The furnished souls
Adorned with mahogany
Luxurious pieces in every corner
Eau de parfum, the finest from France
Does not allure the senses
The settees, chaise lounges and recliners
Standing there, forlorn, awaiting guests
The ornate crystal chandeliers adorn the ceilings
Trying to illuminate the gloominess
The flooring of Makrana marble on the floors
As if there is a puzzle to be solved
It looks quizzically at the incoherent footsteps
Of the infrequent visitors, not even interested
Mansion filled with embellishments
Yet there are no worthy inhabitants
The Swarovski crystal curtains, veils the outside world
That waits, without any expectations or superfluities
To furnish the soul with love




© Amitav (Radiance)

Dump: A Commissioned Poem

Someone commissioned me to write a poem about the word, dump.  Not a pretty word, but a workingman's word, full of possibilities and mystifications.  Gratefully accepted.

so many, endlessly endless.
bringing paper, cans, compacted
words,
all in need of special disposal,
special handling,
individuation of caring.

I split myself into multiple personas.
blue, green and some other color,
divine myself into receptacles for the sounds
you write, that must be read aloud, slowly,
in order to properly, allocate,
to dispose,
of.

sustainability.
not the planet,
something smaller,
more
man-ageable,
man-agreeable.

your verse!
you in verse is multidimensional,
yet unified,
one theme,
single answer to a questioned couched
a thousand different ways,
a thousand different poem titles!

how can I sustain myself?

sustain
— verb (used with object)
to support, hold, or bear up from below; bear the weight of, as a structure.
to bear (a burden, charge, etc.).
to undergo, experience, or suffer (injury, loss, etc.); endure without giving way or yielding.
to keep (a person, the mind, the spirits, etc.) from giving way, as under trial or affliction.
to keep up or keep going, as an action or process: to sustain a conversation.
to supply with food, drink, and other necessities of life.
to provide for by furnishing means or funds.
to support (a cause or the like) by aid or approval.
to uphold as valid, just, or correct, as a claim or the person making it

you are in the dictionary,
did you know that?

now I will answer in a free man's verse,
written without hesitation but with plenty of
tears and tissues
and rememberings of his own
wasted days, major successes,
bathtub ships,
righted
and passengers saved.

Words written in a single breath,
no exhalation just simple purity,
best wishes that any man can have,
if daring, he reaches inside and,
rips himself open,
saying it's ok, and meaning it,.

so here I am
standing looking you in the eye,
sitting with both arms draped
over your body,
saying
dump,
dump it all on me.

Cause I got a billion words that rhyme with
comfort.
Bring me the past and the future uncertain.

I already told you
never read a poem I did not like.

got slots for cans paper and compost,
got slots for fear, heartache and a big ole wide one for
pain.

got a heart shaped dump
that never closes.

The city council complains,
your name ain't Moses,
you are a city boy,
why you hanging in the wilderness for forty more,
didn't you do your time?
ex wife that brutalized your soul.
two sons who barely speak to you.
let someone else take over,
and I smile saying exactly,
I got experience,
I got Kleenex,
don't know nobody else better
Boy Scout
Be Prepared.

See,
even you can dump on me
effortlessly.

So.
ask not what you will bring.
cause I got an opening for anything you can
dump,
and land fill of me that has so much space,
billions of acres and neurons that will lay fallow,
until your poems, plaints, sailings and wailings
fill them.

so that is my poem,
dump,
even,
I like it.

May even dump some of mine on someone
like you.
after all
who in this world cannot use some
sustaining.

South West


The breed could walk between both worlds of the white and the Native American even in these
Modern times he was a warrior and there were flashes of his shadow that fell against the sandstone
Walls of these cliffs but here among the portals of two worlds was his territory of necessity and practical
In these shadowed canyons once Geronimo Kit Carson and other giants strode there were times in the
Long midnight hours that you could hear their brusque voices in the stirring wind that could scream as
Loud as any mountain lion not creating fear but birthing fearlessness the bleating of sheep will never be
Heard where the unknown darkness lies to face the beast you must lay aside the desire of keeping
Company with human kind a foreign lodger at the edge of the abyss this was the case of this night the
Breed made camp at a breach in the hard rock wall that made a small cave the stillness outward only
Triggered inward stirrings the make shift fire was placed in the same place that others had used for the
Same purpose the blackened stone had a glowing quality an eye for seeing deeply inward and at great
Distance as the breed pierced with searching eyes this hard surface took on a measure of liquidness
Teaming with sights mysterious as the sea there through this quasar of time and space thoughts began
To invade his mind this cave was a fixed point where a searcher and seeker could roll out the meridian
Of time like a scroll on this barren harsh land and the cave only deepened and made a more ready place
It was like the perfect furnishing empty and austere where a herald of timeless tidings should stand to
Announce his proclamations was it not the Raven that was noted as the holder of secrets for the Native
Peoples what better place to begin a narrative than here on this white sepulcher as the fire has indelibly
Given Likeness to the raven as it spreads its wings within the fire it flutters its wings as the fire flickers
The Vision of men on horses rode and wheeled their mounts rode into glories allegory they plunged into
Darkness as wonder played on their proud tall shoulders Grover Cleveland comes out of a blur into focus
This indwelled darkened sky what does it mean it is a nation remembering its birth pains whites blacks
reds yellow and brown into the ceaseless flow bustling wind cut a dance in and out the noise of riot and
Song the smudged finger prints of many have touched the pages of history in these shadowed lofty
Heights Miss Liberty has had her gown made the fabric is peace and liberty she walks these high walls
The over shadowing parapets alone on the precipice but her burning lamp aglow never failing since
It was long ago ignited there the rays of purist gold does glow out upon the sea of freedom he who
Spills blood outside castle walls determines dominions that will plague or bless under the plunders hand
It will show where the heart is benevolent or capricious of cruel knights of courts of blackened souls
Reside in these seats of power as the Vikings with ribbed ships that floated on Icelandic waters that
Sprayed doom on horrific seas true peril hidden within her wetted folds the breed burst from the cave
Seeking comfort in the dark harbor of night many images were burned into his mind on this fertile night
Of a truth the Raven has shared many a secret thoughts they lay on him like the glistening red  
Blood that drenched Black Beards coat one who played with crowns of kings until his own head
He lost for rubies red and emeralds green did many a shipman lie in heaps dead red cannon fire
Floated across the deep like red saffron rare were any that escaped his cutlass his taste for treasure
And the screams of the dying his pleasure the breed faced many strange tales when he set himself
Up as one who would not only read signs of creatures but he would delve into mystical regions of future
And past but not all can be reveled in one nights setting… he did not reenter the cave for an
Indiscriminate period of time he was propelled into his own changing world his entire family would
Be dissolved in this life other dark lessons would he learn but his yearning to know and share would
Call him back to this familiar ground new visions would attest to the change in the country and it was
Not the change one would want a different landscape laid heavy on the entertainment industry the old
Days of heroes in white hats now replaced with multiplicity of characters without moral content just one
Hook or another good looks had to be at the center little children numerous was better grown daughters
With all the right assets it was mirroring where the culture had fallen too don’t give us values just
Distractions make it fast and mindless that was the best formula our society had suffered scenes likened
Unto Apocalypse now for a sweet but short time we all refer to God and possibly see ourselves as we
Once were then with a short fast few days we forget our true greatness let our liberties slip again
At the first cry of political correctness that comes from the multitude of seekers for American justice
And freedom a better way to live then they see the great weakness and opportunity to make America
A hybrid of their former country and instead of objecting we raise the flag of misguided tolerance and
Score another victory for obscene enemies of all mankind then the saddest folly of all watching the rich
Speak and act with such unabashed pride as they whirl through the night and day being followed by
Reality television cameras as the whole world teeters on the brink of destruction that will consume
Everyone and everything I think the one who heads it all up says I will over looks you if I see the blood
Not your stupid material possessions that are fading with the natural world that is to be consumed the
Outer holds many allusions it is the inner being that better have the goods when the world catches fire
In this cave there is clarity of vision of two worlds fathers and mothers who have gone on unprepared
Have only one desire for their families that remain wake up quit being intertwined deeper and deeper
In a web that is made for one purpose to **** and keep your soul unaware of its true danger truth will
Make you free but you have to listen for this to be so the cave now empty but its revelations are here
Being continued blessing or curse lies in the actions you take or don’t take

When the world starts crumbling around me
I close my eyes and build.
A shelf here, our bed there;
a table for four, a porch for more;
Hardwood floors, soft pillows;
your record player, a piano;
framed photographs of ruins;
a loveseat piled with books.
When I start to question,
I start to build.
And in the long silences between us,
I am furnishing our home,
piece by piece,
until I forget the question,
and remember
that I,
that we,
are under construction.

sweet jesus
life is outrageous
listless alligators
try to upstage this
drift from forms
to formless sages
residual wages
furnishing your cages
threadbare leather workers
raid our refrigerators
rage is impulsive
sullen lisps and swollen lips
frame our faceless daughters
in their water glasses
houses of hunted howling
hourglasses
dreamcatchers and dancers
humongous lanterns
burning pages
place-mats
on your dinner tables
why do they feel so out of place
is it the way we are made
have you any
doubts about your origins
what is the worst
thing you’ve ever faced
are you exposed
to typos regularly
tokens of penmanship
and fraternity hazings
hostelries and banquets
growth is dependent
only on intangible quotients

Grandmother had told me tales of the past,
Fairytales that we’ve all heard of,
The maidens in the scullery maid attire,
transforming to the princesses with the
embroidered and jeweled gowns; rivulets of silks and satins,
blue as the sea, greener than the highlands, more purple
then the dusky skylines, a true stamp
of royalty, poise, eloquence, and beauty.
And ensembles topped off with gold
encrusted and amethyst crowns.
Sure, the fairytales were what I lingered
onto during the years of my inexplicitly
innocent childhood, that I wished I still had.

I missed it, the tales, the anecdotes
that shaped my perception on love, hope, and faith,
far off from what I viewed in the looking mirror today.

I missed my grandmother’s hands, brittle and worn,
but kind and warm; I still thought about them
as I cleaned out the attic in which I’d forgotten existed.

And I grew up, my memories of it faded,
now covered in cobwebs and bristling wind
that sent a chill up my spine, but I found
much more than what my memory had allowed me to collect.

Amulets from what I assumed to be my grandmother’s youth
were stowed and tucked away in the alcove of a velvet shelf,
hidden by the splintered of decaying wood.

Next to the swell of the dresser, the door of the
furnishing remained ajar, revealing manila
colored increments of letters, some harbored
by the envelopes, some pierced out in the open.
The edges had crippled away,
flecks falling to the sandalwood bottom.

They were timeless, old, maybe not important,
to the wandering eyes of a stranger.
But to me - they held a mystery
that was waiting to be unraveled.

A story of my grandmother’s life she never shared with me,
just as private as she was open, perhaps I’d find in those envelopes
the same mindset I also had when I was young.
Perhaps she believed and dreamt of fairytales I had once done,
paraded around in the jewels and bangles hidden way,
basked in the ambiance of a sweet love
that was doomed to end in the decay of both parties.

Little figurines of silver and gold were placed under one
of the drawers parked away in the furnishing,
toys form her childhood, weighted by standard and price.

Her words I had adored as a child,
ate them up like sickly syrup and supported
them as if they were undiscovered treasure, but
now I finally got to “see” my grandmother’s
treasures deposited in her attic, the very place she
had hidden the most interesting stories that she
left for me to discover after she left.

Did you hear the one about the Fountain?
You know, that bathroom furnishing-turned-art that was quickly snatched from public view because some found it "offensive, immoral, and repulsive?"
The one that has a jumbled history?
R. Mutt--my mother in German
R. Mutt--Richard Mutt bought the fountain
R. Mutt--a French cartoon reference
R. Mutt-- modification of the name of the plumbing company
What really happened?
A mystery of history.
A beautifully complex objet trouvé, turned on its side to find new meaning.
Art is in the eye of the beholder.
Art is necessary, thus the necessary is art.
For a start.

I saw a good friend die
******* did I cry
His last words still linger in my head
He told his dad to go to bed
Last time he told me this was temporary
I thought he meant his condition
Then I took a better listen
Now I realize he meant life
And that he knew his position
He knew where he was going
Up in heaven with God
And this sent my emotions flowing
Son I have some bad news
Kyle passed this morning
Pause valentine
A hysterical mourning
But I can stop the scorning
He's in a place so much better
Can't even be imagined, never
So I remember
Farmer brown
And the mine not far
The bike scar in the backyard
The fill by the shed
And the metal bunk bed
To keep away from girls who's names start with A
And the move to Vermont, what a dreadful day
The big stupid game
We would always play
But never won
The hotel in Dubai to Newburgh
And Furnishing the pool, what fun
Never again after catamount
And never again the alpine slide
But always that roller coaster ride
With the ugh, ya know!
these memories I will stow
But it's not just a superfluous list of reminisces
They're a depth forming row of instances
Which brought us steps closer to potential distances
But cut short in your teens
And I'm not sure what it means
Or its true prominence nor value
Whatever it is, it's because of you
July 29th

It all seem like yesterday
When we all gathered round your bed
Kneeling for blessings,benedictions
And warnings to live as one

It all seems like yesterday
When you will rock me with folktales
Stories of how you won my mum
And the blessings attached to you as one

It seems like yesterday
When your advise cuddles me in my blues
Re inspiring my soul
With it streams words of gold

It all seems like yesterday
That the devil took your breathe away
Leaving us with a hole
Scars like tattoos
As we mourn in silence
And here,
we standing all in a dark shade of glass
Black gowns,black suits,black tie,in the rain
Spreading our ashes over you bossom rest
Blaming the devil for the theft of a good life

Though your pictures glaze our hearts
Furnishing it with your radiant smiles
The memory of you
We continue to cherish
As we hold today a remembrance of you.

On a winter's path at
twilight flits a ghost in
thin repose
gossamer, the silhouette
flights cradling
a silken rose

Drifting through the auburn
forest autumn on her
cheeks replete
furnishing love's
silent solace
drifting with the
perished leaves

she seeks you still
she'll find you not
   the petals
        f
          a
            l
              l
        and all in
                f
               r
          o
      s
t

Sweet wind that brings me desert dust and ashes
Or salty mist as blood on burning lips
Sweet wind that carries smells of roads and mountains
And rocks, and sands, and rusty wires, and tires,
And bullet-pierced sandbags, mines, and empty tins
And holy thorns that grow through them
And hot, bleak sky high over them
And dry, cracked clay embracing them
Sweet wind that brings me memories of war
Wind softly stroking dusty oleanders
And rushing all along the endless road
Wind –
Now tell me, when the land so lolls in sleepy peace –
Kids playing, women chatting, lovers dreaming,
Men building houses, furnishing, arranging –
All more fragile than cobweb lace
That busy housewives sweep away on sleepless daybreak
Sweet wind, tell me why I
I try to fill my mind with buzz and humdrum
Of knowledge – words, and thoughts, and numbers,
-- to stifle the voice, the shadow haunting me –
The voice that whispers softly, sweetly killing
To wake me up – to find myself again –
To send me far away where is my home:
To prison, madhouse, hospital, dodjo,
Wet dugout, earthquake rubble, secret lab
Where I belong, where all like me are going –
But still in vain,
For happiness, my prison guard and mate
Me torturing,
And happiness, the evil sheikh of nightmares,
His long, thin legs me strangling, hanging down
My shoulders,
His mud-brown hands me stopping ears, and eyes, and mouth –
And me
Who wanders through my days as empty rooms  
And endless corridors of giant fallout shelters
Where lonely steps reverberate in hollow hallways
And ruthless light
In which the shadow of my shadow
Me follows – counselor, and silent friend,
Unhurt by splinters of that broken magic mirror
That **** in air; may some benumb my heart
And let me play the game of words and numbers
That spells ETERNITY;
And let the sweet hashish of words and numbers
Make me forget;
Make me forgive, and live, and lie
That I believe the world of war will never come.

Planted on one leg,
extending my
arms to the sky,
I’m furnishing this
space,
holding my head up
high.

Your feet stepped so near,
shoes swept the
grass,
I hoped
you would see
the gold coils
draping my cheeks
and the bonfire
in my
eyes.

I stretched out
my spine so I
could stand tall,
and wished you
would notice
the fairest of them
all.

You got in your car,
I could see the
wheels rolling,
left me
grounded here,
with the sun
burning through
my fibers.

Walking down the park
Moon hides behind a cloud
Stars bringing a spark
Silence changes to sound

Fireworks in the distance
The universe is making a vow
Filling the void with existence
Your mind is there to allow

Galaxies beyond measurement
Twilight shines in the dark
Changing my usual temperament
Twinkle my eyes through the park

Grim mood no longer in consistence
Gods are furnishing to endow
An end to perishing is my insistence
To my will countless planets vow

i have this reoccurring dream, it's me,
standing unearthly in the front of the altar, did god bring me to his home or is this just what they call church?
lonesome, that helter-skelter tenebrous loneliness, estrangement all around
pews blessed with the strange vacancy i relate with the open ended depth of my heart, as if people were supposed
to be there, as if people were
supposed to believe
i'm spitting up blood now, this isn't how to mend and no; who are we kidding, this is exactly how we knew it all would end
veiled with
necklaces, wrapping songs of Hail Mary around my throat,
the layered thought that god could look down in any given second
and strangle me with his own prayer,
you see i'm shouting at the ceiling but
tears only result in bent puddles on the floor
faith only results in a plethora of bibles, and the ashes of their contents.
slitting my wrists with every unanswered scream, every unlearned rosary
he's laughing at me, he's laughing at me, this ungiving god, furnishing a strange pigment to the room, staining a strange potency
transmitting this repulsive image- this memory, of this entity, of this effigy- we're all on hands and knees. withering, it's relentless,
tampering with the various degrees of energy and just what am i here for,
maybe that question is it, maybe
it's me,
maybe it's the way i was made and maybe it's the way i never called you back and
maybe it's that the day i was created was the day god cracked and
it's rumored my nostalgia-grade voice grips the air the way his hands hugged nails
i'm sifting through the times when these mumbling statues shattered, every rejected cross was found dropped,
the day i was created god became bilious and vomited for the next 16 years,
maybe it's today that he'll stop

The rage, the grace, and the ferocity in between,
This relationship promised, to be nothing but pristine,
Calling out to me desperately, yearning to meet,
Now this is a bond, to which I could always retreat.

There it goes navigating, through the undergrowth,
Creating dense and lush bonds, tied by an eternal oath,
A stream giving life, to everything in its path,
This is a land that lives, beyond the clusters’ aftermath.

The stream takes us, to the hinterlands of civilization,
Technology absent, in the face of more than one distraction,
The blood red soil, furnishing the steady stilt houses,
This is where humanity comes to life, in many disguises.

Ambition stronger, than a finely brewed espresso,
A life seeped in tradition, transcends the status-quo,
Manifesting in the coffee, that shoulders the community,
The elements convene here daily, with sincere loyalty.

gently comes the night
half light soft furnishing
comfort quiet shared
enveloping everything

Away with the light of Summer,
Warmth of days will surely diminish.
Chromatic leaves sweep and swoop upon each other,
Blanketing quilt; a tessellation finish.

Sweet Autumn,
Spiced fair to account its name
Prodigious, and far from lame!
A season with truly original custom.

Permeating brilliance
Rich hues; copper and amber glow.
Day reaches sentence
Night begins to grow.

Oh sweet Autumn,

Subtle shrouding darkness,
Sorrowful rain precipitates.
Temperature of unique sharpness,
Flourishing life emancipates.

Welcome to furnishing Fall
Period of brisk enthrall.
Somber reign; transient existence
Harbinger of wintry persistence.

Bittersweet Autumn…

I brought back a string of pearls
from the cemetery of vows.
It camouflaged a black dot;
size of the berry seeds.
I felt like a magnet to its deceiving hue.

As I move it over my wrist,
the dot sticks to my transparent veins.
Streams of blood absorbed the maleficent mellow,
furnishing me to be the new home.

Last night we tiptoed in laughing circles
around the truth we both know
a sound
a syllable
a feeling lighter than air,

a helium delirium inflating the balloons in my heart with joy.

It's hung suspended between goodbyes and goodnights,
a weightless pause spun heavy in meaning,
words made shy and sweet by the newness of it all.

And last night you rambled through your hiccups
about the importance of getting it right,
of furnishing words in fireworks and gestures  
lamenting your romanticism,
which I hang in garlands around my room
and through my mind,
throwing open the windows of both
to shout,
a sound
a syllable
releasing a feeling lighter than air,

a helium delirium of joy.

-

[Note : i am flushed with heartbeats,
fast panic breaths
and thought.
i have overwhelming stream of ideas]



...it’s ridden through in our flooded veins

it’s furnishing our museums

  it’s marred out on parchment

     it’s mated together in privacy


      [Note : i tighten my eyes closed for relief]


     forbidden

      persecuted

     tried and executed

    preserved in wetland peat

   it can be called out

without the feed of the moon

without the woe of the ocean


 [Note : i clamp my hands over my ears]


senses

census

pleasured

genetically vetted

it can be rutted out

  falling **** through the generations

    the speed of the molecule

   or flitted across our grid electrically

    microscope

     magnet

     telescope

      prism

      morse distressed

     music

    pressed

   repressed

  and invested against

through historical text

it’s collected in your visage

and yawned back at you

  off of your morning mirror

   it’s in your needings

    your trolling of prayers and personalities

     and the breaking of your vocal jockery

    
     [Note : i dry gag and go silent]


     information is energy

    not erased

  but converted...

   ...and then nothingness

    an unwearable yelling void

     expanding pressure-less

      precipice

       rapid

     the immense feeling

    of feeling nothing

   the code/no-code

  the necessary ill behind the facade

of the purpose currency


[Note : my thoughts slow,
i note my breath
and my heart]

I can feel in my soul,
the howling wind,
I can feel in my soul,
that mankind has sinned.
The burning rays
of our raging sun,
mark the point,
where our suffering begun.
As sure as the water
always flows,
away our liberty and sanity
so easily blows

The nature of
our evolution,
has handed us only,
one conclusion.
Our time it is limited,
and divine,
our responsibility is to ensure
that our future continues to shine.

So easy it is
to presume
that this life
is a darkened room.
But history paves the way,
and our lives are deteriorating,
way beyond reason we will expand,
until there is no explaining

No code to decipher,
our actions, our deeds,
our depravity,
coupled with our grotesque needs,
the hand that feeds,
the furnishing of our greed

A flower that thrives
in a meadow golden,
the sign of a prosperous delight.
Watch as it wilts,
tarnishes this wonderous
unsurpassable sight.

See our dreams
and how they grow,
into the arms of desperation
they so easily go.
Taste the sweetness,
the nectar of existence,
indulge in addiction
its the common insistence.
Behold our infamous stature ,
a not so glorious rapture

No time left for art
As the worker bees descend on the sun's rays
Dereliction of duty breeds insecurity
Allowing the conveyor belt to move
Our greatest hopes rely on the wallet
And not the gentle stroke of the brush

The sword of literature and design sheathed
As machines dominate our minds
Destiny of redemption lying in wait
As we inhale the sourness of greed
No fate too unfathomable for idealism
Perhaps no fate at all for pragmatism

Alas, no time left for art
The conveyor belt pushes forward
Transcending individual furnishing
And descending into the darkness of want
Complete injustice for need

Poetry, plants, painting, peace
Swimming, singing, sauna
Repeat

Nourishing, nurturing
Flourishing, furnishing

Baking, booking, bedding, bath-ing
Tickling, hiding, seeking, laughing

Sitting in silence

Walking in sunshine

Barefeet on sand

Coffee with friends

Pick ups, drop offs
playdates and parties

Nights out, nights in

Good friends and gin

New moons and full moons

A sky full of stars

Cycles and circles
Women and tea

Poetry, plants, painting, peace
Swimming, singing, sauna
Repeat

I don’t need a crutch for creativity
I am clearly clutch creatively
Knowingly nurturing
Flowing, I’m furnishing
The room inside your mind
That you needed help to find
The grape fresh off the vine
The soulful spark of the divine
That which you can not define
Unrefined but never crude
Intimate but never lewd
Food for thought:
I consume thought for food
I transform it into rhythm and mood
I transmit it with my attitude
Take you to a higher altitude
Flying oh so free
Through clouds of crisp creativity

Is That a Prophet on Your Roof?

A woman of Shunem gave to Elisha
A small room on her roof, furnishing it with
A bed, a chair, a table, and a lamp
And, truly, what more does a man of God need?

It’s possible that the neighbors gossiped
About keeping a prophet on the roof
And what did the owners’ association say
About extra rooms and extra prophets?

A little room in which to pray and sleep,
And friends – what more does a man of God need?