"southeast" poems
Ah! Another hero
Washed with bleach
Like the Son,
Who is only holy
When rinsed of his
Melanin.
I wear a white coat
That browns in sunlight -
It appears the moon and I
Will be good friends.
How deep must I scrub
To rid my pores of
The southeast Asian sun;
To wash my hair of Pacific salt?
(Even my mother painted herself
With a European brush).
How can I know myself
When denied the magma
In my blood?
It's of no fault of mine
That I've been stripped
Down to resemble a
Colonial caricature -
I've been taught
The victories
And learned
Medals are smelt
In white gold,
But mostly
I've been told
That mixtures separate
And I am mostly
Creme with a dash of coffee.
A shame!
Us beige babies must be
Assigned colors
As if palettes were for paintings
Not people -
My family tree has
Cane fields and apple orchards,
So don't act like
You're surprised
When I mention
White isn't the only
Color of my skin.
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 9:37 PM UTC
The Japanese attacked
British and Dutch colonies
In southeast Asia
Japanese landed on the southern island of Mindanao
And the west coast of Luzon
On the 24th of December
They landed on the east coast of Luzon
The allied forces withdrew to the Bataan Peninsula
For three months they held the Japanese troops
On the Bataan Peninsula
On the fourth of April
Allied forces were attacked again
Five days later the allied forces surrendered
Of the 12,000 Americans
Captured on Bataan
Only a third survived the war
Mar 4, 2015
Mar 4, 2015 at 7:46 PM UTC
In times of yore,
A name arose –
With vulnerable emerging markets,
The “Sick Man” of Asia!
But it has primed its cutback!
“Sick Man” was now a former name,
Call him this nation
To breed at ‘breakneck’ pace!
The snap back is faster
As global growth stirs in its revival,
And billions of dollars are in his shares!
Philippines vs. U.S.
With 7 percent, the peso was down for the year!
And we were knocked out!
It was more a reflection of global fears! –
About higher U.S. interest rates,
Then, the worries ‘bout the realm’s own fortunes,
Has to be forgotten.
Southeast Asian nation's prospects remain bright,
Likely to produce “predictable growth,”
Yes, the three stars with lone sun –
Now sky-scraping ,
With Filipinos making a stand.
Moving far..
From being a financial basket case,
The government has cut its debt,
Carry on! March on Filipinos!
(2/25/13 @xirlleelang)
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 9:53 PM UTC
In this fRaGmEnTeD cage,I hear checkpoint moans;
anticipating our prone-positioned
brothers and sisters held
Prone positions against walls
Prone positions against fences
Prone positions against vehicles
Prone positions against buildings
Prone positions against prone positions
Slam-whacked, bloodied, occupied
like our great nation; like our souls
I remember a prophet's call, " love your neighbor
as yourself "
I hear Palestine weeping from Jenin
to Hebron, from Jerico to Gaza seized
I hear lamentations about blood tales
I see only FrAgMeNtS of our land
I see FrAgMeNtS of our proud people
Lo and behold my Palestine quakes as an earth quake
Doves scatter skyward as a prophetic omen
Blue skies and Sun momentarily claim victory
Then inhumanity's ugly face:
America to its Indians, America to its blacks,
America to women, America to its gays,
America to Mexicans,
America to South and Central America,
America once to Southeast Asia,
America to Islam, America with its war crimes,
America and Israel both innocence died
So, we pray Koran's verses upon our prayer rugs
We gesture all hope
The apartheid surrounds us
The dead talk to us
The smoke surrounds us
Perhaps better days we say
Entwined with bizarre everydayness
we accept sleep with fits
Fits without food;
Fits without crucial welfare
Roads, shelters, mock us
sculptured by missiles and bulldozers
Bully-bombs exploding in a reign of terror
We pray upon our prayer rugs
Bully-bombs exploding in a reign terror
And oooh how those awful missile FrAgMeNtS fly
and Muhammad cries with anguished tears, in this writtened
legacy...in written legacy
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 5:21 AM UTC
Summer Solstice
"Everybody knows that the change is coming
"Everybody knows that the deck is stacked"
Leonard Cohen
In Colorado, the Cache La Poudre is burning
That's where they hid the gunpowder
Has it blown yet?
In the Southeast Asia Enterprise Zone
The suicide nets are ready for another night's harvest
Do we understand that our beautiful electric screens
Are polished with blood?
In Syria, the death squads are arming
For another day in the abattoir
Everyone is ready for the bodies
I called out to you in the night
I dreamed you loved me
From the bottom of your soul
In the morning, your e-mail address
Was blocked, texts came back forlorn
The earth is crying out
But Jimi is so long gone
No one understands
And the wind howls alone
In the land of plenty
We're all tucked into our corners
Of the unlimited cage match
Our abs are ripped
Our tattoos look good
But our eyes are empty.
Winter is coming.
Jun 21, 2012
Jun 21, 2012 at 12:42 AM UTC
When you approached me,
I was smoking a cigarette
listening to Macklemore
outside my favorite coffeeshop
in the rainy city
You said something,
but I didn't hear you,
so I removed my headphones
as you asked
"Could you help a veteran out
by giving him a cigarette?"
I said yes,
asked you where you had fought
you told me Saigon
"Oh yeah? Vietnam."
you looked at me
dressed in a coat
that was a color of blue
not found in nature
face of canyons
and told me
"We got those ******* good.
We did.
We got those ******* good.
Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."
and you walked away.
I was stuck in a trance of
What the **** was that
and yeah,
we did get them
but I don't know if I'd lay down
Agent Orange
and call it "good"
Take Civil and Guerrilla warfare
and try to tie it next to butterflies
and welfare checks
I don't know
what you think is good
But me?
I can't find any other words
for 1.9 to 3.9 million casualties
in a war that should never have been fought
Than sad
and wrong
I wonder how many Vietnamese women
gave birth to half American babies
That they never wanted
that didn't even desire to participate
in the act
of child making
I wonder how many
Loved their children anyway
how many were honest with them
how many of those children burnt that odd color of blue
that should never exist in nature
But then again
neither should the bombs children are still unearthing
in the North
and South of Vietnam
I want to know how many of their parents
learned that American
is another word for a ************
How many of these parents
grew up telling their children
never trust an American
until you know where his gun is pointed
because he's always got it pointing somewhere
I want to know
If you would understand
where Saigon, now ** Chi Minh city
is on a map
if you had never fought there
Would you be on the streets of Portland
alone
asking a college kid
who was not alive
when you fought in Southeast Asia
for a cigarette
I wonder where are you going?
How many people did you ****
how many are you sorry
for killing?
and then I realize I really don't want to know.
Mar 19, 2012
Mar 19, 2012 at 12:43 AM UTC
∙∙∙◦◦•◎•◦◦∙∙∙
I've never been startled to surprise
seeing a man riding a six-wheel bicycle on my side
gazing up his smile in full plain sight
so subtle like pinwheels on summer breeze.
Cheese! says the lens-man from southeast
a harmonious melody led me round and round
till horses jump out of the merry-go-round
so as teacups swirling with no succulent tea
but are found to be couples squirming in obscurity.
Surprised! that no one tend to flee
for nights fright of lustful fantasies
covered their state of subtle ease.
Oh Fun, Fun, Fun, when there seems to be no sun
and I felt heedless to ponder
the fact that I endlessly Run, Run, Run
in far out yonder
then oops! ouch!
I howled like thunder.
Deluded, how I fell on the ground
when music suddenly lost it sound
colors I've knew were out of bound
and haze of somnolence was all I found.
Where could I be?
Surprise!
He shrieked
Who could it be?
Unexpectedly he's someone I could not see!
yet only I can hear.
A nowhere man whom greeted with sigh
though I've never seen him in beacon's of light
for he always knows how to welter my sight
his eerie voice orchestrates the eventide
shocked me with so much surprise.
for his eyes lilt like fireflies.
He given me a euphony, took away the agony
and hid me somewhere I can't even grasp
how many he had taken away to his untrodden land
to turn me as one of them, his very own nowhere man.
May 24, 2017
May 24, 2017 at 10:27 AM UTC
I am a Harbor
Moss-covered barnacles
govern my legs, and my back
is drenched in fog.
My wooden walkways creak,
and the wind makes me
groan with loneliness;
but life stirs underneath,
in waves.
Ships arrive at the worst hour,
full of regrets and suspicions,
and aches and envies,
and troubles and fears.
I welcome angry sailors,
the worst of all mankind,
to drink at my tavern,
and dangle their feet
off my docks, and
stare at the sea.
They look
east by southeast, north by northwest,
to home, where only
memories
return.
Some men are bustling airports;
they welcome millions a day,
and millions a night,
see them off to other skies
and do it over again.
But I am a jealous Harbor.
I keep my vessels with me forever.
I guard them with an icy peace.
And relish in the slap of the sea.
And bathe in the salt of the wind.
Feb 17, 2018
Feb 17, 2018 at 8:30 PM UTC
THEY have taken the ball of earth
and made it a little thing.
They were held to the land and horses;
they were held to the little seas.
They have changed and shaped and welded;
they have broken the old tools and made
new ones; they are ranging the white
scarves of cloudland; they are bumping
the sunken bells of the Carthaginians
and Phœnicians:
they are handling
the strongest sea
as a thing to be handled.
The earth was a call that mocked;
it is belted with wires and meshed with
steel; from Pittsburg to Vladivostok is
an iron ride on a moving house; from
Jerusalem to Tokyo is a reckoned span;
and they talk at night in the storm and
salt, the wind and the war.
They have counted the miles to the Sun
and Canopus; they have weighed a small
blue star that comes in the southeast
corner of the sky on a foretold errand.
We shall search the sea again.
We shall search the stars again.
There are no bars across the way.
There is no end to the plan and the clue,
the hunt and the thirst.
The motors are drumming, the leather leggings
and the leather coats wait:
Under the sea
and out to the stars
we go.
2.3k
Southeast, and storm, and every weathervane
shivers and moans upon its dripping pin,
ragged on chimneys the cloud whips, the rain
howls at the flues and windows to get in,
the golden rooster claps his golden wings
and from the Baptist Chapel shrieks no more,
the golden arrow in the southeast sings
and hears on the roof the Atlantic Ocean roar.
Waves among wires, sea scudding over poles,
down every alley the magnificence of rain,
dead gutters live once more, the deep manholes
hollow in triumph a passage to the main.
Umbrellas, and in the Gardens one old man
hurries away along a dancing path,
listens to music on a watering-can,
observes among the tulips the sudden wrath,
pale willows thrashing to the needled lake,
and dinghies filled with water; while the sky
smashes the lilacs, swoops to shake and break,
till shattered branches shriek and railings cry.
Speak, Hatteras, your language of the sea:
scour with kelp and spindrift the stale street:
that man in terror may learn once more to be
child of that hour when rock and ocean meet.
2.2k
Lofted over the Cedar murky
waters the color of coffee flow implacable
immutable towards the Southeast horizon
while Pleiades and Orion hunt above tenacious
juniper fingers driven into crags
boreal bonsai stands everlasting
in time
for me to fly this roost
Mar 9, 2010
Mar 9, 2010 at 2:49 PM UTC
We felt as if we’d been born in the desert
Passing shoelace factory prostitutes
Veering memories of Crab Nebula up-skirts
& Slowly obtained convoluted attitudes
“(In our sleep) We let the lizards lick our teeth”:
The grackle chatter from Four Hand Weaver
Met the ears of Guest, who’d arrived in Portsmeth
Riding on deep banjo drones from within the ether
What else can words be but propellants?
They are TLC to mad minds of the 90’s
Coaxing the Guest out of hell with mad chants
& we, the kids, following blindly
“He tried to get me to turn off the electricity
Chanting Southeast Asian Countries with Four Hands
Somehow part of an insane Sun/Moon allegory”
Cries Morgie Saturday morning &
We saw a vision: the Guest up in a crescent
Cast down from the sky and into the sea
Cascading over into a flooding depressant
& cut open the fat man who whispered of banshees
As his steaming intestines float down by the riverside
The boys were passing jolly jokes & joints
“They’ll never figure out how to catch a bride
When they’ve forgotten how to find the celestial point!”
Screeched the Guest with his candle strap
Attached to his banjofrigerator filled with Game Fuel
“It’s in my veins, it’s in my blood like a death cap!”
No longer just a Kentucky Gentleman covered in drool
All in all, a teacher, a preacher, a joke
A gravel eater, unlike the lizards underground
“I don’t eat dirt! That’s a lie I’d never invoke
Lizards eat dirt & I ain’t like that crowd!”
Men are lizards & lizards are men
“& I ain’t a lizard no way, no how!
That’s the truest fact there ever has been
Aside from something being seriously wrong with me"
Mar 18, 2013
Mar 18, 2013 at 10:23 AM UTC
Rattan letter rack stuffed
with hundreds of coupons
like requests to the Gods
sits under shrine
called the spice rack.
Little bottles
as dusty on outside
as within,
have no aroma left.
This temple's kitchen counter
top is mustard asterisks on
ivory laminate, so reminiscent
of ancient wonder.
These late '60's early '70's
design elements, lacquered
over with grease of yesterday's
din-dins, are only indicative
of where the resident wished
to be.
Now, even India, has lost
authentic texture, alluring space
and line, in these Internet times.
Though he can still smell cardamom,
nutmeg, and cinnamon waft from
Southeast. It is stuck in his mind.
Yet, since time of his dearly
departed's passing, no sandalwood
has been burned and he only
eats corn flakes.
America has changed him so.
Mar 25, 2016
Mar 25, 2016 at 7:38 PM UTC
She'd gone from discharge straight back to the office, dressed in her sweats and intake band. She got into the elevator, fingered lucky seven, and rode the way up stuck in molasses thoughts, in anger and shame.
She was no one's property, The Agency's least of all.
The neon lights over River City's southeast side popped and sparked, dancing gracefully in the array of dull grey derelicts. She watched them exploding through the safety of the glass.
She'd tell Asgar exactly what she thought.
"I don't give a **** about the why, I give a **** about the how. How could you do that to me, man?"
I was doing you a favor.
"No, don't even -- you were doing your ******* self a favor. "
Oh, of course. We all thought you might like to have some teeth, Miriam.
"Don't say my name like that! I'm not your ******* daughter."
Calm down, okay? Please?
"You made a decision about my body that was not yours to make. If I want to be a toothless crone, that's my business. If I want to have one *** and a **** that's my ******* business, Asgar. "
And when it was over, as most do, she rode the way home with her head hung below her shoulders, wondering if the words she'd found to say were too true. She wondered, what some wonder, if her truths were better used when they were cut from the script to defuse inconvenient situations.
When she went inside, Miriam threw her keys and her clothes into a pile by the bedroom door, pulled the band from her wrist and then stepped into the shower. She'd go out. If she truly weren't worth her weight, then she'd throw herself to the city, hoping to trade what was left for ***
And drugs. Drugs, too.
Jul 2, 2017
Jul 2, 2017 at 1:30 AM UTC
Abomunist poetry
in order to be
completely understood
should be eaten…
-except on fast days,
slow days, and
mornings of executions.
Abomunist Goldilocks
eats the 3 bears.
But the porridge gets her
in the end. It is just right.
Abomunists read pictures
Downside
skewed
to their children.
Abomunists sing
south by southeast,
but fly Southwest
through time.
Abomunists adore a vacuum
so they fill it
with Abomunable gifts
like chicken seeds
and rose guts,
and the vacuum fills.
Abomunists abhor a vacuum.
That vacuum said rude things about your mother.
Abomunists have no mothers
and hang around streetcorners
shaking the lights until they go out.
Abomunists are obliged
to change the bulbs once
they die and continue shaking.
Abomunists encourage
police brutality
and are cheeky
motherless ********
Abomunists go
hand in mouth.
Abomunists go
go go go go.
Always go.
Abomunists vote to
abolish
red lights.
Abomunists ride hydrogen
bombs to work.
Abomunists go to
bullet heaven.
Abomunists slay the dragon
only on Tuesday,
but chase him
through the ***** den.
Abomunists lick cold poles.
And pull their tongue
out sometimes.
Abomunists
cry to Billboard
revelations in Coca-Cola
and lingerie.
Abomunists listen
to the bottom 40 hits.
And drink the middle classics.
Abomunists drain
their cups
and never ask for more.
They just take it.
Abomunists scream hoarse
and horse
and pony
and the rattlesnake
guttural hissing
serpentine buzzing
bees. You wouldn’t understand.
Abomunists elect
their drones and
the queen eats all
the honey.
Abomunists run
from office
and hold sway from
cardboard towers.
Abomunists are bad
architects and they
fall from grace
- so to speak.
Nov 14, 2011
Nov 14, 2011 at 8:35 AM UTC
The Little Skiff Slips through the water, following Swamp Trails.
Soft Light of a Bayou Moon in the Mist, on right the splash of Gator Tail
As it hunts in the Moonlight, Twinkle of Neon Blares through the reeds,
From a Swamp bar Southeast of Lake Charles, Fiddle and Wash board,
Scrap , over Sweet Chords of Accordian Tunes drifting in the mist, As a
Patron of the Bar stirs coals on the bonfire, Drunken Guests Cut a Rug
On rolled out linoleum, Et Toi a Night of Bon temp Roulle on the Bayou
Inside the door, for some Cat fish and Red Beans & Rice with a cold brew
The Old Juke Box Plays Aaron Nevilles "If Tear Drops were Diamonds"
As the Band takes a Break, fiddle laying at Bars end Winks in Orange
To the flash of the Beer Sign, Uncle Solacess Raises his glass to the Moon
A high toast to La lune ete Amour de Coure, A Drunken Fight breaks out
Old Family issues, the contenders hugging and laughing over fresh Beers
As I Stumble out the door, just as the Zydeco strikes up I crank up the skiff
As I float into the fog, Bon Temp Roulle under Bayou Pale Moonlight
C'est bien de te voir, A bientot Au Revoir Bonne Nuit et Beau Reves....
.................................................................JMF 10/114
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 10:01 AM UTC
when in the world’s leading democracy
a new president starts his office with
making life more expensive for average home owners
signing orders threatening the health of millions
restricting the publications of researchers
denying global warming
encouraging coal and oil companies
forbidding federal employees to talk to the media
going on fantasy trips about “alternative facts"
to justify his ridiculous lies
blaming the media when asking questions and checking facts
barring leading media companies from press conferences
waffling about his Russian connections
refusing to release his tax returns
ordering to build walls to keep out all those aliens,
like the old Chinese did, to little avail
issuing poorly formulated presidential orders
causing confusion and harm and even deaths
banning even green card holders from entering the country
filling his cabinet with all the alligators from the swamps
he promised to clean during his campaign
people who know how to avoid paying taxes and beating the system
but have no clue how to govern now that they ARE the system
and think they can run the USA with its 350 million citizens
as Trump&Cronies;, USA, Inc.,
like their private family businesses, for profit
courting kings and monarchs & wannabe sultans in the near east
'democratic dictators' in the far southeast
and wannabe czars in russia
but hesitating to confirm ties to old allies
in Europe, NATO, and the Far East
suggesting that having undeclared secret meetings
is quite OK with his campaign team members
his son and son-in-law
[ctd. fron line 2...] it is high time to seriously ask
what concept
if any
of democracy he has in mind
Feb 15, 2017
Feb 15, 2017 at 5:11 PM UTC
At dinner, Zach asks
about our nation's history, wars.
I say We're taking on everyone, one at a time.
First Britain, then Britain again: "He was the surly English pluck, and
there is no tougher or truer, and never was, and never will be."
Next Mexico: "Death is indifferent to what hide he tans; life crushes
men like flies."
The War Between the States: "Well done, Mr. Cromartie. Time now
for rest."
Most of Latin America: "Not only humans longed for liberation. All
ecology groaned for it too. The revolution is also one of lakes,
rivers, trees, animals."
Then Southeast Asia: "The slight bump the mortars make as they kiss
the tube goodbye. Then the furious rain, a fist driving home the
message: Boy, you don't belong here."
Now the Middle East: "A land to be admired like all lands. Harsh
mountains and deserts, indigenous plants and people, adapted
ungulates, carnivorous mammals."
Can't forget the Krauts & Nips: "Then I heard the bomber call me in:
Little Friend, Little Friend, I got two engines on fire. Can you see
me, Little Friend?"
Nor the Commies: "You mixed up farewell to an epoch with the
beginning of a new one. I put this book here for you, who once
lived, so that you should visit us no more."
The original indigenous people say: "In time we'll become prosperous,
or else we'll become martyrs. The force that placed us here cannot
be trusted."
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 6:19 PM UTC
they packed the town into a big box
and shipped it to southeast ohio
they packed bryan adams into a box
and shipped it to southeast asia
they packed the baby into a box
and shipped it to madonna
drawn up with a silver pen
the EPZs jurisdiction
the cease fires declaration
and the stockyards reopen for business
the hundred thousand leaves shrouding
the white house roar
like a crowd, like a nation
a few man's hands
shake that sound
like snake's tails rattling
into a megaphone
the heavy metal band pleads self-defense.
they just play music. that's all they do
they're not protesting
except in a vague way
against everything,
they're not sure what
perhaps the chaotic volume
of their early adolescence
a child bent around a pen
is told to count the lima beans again
he counted too fast
a snarling dragon pulls up
and he rides, concluding
in a sorcerer's castle constructed
of speedy fretwork and overbearing tablature
the card game made us
wizards, frankly, and we enjoyed it
more than being what we were
I throw the dice and the king's head
tumbles with them into a basket
a burmese girl sews the silhouette
of a man performing
a feat not meant for man
into the side of a shoe that will
wing you to heaven if
heaven is as high
as a slam dunk. boys
in a park joust styrofoam swords
a hand is folded
behind the back to signify its heroic
loss in battle. it is regrown momentarily
to dunk a chicken mcnugget.
in another park across town
boys no longer ****
each other for their shoes.
jay z is in a booth with warren buffett
and jerry seinfeld at daniel
they are saving the galaxy
the only one we have to save
which nobody lives in anymore
the forest is off in endor
the snow belongs to hoth
a boy fights a war
in an afghan marketplace
through his television set
in hd and widescreen
it's practically photorealisitic
the guns sound authentic
in 5.1 digital surround
another boy fights the exact same war
he wishes it did not look so real
the internet, our new planet
i shut the computer down
404: I am a file no longer to be found
Feb 8, 2014
Feb 8, 2014 at 1:15 PM UTC
Patience, the most important aspect of spying
They teach that a lot
Some are born with it
Can't be bought
Me, well I've gotten better after all these years
I try to have a book I can read
For it's boredom I fear
Hey, you get to see the world
I've been all around
Got stuck in Southeast Asia
Myanmar still astounds
A culture in contrast
So rich and poor
When it comes to human rights
The world doesn't understand
So here I am in Timbuktu
I'm talking literally
This is the life I have chosen
It works fine for me
My spouse comes along
To help me deal with the insanity
Such as finding good drinking water
Poor pitiful her and me
Aw, but we love it
This life in espionage
I help to save the world
The frequent flyer miles are large
Sep 15, 2017
Sep 15, 2017 at 12:15 PM UTC
I wish to put
this tantrum into submission;
if it is only to let the
opportunity of
touching false love,
and caressing away
false seconds,
seep out.
Finger nails, grown
and ready,
rip at the maché decor
that conceals so much.
Tear and tear,
until another appears.
A dimension so deplorable,
and so painted with enigma,
only to have a sole young girl stand
akimbo.
And if she is of false kin,
then I yearn to embrace her form and
share a frigid veil covered
with some exotic coat of arms.
And if she is hindered inquiry,
I desire to provide her
with imperfect answers.
And if she is mine,
then let her be mine; and
let her plump palms cling to my shoulders.
Let her guide me to a trench
for us to inhabit
and play hide-and-seek
and watch dominoes cascade.
And if she is false cleansing,
then let her not be defiled
by the remnants of a decadent home
that I shed.
Let her hold me tight,
and don’t let her disappear
and prove me mad—
neither north by northwest
nor south by southeast.
I love her so,
my precious Dear.
Don’t prove me mad,
for I do fear,
that I’ll never want to
abandon her here
and return
to that place.
That place: a blend of ailment and spite.
They’ll send me somewhere
full of unwavering light.
I swear by the pacing of her little, fast heart,
she’ll put me right—
even in her stage
of stagnant night.
She’ll kindle my truth
and harden my sync.
Before very long,
I’ll be very well.
My circuits will suffice.
I’ll accept it, then, without
much fight.
Just patch up my hole
and let me alone.
So this little girl,
and her puerile nature, can hone
in and dethrone
my unsound thought
of singing irises.
And we’ll canter and laugh
until her voice goes raspy
and her legs grow weary.
Then I’ll finally cradle
her charming form
if only to let slumber take hold.
Then I’ll say a hapless goodbye
and fulfill the tasks given by
a busy man.
Who hopes that I will, for once, comply.
I have tried to conjure warmth
for learning’s sake.
But she told me that
I didn’t have to, for it is a burden
she is willing to take.
I'll abide by design
and be perfectly polite.
At least,
until tight strands
become a snarl,
and she is left tangled
in fright.
Jan 28, 2012
Jan 28, 2012 at 5:07 PM UTC
*Thank you, thank you for loving me...
for bearing the moments I went past the line...
but mostly, thank you for finding me rudderless in the dark Sea of solitude...
I'm no longer as lost as I used to be...
you're my bearing, the south of the wife I want to return home to,
the north star that sparkles on my mind,the honest East I trust
and the far West carrying the answers to most of my puzzles and questions...
You're the north north East that guides the winds of my heart
and I've started raising the sails again, the masts seem too rotten to survive turbulent Seas
but I'm willing to go against those rough waves and storms
I'm progressively getting rid of my anchors, going far from the shores
for there's more to find in the unchartered waters of your affection,
reason enough to abandon the safety of my harbour and risk again
you're the East-northeast whence cometh the journey birds of completeness
that decorate the vast Ocean of my hitherto desolate soul,
The East-southeast that carries the spate of passion and inspiration
propelling me into this man I have always wanted to be,
the South-southeast to discovering ultimate bliss and peace ,
You're a South-southwest where I found the cure to my bruises
and the West-southwest reflecting the ambient eternity I desire
You're also the West-Northwest of a divine future you and I deserve
You're even the North-Northwest dock where rests
the once wrecked yacht of my bitter past and chaining experience
that you've tirelessly fixed with your endless breathtaking love
you're my bailer and life without you was my tenacious Jailer
you're everything to me without which I'm a totally lost sailor
you speak straight to my heart even if we're a million miles apart
and I doubt anything in this life will ever counter that
for besides being my rudder, you lifted me out of doldrums
you're my ladder,you saved me from the splintering tantrums*
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 1:35 PM UTC
This is how you pull back blue silk curtains. This is how you differentiate colors: cool to warm. Do make haste to cower from the rays of the sun; this is how you blind yourself. Twist until it refuses. This is how you close turquoise suede curtains. Tell your father he has bad taste. This is how you curse the Earth’s rotation. Tie the plaid curtains into a messy knot. Undo it. Here is how you undo it, but this is how it doesn’t work. Look for the bright side; it’s there behind the blinds. Now this is how the messy knot becomes a good knot. Do it. This is how you wish you didn’t do it, so here’s how the knot comes undone.
Take these, and make sure you write this down: Reverse the threshold and head north from the southeast slash west you were once heading. Take a left comma but remember to keep heading north at all times. Take a pause when lost for optimal clarity. This is how you look both ways. Clear your throat. Watch the lights. Remember this order: ascending, crescendo, transverse, descending. Stitch a moment of breath. This is how you count steps. Stop. Maintain the pull of gravity and sway; only the dead is still. Scratch your chin and pull at your hair. Make sure it is done first; the end is worthless if you look as sane as when you started. Watch the lights. This is how you differentiate patterns; life resides within its movement. Green, green, red, green. Ascending, crescendo, transverse descending. This is how you take an educated guess. This is how you end up north from east instead of south, which is nowhere. Here is how you backtrack, but first pull up your socks and admire your mother’s good taste. If you go too far back, come here and ask for the restroom. Look into the dingy mirror, touch the cracked tiles, smell the toxic air, listen to the grunts of your fellow in the unhinged stall, and taste the brown water from the leaky faucet. Replenish your will within the blemished brevity of these actions; try again tomorrow. Never look at your watch.
Go back to your temporary room with the packed curtains you thought were opal bed sheets. Lie down on the used bed, but don’t dwell on the escapades next door. Dream. This is how you reach the land of the weak and this is how you ask for Estomac. Be polite. This is how you do acid: lie down and burn holes through flesh infested skies, rip through muscles and sever the tendons of the atmosphere. Come down. Get up. Crumble to your knees. Close your eyes. This is how you spill your guts. This is how you undo knots. This is how you walk away.
Jan 31, 2015
Jan 31, 2015 at 4:00 PM UTC