Wednesday, February 26, 2014

Perspective from a Low Place



Smell that grainy asphalt:
bits of black tar on your forehead
while you cry there, lying still
Thick mucus trickles like dammed
streams down to wavering lips, causing 
mini pools around congealed oil

It's a kind of dramatic episode:
an intense, bold climax
of a tragedy 

You know the flow of life 
and how these things work
Still, you feel a loss 

You hear the drone of polished
remarks, spoken to solidify
with good intentions 

He didn't know the one lying 
in that box made of cedar
How could he say those things - nice things?

Imagine if he told the truth?
Would it make you feel better?

An elderly woman mourns,
her blouse spotted with human rain
You see the spots from the ground

Words stop; eulogy complete
Box lowers into earthly orifice
You already miss the love you lost







Monday, February 24, 2014

Untitled

Walking down paths of nothingness,
a blossom springs forth -
new and exciting
in its extravagance

Love:
something new,
something pure;
something obscene
"How can love arise
within a life full
of debauchery?"

To this comment,
to this accusation,
I have no alibi;

My life now moves in
waves of episodes,
expressing intimate details
recently discovered

I am solid in my ignorance;
I am convinced by my fortune














Sunday, February 16, 2014

Spikes of Something Else

Happiness is something new,
something gained in little
bits and pieces in life

Misery is the default position:
it thrives in normal routines,
provoked by human interaction

If I prayed I would pray like this:
please god, wise god,
let me converse with noble people

Yet, here I am:
clicks and clacks of keys,
just a screen and me

I am happy

The sound brings soothing feelings,
rare in this age of popularity:
chased, lost,
gained, recovered

Once the sound stops, I am thrusted,
willfully and inevitably,
into the world of interactions

There, refuge is found
in the thoughts of others,
in times when popularity also mattered:
in times when the clicks and clacks
were unknown scratches on
thinly shaved trees

People thrive on popularity,
pitiful and profound

I yearn for the other thing -
that fleeting happiness