he rises with words in his  unwashed mouth,
mouth, is unwashed, tongue tastes dregs, bits
of morsels of his past, some good, some bad,
some tastes of places, of women he has loved,
sweetness of sorrow, dregs of regret, and all a
jumbled, tumbled, intertwined, clinging combo
of nations, his~stories …a mashup of a mashup’s
smashup

he tries to separate them, this admixture, to better
recall, but the sacrificial fire lit, the ember-members
are too burnt, indistinguishable and can’t find the
vive entre les differences…

South of france, tahiti, the one he loved in cities,
Toronto, L.A., and Portland, and the communes
in Asia, but tries harder but it’s no longer possible
to separate the essences and the similarities same,
and a great sadness is what he recovers when runs
his tongue across the roof of his mouth, the roof of
his memory, the roots of his…being…his unbecoming

he rises to a glorious day, where he is can’t be sure,
who he is with, certainly not, the why, but he recovers
some pants and the idea of a fresh start seeps creepy in,
but by the time both legs dressed, his mind’s eye wanders
to a new sunrise and old template of temptations. . .

In the garden of flickering neon trees,
where shadows dance with marionette leaves,
I met a man with a clockwork heart
and eyes like prisms, tearing time apart.

He whispered secrets in a language of static,
his voice a symphony of glitches and clicks,
telling tales of constellations uncharted,
and love letters written in binary scripts.

We wandered through a labyrinth of velvet mist,
where fish flew by on currents of twilight,
and the moon sang lullabies to sleeping stars,
cradled in the arms of endless night.

I found a river of liquid glass,
where thoughts flowed like mercury streams,
reflecting the dreams of forgotten gods,
and the echoes of interstellar dreams.

A carousel spun in an abandoned carnival,
each horse a phantom of forgotten lore,
and as I rode, the world unraveled,
a tapestry of surrealist decor.

In the distance, a cathedral of crystal,
its spires piercing the fabric of reality,
and inside, a choir of silent voices,
harmonizing in spectral duality.

When dawn broke, the mirage faded,
leaving only a trace of whispered winds,
and I awoke, clutching fragments of visions,
in the realm where the surreal begins.

:: 05.17.2024 ::

Gnash and Gnaw
a story book
of semantically related tales.

Troublesome twosome
words that stitch
a crossword of misrepresentation.

Incredibly Inedible
plasterboards
of unrequited dining.

Grotesque - ******
inevitable
struggles of theocracy.

Grace and _
spared from false
synchronicity.

By my life’s imposing conclusion;-
My poetry will all be an additional storyline
It’s words remembered; my memory but forgotten
Surely the beginning of someone else’s inspiration
-Of course, in the middle of their new found saga
  
     And by that, I shall be content.

“Do you think we’ll ever be ok?”, she asked

“Depends what you mean by ok”, I replied

She then, gave me a look that spoke a thousand words and said, “okay”.

You’re that feeling that burns
every time you’re filled, not spent
we go back to learn
It wasn’t what I meant

The strong promises and lines
that couldn’t be broken, you bent
among all the go around rhymes
It wasn’t what I meant

The absent truths and stains
of every little word stolen, you lent
only to borrow pain and play
It wasn’t what I meant

and when you finally understood
phrases couldn’t be ripped, but rent
now there’s that silent separation
It wasn’t what I meant.

I am a poem in motion, in itself-
I strike an empty canvas; drawing out inspiration from
the library of experiences sitting on a majestic shelf,
“what picture shall I craft,” to showcase an unheard story,
an unsung song- “and what lines shall I once again cross”

Poetry has no bounds;- its never short of words,
its expression is wild; tamed by the artist’s pen- my sword
to fight against the marching violence in my mind.
My words- are all a part of me; they separate me from the
entire world, as I watch everything unfold into the paper
where I write down my thoughts.

[the poet-
is an outsider; a broken writer, who gets his fix from
his literature art. It’s an addiction, and a cure to my everything-
yet it’s still nothing. It is here, it is there, it is everywhere; still
it comes from nowhere.

[a poem-
are her words tender, but also so raw. They are the length of her
elegant body, they are short of breath- she is my answer, she is
my many questions, she’s a truth made out of my lies. She is
everything to my nothing

No poem is a mistake; every poem is perfect-
written by imperfect people.

Words are for the word-

people, she says, you are free --


to just do your job.