"kiosks" poems
Kashmir Delirium
Oh People Of Earth! Thankful are we,
For each act of benevolence shown to us.
Your gilded sweet words describing,
The beauty of Kasmir, land and people.
Mention in books and talks of it's riches,
Naming it the Sweet Paradise Of Earth.
The Lord has been bountiful to Kashmir,
Treasure of resources in every sphere.
To elevate each aspect, our wish for life,
As every acre of this land is worth millions.
Full of treasures and recreational value,
Forestry with grandeur and silvery rivers.
The outside world's view is so limited,
Simple folks living in the lap of rich bounty.
Mentioned in world forums and organizations,
But what of the goal of giving us freedom?
What has The UN established in our name?
To measure the pain and anguish we bear,
At the hands, of our supposed benefactors.
The saviours who has us fractured.
But in reality they train their enforcers,
In the art of creating oceans of tears.
The red blood now hidden in camouflage,
The spent shells now gathered and hidden.
The leaders we are told to elect in electoral shams,
Run publicity kiosks and swell friend lists.
Joint conferences to address personal interests
Dialogues that never address the root issues.
Just the formalities and no sympathy,
For the ones burnt in cruel sadistic reprisals.
The hypocrisy continues deliriously unabated,
More augmentation of the security forces.
For a first hand view of deep hypocrisy,
Walk this land, you know as beautiful.
Religious leaders will teach you political artistry,
Sermons full of ambiguity and guile.
Waywardness and narrow mindedness on display,
Political apologists give great lessons.
Religion and religious ethnicity are tools,
That keep minds and bodies in total check.
Gamesmanship by leaders is the rule of thumb,
As promises are forgotten once office is obtained.
When writing of this succulent beautiful land,
Write of the air, pregnant with sadistic practices.
This land is being stripped of worldly treasures,
And the greatest treasure is mistreated daily.
The best of nation is the inhabitants,
Ignored are the real gems of this beautiful paradise.
Dec 29, 2015
Dec 29, 2015 at 6:44 AM UTC
we met in Mexico,
slept rough in the back;
the seats folded down levelled out
and tacked down with two springs
we went by cities
not knowing their names;
stopped at payphone kiosks
shamed our pasts with left messages on answering machines
we stopped at toll booths,
paid for more road to play on,
to drive over smooth,
to cross another border before the noon
we deciphered restaurant menus,
ate with fingers crossed and hoped
the chicken was just that,
left a tip lost in another used ash tray
we wore sun cream
to screen us against the rays
and the glare reflecting
off the mineral water, natural bays
we walked up to bars
asked for drinks in cold bottles,
sipped and supped until kisses rolled out,
left holding hands like mannequin models
we kept the trip a secret,
kept it secure between you and me
and the folds in the bed sheets,
we only exist in hotel cheap suites.
Jan 9, 2014
Jan 9, 2014 at 3:46 PM UTC
Unchained day beneath dumpling clouds in a baby boy broth
I tumble from the snake's mouth into the belly of the bullfrog
kicking across the river in fits and starts of sloshing and falling
great mirror arms reach imploring
asking the sky to see their brilliance
as steel-grey bracelets encircle one wrist and
then another
and skyward we turn
and vomited unceremoniously from the bullfrog's mouth
I slog easterly through the setting concrete of the new-fettered day
kicking across the avenues in fits and starts of staring and falling
shiny electronic arms reach imploring and
ask the stars to hear the cries
as invisible chokers encircle one's throat and
then nothing
and skyward we turn
and jostled and sweating as fresh popcorn into the gluttonous hall
I ride the current past the kiosks and shuttered kitchens of boutique cafes
kicking down the rapids in fits and starts of surfacing and falling
a majestic and world-weary arm reaches defiantly and
shakes a fist forever at one moment and
then knows
and northward we turn
and
the girl shared my Luna bar
and
the phones were passed around
and
the woman had no shoes
and
the conductor took no tickets
and
the women shared their seat
and
the man gave her cab fare
and
the woman went home with no purse, no keys, no shoes
and
the girl went back to Buffalo
and
still we turn
and
still we turn
and
our shackled arms raised against the sword reaches
necessarily and
blocks the blow as if we were one arm and
then holds
and
still we turn
Sep 7, 2011
Sep 7, 2011 at 8:08 PM UTC
as we run over the limits
of speed and slumber
where technology beats tradition
hands down
and free....
eyes-stuck...
heads-bowed.....ears-plugged,
fingers walking over screens
and oceans
between heartbeats
tweets stomping like clydesdales
over tradition,
kicking phone booths, kiosks
and cubicles
to the curb
with todays news prints
rendered extinct by noon
yesterday
if you paused...
for the cause
of a caffeine boost
or to order chinese take-out,
you missed 10,000 updates
and between styrofoam sips
and chopsticks clutching
greased chicken strips
you play ketchup
but catch only
white-collar stains
and steamed rice grains
on your laptop
in your haste
and compulsive
obsession
to keep pace with
the text-generation
when you could've
been flipping through the
times back in '89
but that would make you
a dinosaur
~ P
(7/27/2013)
Jul 26, 2013
Jul 26, 2013 at 7:15 PM UTC
He kinetically arrived
with 1973.
Night is the longest day,
here come the warm jets,
served on a cold plate.
Play it back at half-speed
and you've got auditory wallpaper,
it must be as ignorable
as it is interesting.
His own world spins within a device:
cacophony of sound
mixed in a blender
and xeroxed;
a little snake guitar,
a little Leslie piano
— music to resign you
to the possibility of death.
Then came 1983
and beyond just him.
Tamper tantrum hotline,
amplifiers on the balcony,
secretly taping Edge
and Adam Clayton
on a 4th of July.
The numbered streets
and desert rain
add soul to this heartland,
it's the gospel truth
he wiped the deck clean.
(sort of and maybe).
His device spins within its own world:
manageable hums,
danceable drones,
welded into night;
daytime variations
held together
no better (and no worse)
than a cloud.
Then there's sfumato:
music without lines or borders,
in the manner of smoke
— theatrical fog
— a different kind of blue.
Densely layered,
so impossible to track,
this being lost in
the magnetic hush
of airports and
other strange kiosks,
it all falls into a creative lull.
Guess it's time for
Oblique Strategies...
Jul 9, 2022
Jul 9, 2022 at 1:43 PM UTC
Top hat and tails.
Fire and ice and bison graze the land,
man's hand desiring more and more until there is no more to feed,and at such speed and still we need that more than more, so dig down deep into the core of where we live,
we give ourselves an even chance when chancing fate but fate gives us a passing look as if to say,'fuck you,you do what you do and expect so much,to touch the stars,dig up Mars and plunder planets'
I wonder such as gannets fly across the worn out pillaged sky where aeroplanes shave micro lines across the sheets of landing times.
It's fire and ice and desert scrub, manufacturing gin in the old bathtub and guv'nor can you spare a time when if you ever spared a dime for beggars on the city street who graze the dog ends at their feet and look in kiosks for lost coins.
It's the road we're on,no going back now,we've ******* the world and have to live somehow with ******* crops ,unfertile ground,the world keeps spinning round and round,a crazy top,can't someone please just make it stop.
And then, when men become cave dwellers
why do we expect the fellers (sic)
to do or not become much more than what the modern man once saw,
we're in the spin
we cant begin again
can't beat the acid rain
just relax and revel
in the pain.
Nov 28, 2013
Nov 28, 2013 at 9:02 AM UTC
You are a brilliant patchwork of people
wearing their imperfections with pride
not ashamed to be different
Like a jagged concrete and glass tiara
surrounding an emerald heart
you are both lush and cold in synch
At once soothing and stimulating
is the rhythmic rocking of your subways
punctuated by the occasional discordant screech of metal on metal.
You are an assault of sight, smell, and sound on the senses,
each vying to be noticed by indifferent passers-by
artful store windows
pungent aromas from curb-side kiosks
and rap, rock, or classical
as performed by wandering minstrels
Where else can individuality be noticed
among the teeming masses
or the lofty and lowly stand side by side
without thought of social status?
Where else can one get lost in the crowd
yet still be an integral part of the whole
or be down
then uplifted by the energy of the streets?
New York City
you are where the impossible becomes inevitable
and incongruent parts
come together in a symphony of humanity and culture.
New York City
you inspire both love and hate
but never indifference!
Oct 25, 2016
Oct 25, 2016 at 6:43 PM UTC
There are kiosks,
where meddling butterflies smile
and paper cut men in sharp suits
give Indian burns
for free;
have you seen the machine
- it gleams.
Jul 9, 2011
Jul 9, 2011 at 8:50 PM UTC
I take the shortest path imaginable to be among stars lining meticulously staked kiosks
beaming like the sun's gentle rays at dawn in autumn
mid-slumber, we float
skin colliding and causing ripples like pebbles in a stream
the noise he makes at 3 AM send a shock through my tattered and fragile skeleton
stopping short below my waist
where i start questioning my beauty because society hates an un-perfect anatomy
somehow that's your favorite place
early spring morning eyes that could sedate the wildest stallion
lips and teeth
so familiar
for minutes we've sat in silence with our limbs tangled
I've been waiting so long
the separate paths we crossed are conjoined at fingertips and hips
walk with me until the sun is barely peaking out
we're spilling out like whiskey on a hardwood floor
how are we still so full?
Jul 10, 2015
Jul 10, 2015 at 12:23 AM UTC
I'm in the white city.
A dense fog
Disintegrates all my hopes.
There are people dreaming
Of nonexistent worlds,
There are disoriented people
Walking on the terminal's sidewalk.
There are lights turning on and off so erratically
In this white city.
There are hidden screams in the night
Covered by the heavy rain sounds,
That rain falling continuously
And monotonously.
In this white city,
The victims
Don't understand that they are victims yet.
There are flowers,
There are fast food kiosks,
There are botanical gardens
With beautiful exotic trees,
And there are horror movies in the theaters.
As shadows emerging from the fog
Are the lost steps.
There are steps searching each other,
And there are steps that are separated forever.
The rain's sounds
Vibrate the eye of the windows,
Vibrate the burial stones,
Vibrate the dreams,
Those dreams
About better days.
Apparently,
Someone screams
In the white mist of the night.
Maybe he's the victim of an aggression,
Or maybe he's someone, who has lost his love.
Maybe it's just an echo...
I'm in the white city
And I'm searching for you in the darkness....
Jun 27, 2012
Jun 27, 2012 at 4:44 PM UTC
In a Victorian train station,
Amonsgt a plowed tile floor
Of long brown benches,
I sat: a brass statue.
I stood in the waiting room
Watching the travelers scurry
About, keeping up in their own
Little rat race.
They would walk around
Through the rows of benches,
Looking at me, or the windows,
Or the clocks.
I would sit in my space amongst
The benches, in my shaft of light
That came down from the arches
In the ceiling, thinking I was content.
Minutes would turn to hours,
Hours to days, days to seasons
Time after time. And then --
You came.
You were so like me: an
Almost brass statue; a not-once
Person, gilded over in a
Seemingly perfect pose.
They sat you right next to
Me; we were like two sides
Of an old coin, spinning in
An empty space of the station.
Your silence was plenty for me.
I no longer looked at the
Scurriers and travelers, but
Instead on you, us, together.
In all the room in a vast station
I was fortunate enough to
Have you placed perfectly
Next to me. Me.
But it wasn't to last. The men
Came to haul to around: to
Kiosks and platforms and
Other waiting areas.
Then. . . I became the fidgeter.
The seasons broke down, to days
Minutes seconds moments,
Moments without you.
And when you came around
Again we both delighted in the
Sunlight through the arches and
Each others inevitable silence.
And when the station closed,
You never had to move again.
There was no where left to move you,
No more emptiness to fill.
So they set us in a park -- by black
Benches with pigeons instead of
Trains. Together we got to watch
The minutes turn to days, and in
Turn seasons.
I never waited again.
Oct 12, 2014
Oct 12, 2014 at 3:30 AM UTC
that moves from its mooring: it was from interstice
to intersection somewhere in Poblacion.
I was once there, looking for loose change beside
the market. Quickly I began as though an impression
was made past the kiosks dense with the matrimony
of the tabloids and print: its dearth on the streets
of Plaridel. Mud caked at the grey backs of gutters,
a spectacle
of leaves on the ground like deft
hands place them there for empires.
the first that I touched: wind,
last: your face, wind was it only that you and I were
never off-tangent, always, minus the blindfold,
seeking endlessly as though things refuse to be found,
pulsing in the heat of hiding grace.
and goes back to its source: something too splayed for science,
only too easy with a child’s fancy – chauffeurs playing checkers,
crossing each other out within conjunctions – much you or I,
our weights syndetic and our weightlessness, imagined – as if phrasings
loose like waters from the spigot left open: mother arrives, haranguing.
like how it was simple for the wind to remind us fit to this
meet constantly receiving your incidence, and my place stilled
to familiar topographies.
a window is left open, with its hands in the terminal of silence
holding light like obdurate stone; the surrender registers
with grievous art, you curved like a bent question mark,
or a swollen oblation borrowing its sheen from the ****
of bobbing beacons – the candid Manilascape you kept on
fevering for like an open sentence
only to find its birth.
Mar 2, 2016
Mar 2, 2016 at 11:11 PM UTC
I was on a freezing
Train platform when
A cursing man approached
Me
His smile already queued up
"Hey man,
I tried to ride the
Train with an old
Ticket"
He turned the ticket
Over and over
In his hand
To accentuate this
Point and continued
"And i have 9 bucks
Could you spot me
For the rest?"
"I have no cash"
I lied
As most do
When confronted for
Money by a stranger
"You don't need cash
You can use cards on
The machines"
He said pointing
Towards the bank
Of awkwardly standing
Ticket kiosks
Our only companions
In the chilly night air
"Nah man, i'm good"
I said
His expression changed
Not to anger but
Disappointment
"Well, thanks anyway"
He walked off cursing
A broken trail of white
Breath twisting dizzyingly
Away from his head
Standing there I felt bad
That I hadn't helped him
He only needed 7 more dollars
And I had six crisp twenties
Folded neatly in my wallet
And two credit cards
Nowhere near maxed out
For some reason
I started to interpret myself
As part of the problem of mass
Apathy amongst men
In turn feeling slimy
Unnatural
I made a point to lap the
Station multiple times
To find this man and give
Him more than he needed
Not to help him
But to prove to
Myself that I wasn't
A phlegmatic
******
I caught him inside
With another young man
About my age
With a softer face
Giving him a sandwich
And a few crumpled bills
They traded a few words
And laughed
I returned to my
Perch on the platform
Alone in the
Freezing night air
Later the man came out
Smoking a black and mild
And waited next to me for the
Train
When we got in he only sat
A few seats from me
I saw him take the
Ticket he told me was old
And hand it to the
Attendant
Who punched it and moved
On
Later we made
Accidental eye
Contact down the
Aisle
He queued the same
Smile and turned away
From me
Dec 2, 2016
Dec 2, 2016 at 7:43 PM UTC