Month: July 2023

My mother balks at West in East,
As if there is no East in West.

As if the arbitrary line
That separates the East from West
Is more unmoving than the land
And sea and those inhuman climes
That put some hundred years between
What people thought this side, that side.

As if unearthing ancient ties
Between the words that cast a light
On culture (that is, stuff of being)
Is just an academic trite.

Like, Wine and Venus – tempting twines
For men in need of tempered minds –
Arise from same Sanskritic root:
The “vêna” or “beloved”. Nice!
Or, Video and Idea –
Two words that make you say, “I see…”
Arise from Sanskrit vision word:
The “vidyā” that is “wisdom”. Gee!

And all she has to say to this?
“I see! They stole our words from us!”

To walk through cobwebbed stale perfume
Of biscuits stood up on their dates,
And hear the ghosted furniture
Complaining to refugee rats.

To strain against the stubbornness
Of flaking bolts on shuttered storms,
Secure in rusted couplings hinged
On termite-eaten memory.

To strum again forgotten strings
In corners of undusted hearts
And watch the whirling Sufi motes
Ascend the grace of filtered dawn.

(After Portia Nelson)

1.
I walk into the local store,
The only one that sells my stuff.
I pick my stuff and say my Hi,
He smiles and prints me out a bill.
The price has gone up yet again.
I show the price on packaging.
He shrugs and says, “It’s up to you.”
I stuff the stuff into my bag.
Then pull it out and shelf it back.
Then push it back into the bag.
Then push the bag on to the shelf.
I walk out empty-handed. Fast.

2.
I walk into the local store,
The only one that sells my stuff.
I pick my stuff and say my Hi,
He smiles and prints me out a bill.
The price has gone up yet again.
I pay it, walk out with my bag.

3.
I walk into the local store,
The only one that sells my stuff.
I pick my stuff and say my Hi,
He smiles and prints me out a bill.
The price has gone up yet again.
I quote the price from yesterday.
He shrugs and says, “It’s up to you.”
I walk out empty-handed. Slow.

4.
I walk into the local store,
The only one that sells my stuff.
I pick my stuff and say my Hi,
He smiles and prints me out a bill.
The price has gone up yet again.
I walk out, hear, “It’s up to you.”

5.
I walk into the local store,
The only one that sells my stuff.
I pick my stuff and say my Hi,
He smiles and prints me out a bill.
The price has gone up yet again.
I empty out my stolen gun,
Erase the CCTV files,
And wake up from my fantasy.

6.
I walk into another store.

We dream to do the things in sleep
That wakefulness prevents us here.
The unsaid cheers, the unshed tears,
The unkept promise, unswept fears.
We dream to start forgiving us
The unforgiving souvenirs
Of deep regrets, their daily threats,
That continue to cost us dear.

I don’t know why I started this.
A mad dog must have bitten me.
A worm inside my brain, for sure.
At least before I started this
I only had wishful regrets.
I saw myself in better light.
As someone who can pull this off
If only he can somehow start.
Now, look at me. I started. Failed.
I see myself in clearer light.
As someone who can’t pull this off.
I could pretend another day
As someone who can pull this off.
But what about tomorrow, hunh?
Again, Reality will knock.
Again, I’ll look inside and weep.
At least, today there’s gratitude.
At least, today I see a spark.
But what about tomorrow, hunh?
Resentments will replace this spark.
I don’t know why I started this.
A mad dog must have bitten me.
A worm inside my brain, for sure.

Uneasiness of questioned love.
Unanswered calls for clarity.
Unmasked emotions motioning
Unmetered immorality.

The puff of pride.
The bluff of sloth.
Enough. Enough.
Enough of wrath.

Unconscionably conscious.
Unmoving. Inarticulate.
Undressed desertions darkening
Unbitten breasts immaculate.

The snuff of dreams.
The stuff of strife.
Enough. Enough.
Enough of life.

The more I read, the less I am.
And that’s a good thing, btw.
The more I am, the more I’m stuck
In guarding that which makes me me.
The less I am, the less I grieve
Ideas that I have to change.
I now am simply consciousness
Rebooting every time I wake
Into evolving memory.
No wonder reading frightens me.

I went to war throughout the hour
‘Cause someone in a minute’s span
Enraged me for something I love.

I went to war throughout the hour
‘Cause someone in a minute’s span
Enraged me for something I love.

I went to war throughout the hour
‘Cause someone in a minute’s span
Enraged me for something I love.

I went to war throughout the hour
‘Cause someone in a minute’s span
Enraged me for something I love.

I went to war throughout the hour
‘Cause someone in a minute’s span
Enraged me for something I love.

I went to war throughout the hour
‘Cause someone in a minute’s span
Enraged me for something I love.

I went to war throughout the hour
‘Cause someone in a minute’s span
Enraged me for something I love.

I went to war throughout the hour
‘Cause someone in a minute’s span
Enraged me for something I love.

I went to war throughout the hour
‘Cause someone in a minute’s span
Enraged me for something I love.

I went to war throughout the hour
‘Cause someone in a minute’s span
Enraged me for something I love.

I went to war throughout the hour
‘Cause someone in a minute’s span
Enraged me for something I love.

I went to war throughout the hour
‘Cause someone in a minute’s span
Enraged me for something I love.

I went to war throughout the hour
‘Cause someone in a minute’s span
Enraged me for something I love.

I went to war throughout the hour
‘Cause someone in a minute’s span
Enraged me for something I love.

I went to war throughout the hour
‘Cause someone in a minute’s span
Enraged me for something I love.

I went to war throughout the hour
‘Cause someone in a minute’s span
Enraged me for something I love.

I went to…write about it, then.

I often end up acting like
I’m center of the universe.
Which isn’t quite inaccurate.
If universe is infinite,
Then every point’s a center, right?
I am, you are, they are, all are.
The centers of the universe.
I blame my English accent, though.
I am the spatial center, but
I think I am the special one.
The one true center. Only one.
The once and future singular.
Forgetting in this cosmic dance,
The center’s simply sitting still.
No fun in being the center, no?

Forgiving, as the word suggests,
Is meant for giving, not for getting.
Don’t forget it’s up to them.

Forgetting, as the word suggests,
Is meant for getting, not for giving.
Just forgive. It’s up to you.