicken and crack as my body completes its earthly transformation. My clothes fall off in tatters, like Dr David Banner, as every part of me grows and fills with the wisdom of ages: the lies and outrages. Time passes and I watch from my now forever-fixed position. Full of wisdom and knowledge and power but unable to express it beyond whispering sweet-everythings to the sky and anyone who isn't listening.
fingers, neatly nestled
poked a bit
coaxed to fit
blind of sight
deaf of sound
sticky sweet leaves
falling to the ground
delighted you'll run
the man in the moon
laughing, the lies
behind phases of light
buckets of light
no rhyme to follow
or reason to bend
time its worst enemy
also best friend
run through the trees
follow the footfalls
but watch for the thistles
and momentary recalls
names won't be remembered
and the earth will change
but the forest longest living
will remember her frame
I open my lungs to the moist dirt between
Atoms severed from the whole transcend
previous existence, take flight and enter my
body evaporating through tunnels, sinus
storm-drains built beneath my bones.
Particles intertwine themselves around
rooted hair shafts, excite neurons
electrical synapses, the sinew of sense
and memory ingraining fleshy shores of
my brain with cartography not yet understood.
So I too one day amputate this existence, navigate
to the peel covering concrete entombed earth
becoming dust, mud levees holding back waters
swollen by the pull of moon, slow earth thrown
to the casket. The comital of broken deadfall
in winter buried in un-named forests turned
black earth, turned home to black shelled
scarabs, turned nest.
Let the earth do this turning lament for me
let me be food for hungry worm mouths
the secret held between the hands of mice
warm within their family den, to the beak of young
howls turned night hunters, let me feed their
wingspan, nourishing fascia, the miracle
consensus between hard muscle fiber and
soft feather wherein miracle of flight is born.
Let the earth kneed me into nucleus seed
from where its hands are born,
forms sinuses from hollowed trunks and
lines its bones with me
the cup bought on a whim
one of those mornings
willing to spend more than five
for what should cost a buck
but the leaves drew me in
the circle broken by lame marketing
often the case in life
how easily we break our own circles
this morning alone i've reheated its contents three times
what used to be a daily purchase i now prepare at home
the cup its carry
i'm probably killing myself with the reheating
the construction recyclable but that means nothing
reheat inside of that and you'll get cancer
makes no sense though because the coffee is fucking hot
and the goddamn cup holds it every day before it's reheated
i want to be that cup, i think
ready and willing to carry around the contents put upon it
no fuss or bustling
just a vessel
thought little of, pushed to the corner of the closet
brought out for utility
how to be a cup?
how to trade the drive and flourish
the passion that keeps pounding away
the flashes of intensity that find their way into tiny timbered moments
silly though, because of course i can't be the cup
no more than i can be the actual coffee