I do not respect my body,
I do not care if you see me
Without clothes, completely naked.
I do not mind if you touch me,
I do not mind if you express
Excitement, disgust, hate or love.

This body is a piece of meat,
Growing old, becoming ugly.
Disrespected by the hands of
A stranger and a relative.

Blue organs,
Blue muscles,
Blue bones.
And within all of this blueness,
The skin and the brain
Became the bluest.
Restless
waves are warring
their blades of steel
splash and churn.

Hello again
Don Quixote
windmills
withering petals.

The rose and thorn
the sweetly scented sting
of breathless beauty
beholding a somber smile.

Anticipation
over tripping hills
near river bends
and crumbling ruins.

And I limp along
a crippled tourist
with eyes for hands
and a wish to lounge
on driftwood and wind.
The tarmac was wet
with the tears of my fathers.
Shades of blood spilled
down their winding paths.

The stories of the past
an early grave walker’s tale.
Lost beneath concrete
some fifty feet below.

The shame and triumph
whitewashed with a
black permanent marker.
I...see it bleeding through.

Darken our shadows
and our ghosts become real.
A different monster
but still just as frightening.

We hide our mistakes
our imperfections reel
with the heady power
to rise again—
in different form.

Pride is a destructive force
when shame forgets
we are humans too.
And we decide we are gods.

“What is...truth?” After all....
I'm as lonely as a station at night.

The december mist and the moon
peaking high over the iron fence
dulled the low volt into weird halo.

But like bats I reap the rewards of night.

The buzz of the crickets rose in crescendo
from the undergrowths around the track
sounding as unreal as the silent platform
abruptly cropping up on nowhere land
doubtful if ever a train would notice it.

Days are dull actings dancing to strings
yielding nothing to let you know you.
I'm in full vision before the lightless mirror
opening up alone but with the many faces
the dreary day ruthlessly hid from me.


The mist was engulfing the iron railings
and when a distant engine whistled
there was no track or platform
but only the lone flyer hung on the moon
like a bat glued to the scent of night.
Bamboo groves sing the symphony of winds
in their crackling I hear my heart
on the red lone summer road.

The village woman passes with her cow
she has no time for poetry
yet her radiance fills me to beg life
more..

O Death be a while away
I've taken root on this land.
On the village road, May 11 2018 2 pm
My waking time
in the narrowest part of the creek
chases spots in the shadows
a streak between bushes
thirsty tongue lapping green opal
cautious cotton on the fallen leaves
the priceless prowler in the morn mist
or in the dusk
the graceful glory
in the hinterland of my heart.
His head kept bumping on my shoulder
and he was not my father
or anyone I knew

he smelled as if a bath was overdue
and slept like wasn't a place better
than the boned briefness of my shoulder.

Breaking down was my brittle patience
needled by his bristled cheek
brushed by his shabby dress,

was for rest the man hard pressed?

Wouldn't I have been nudged by pride
if the head on my shoulder was my father
happy to have him by my side?

as he gets older
does his blurry mind miss
a place where he is not alone

one or any shoulder
for an untimely nap in peace
a quiet stranger to rest upon?
A bus ride in the heat, Mar 15, 2018, 2pm
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