Tuesday, August 22, 2017

Casualties

I.
The last time little Danna saw
her father was when he promised
dinner together, hours before
the midday murder
—skull lead-cracked
due to possible possession
of crack, his three-wheeled
machinery for a living upturned
by the bend before the bakery—
left nothing for supper
but smoke from candles and flavor
from disenchanted flowers.

II.
Months before the lopsided shootout
angered soldiers marched to the cadence
of keyboards clacking, raising arms
against bullets planted in bags.

Now that a gun is forced upon the grip
of your cold, nondominant hand, Kian
nobody dares to shoot.
Except the shooters.

III.
But the gravest are the living—
demanding imagined barks
from mouths of watchdogs
they’ve beaten,
whose eyes they say are stone,
and behaved pissing
on the lampposts of truth,
when what they needed
were canes and civility.

Thursday, August 17, 2017

Soliloquy of the Sick

Eyes heavy with heat the light hurts
the chest expanding to shortness
of breath,

I raise my hand to touch
hallucination of healthin a
different world, the ache isn't
recurrent.


Phlegm is but another pragmatic
scheme of disposal.

Sweat the symphony of skin,
Sweat the song of substance,
Sweat the supreme shade of
solitude.

You pop a pill and, like the painful
globes that they are, close your
eyes

And dream of her salve-laden
hand.

A Shoutout

Elsewhere, a lady without breasts with intensions
Sharp as Madonna's iconic bra. With her, a pig
In striped dress and a disturbed chameleon.
They are now being sucked in their own pervert pretensions.
And what's this? A shadow, sprawling as the midday sun,
Whose weight is that of God's dead body.
And look, there you are at the tip of my finger, dancing.


(Written sometime in 2009)

when this flower

screams of infidelity
against its petals,
i'll believe it
with the lie
you slipped
under my tongue.


(Written sometime in 2009) 

Tuesday, February 2, 2016

In the Absence of Feet

a cluttered room
a network of highways

cars zooming from one point
to another not reaching

their destinations
an abstract painting
beyond artisan comprehension—


this is the mind looking down
nauseating heights sans
taking the first step up the ladder

this is the mustering of guts
attempting an untimely flight
in the absence of knees, legs, and feet

Tuesday, December 22, 2015

Never Here


Only the song remains.
Not the time it first played
Or the last. Not the silence
It once tried to splinter.

Not even the lines. Your voice
That filled this room
Emptied of chances
Is not here.
Nor the light
That attaches to your skin.

I remember how your shadow
Used to fall

On the floor. On the floor

Where occasionally I find
My head rested while picturing
You tiptoeing the steep summits
Of madness’ nameless hills.

Your hand, I also remember
Your hand. How reassuring it was
On the curvature of my cheek

During days when I doubted
Worth and existence. Your hand,
Sadly, is absent in this scene too.

Because

These things, these things

Closer to dream
than the drum beats,
Were never here.

Tuesday, June 16, 2015

A Strand

Copper crown
half floating upon eyes
longing
descending
from steel steps
drifting to emerge
a strand in the mess of a hair
of a distant population
rushing on concrete,
have me hoping
to pluck you
from such wild tresses
and keep you
as souvenir of yearning
or maybe
wish for the winds
so they may blow you to me
and together we would
descend steps and drift away
and emerge and be whole.
Copper Crown,

I am the comb your heart desires. 
 

Friday, September 26, 2014

Even the Stranger


I could at least be the earless walls.

Or your least favorite room,
the space of it, the bed in it.

The pain reflected on your windowpane,
the comfort and discomfort of mattress
when you think of someone new
or old.

The bulb bent and burning
faintly, hanging by your lampshade
as you drift to a dream—

I could be that too.

Or even the stranger
knocking on your door,
the bearer of news uncertain.

But whenever you peg me
on the clothes line out to dry

—a lone,
plain white shirt—

My fate is fastened:
crumpled and cold,
waiting and wafting in the wind.

Wednesday, June 4, 2014

He Will Give You Flowers

From a stretched car shall come forth
the perfect boy who shall take your hand
on that night you’ll say you’ve finally fallen
in love after swaying and spinning
in a bright dress under the burst of playful lights.

He will kiss your blushed cheek
after this juncture where you
will feel for the first time
you have come into full bloom—
the lady porcelain on posters in your room.

He will give you flowers
prettier that those already hugging your wrist.
You’ll realize after he has not taken
just your shivering hand but also your heart,
which, at that moment, shall shiver too.

And we will shiver as we commit this to vision.

Reality is harder to swallow with you
behind glass clearer than our eyes, face blank,
flesh frozen, lips refusing to let go
of secrets whose dwelling could’ve been our ears.

From the door shall come forth an imperfect boy
who shall take a moment to remember.
He will give you flowers you shall never touch.

(For Nicole)

Tuesday, May 27, 2014

The Most Dangerous House a Drifter Can Stay In

The most dangerous house a drifter can stay in
is his own fragility going beyond flesh.
It’s where silence is the flame
dancing in the fireplace, warming his face;
where mourning dictates the pace,
the movement of things,
the presence of broken clocks,
and fruitless meanderings.                                                 
There is no room
for misstep that can see him
tumbling down the staircase
of reminiscence, hitting his head
against the floor whose planks are memories,
thud making relevant moments
collapse, creating a gaping hole
where there is no room
—no room at all—
for his chest
and its rise
and fall.