>> Thursday, July 31, 2008

I share with you
prosaic summer evenings
cicadas in sycamores
a nostalgia for
the life never led

you, simply by the virtue of
continuing presence, enthrall me
as would any phantasm of life
enrapture a woman slumped
irrevocably into sleep

this may be purgatory
I take it as a long coveted
entirely unexpected reverie
the dream of a dream come true
and at the end of
this dream awaits
not an awakening, but …
an abysmal dream
or an elongated -
Silence, perhaps.


An Aimless Walk

>> Tuesday, July 29, 2008

I'd sauntered these puddle-smeared pavements many times
Imprinting trails of treadmark, had long ceased to see them
Here is both cover and footing where I expect muck
My knees make musical rubs in the cool shearing dirt
Purple dust drifts and a sour raindrop splashes on my nose
The piles of brickbats scattered in the weeds are warm.
Overhead clouds wheel, uttering their musical burrs and rattle
Sunlight shatters like quicksilver against their orotund form
I could be broken, sundered, busted down the middle
Self-ripped from self, a woman pasted back together
Silence presses in and up, empty space on either side
Giving an echoing weighless feeling as if I lack ballast
A mystical element, which might any moment float upward
From the vaporous depths come floating great words,
Muffled sounds, wrapped in cotton, "I would save you
My embrace would settle this tangled contradictory mess
All you need is time and desire, a new day is dawning,"
Hush, for you have an infinite capacity to repeat dull truths
And old lies with all the insistence of self-discovery,
It isn’t the dawn that interests me; but the night…



>> Saturday, July 26, 2008

11 AM:

I’ve had my coffee plus bread plus vodka,
my pulse racing along at a merry clip, alert and shaky
despite all, love kindles, there were worse lives after all
it’s always possible, even in the ashes of our long-over lives
something stirs, a phoenix, bad as it is, lets get fried

I look at him, a preposterous fake house on a fake hill
dredged up from the swamp, the very preposterousness of life,
his callused fingers whispering in my palm, inflames love
we love each other for one night , singing songs
watching wheeling constellations, a perfect encounter,
not to be repeated, like the best last line of beloved hymn,
a graceful arc from the bright, or certain death
in the dark impenetrable mystery of forest.

11 PM :

My descent into sleep is contaminated
controlled by your words, my dreams shaped by them
the waking mind sculpted by artistry of your verses
in their convoluted metaphors and sublime parapets
moves love now, all day and night, tracking down its prey
suddenly leaping upon it with a brutal fury
rolling over, in soft rust-colored pine needles
burying its hungry mouth in the warm body

it requires no purpose or objective in this world
to be justified or desired, where we’ve fallen
amid groggy sated and confused, whispering lullaby words
let the soil below stink, turning into a scarlet muck
let us crawl through it until our mouths and nostrils replete
and we drown in it with our hands on each other’s throats
I no longer resist this love. I relish it.



>> Sunday, July 20, 2008

earmarked for death in this grotesque pandemonium
inept at descrying my way back to the surface
only light which exists here, is that of memory flaring up,
illuminating rough pictures and writings overhead
which you'd painted once, to invoke and placate me

I abide, gazing in wonder
turning first into warmth and recognition
then growing violent or somber, I stumble
scrambling my way along another shaft in this warren
until I see in its glow a mingling of shadow and light
it moves and dances

a miasma, gray and noxious
spreading into every corner of my consciousness
you are wordless, unnamed
when depleted, return
I would step out of these shadows
where in silence I labor my days away
and stand revealed

on sacrificial altar of memories, we’d lay together
fading as if we’d melt with the mist of the forgotten
reviving again with an intensity
my life like these words carry no meaning
whether I live or die, I’d remain
the emblem of your sins……



>> Wednesday, July 16, 2008

Everything about me is a bit of lie
except these eyes, wherein past
and future blur, the knowledge of
an impending crisis remains
they have paid for vanity and ignorance
for contractions, those stinging looks
tender tears, spiritual aspirations
and the lewd desires

narrating their fidelity and misfortunes
would require deeper dredgings,
a darker sense of irony
or perhaps it requires neither gravity
nor complexity, but another person,
who would see in them
a simple four lettered comedy
which is all, it might have been.


spying out of fear and intimidation
a howling lunacy, or human perversity
passion spills in the miniature streams of
ever changing channels, inches deep,
rippled and plaited on gray images
refusing to answer any more of your questions
associations, past, present or life to come
they would not apologize or verify
penetrate their obfuscating rhetoric, they don’t rip
all they carry now is a stone look, and yet
they are two virulent strains of a virus
to which only a few men are immune….


kitsch II

>> Saturday, July 12, 2008

Debris of life
littered with memory
shadows retreating,
deathly calm
blue and green from
depraved thoughts
sinking in darkness,
keeping memoirs of
sunrise close

this is usually
how I write,
out of sudden
wonder or panic
or a fucking
aspect of past,
the world lost forever
and my life
ending sordidly

dedicating myself
into destroying
what’d destroyed me
while making love to
ravenous darkness
is remedial coitus,
a camouflaged
narcissism or

I haven’t
had enough,
the medicine
this writing stinks
just jargon
and craps
the prospect of
an orgasm



>> Saturday, July 5, 2008

I play with the images
you’d set floating in my mind,
every little illusion casting
an identical shadow as we race,
surrendering to the delirium
of which I’d remain in control
knowing it’d be over soon,
that the world would become
frozen again.

I don’t even know what to say
at such moments,
however, you know,
"I love you," you say.
If something has to be said,
what makes more sense?
we tell each other
we are lovers, in love
even while my conviction
that we are on divergent paths
is revived from one conversation
to the next.

I wonder at the letters
I begin to write,
left unfinished
phone calls I break off
dialing before the last digit,
if this isn’t me on the brink
after a brief intermission
as though nothing has changed
and if I am not back
where I’d began?

"take this yearning seriously
you want me," you say
and I rush to see you
in solitude I ask myself
if love is really in question
if it isn’t vulnerability
and embitterness
the neediness to which,
I am attracted?


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