elusive

May 6, 2016

there’s warmth
somewhere in the air
and in the midst of some sort of drunkness
there’s life
somewhere in the air

some kind of light that soaks in darkness

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sarcophagus

April 26, 2016

it went up in smoke
but no one saw a thing,
or heard the noise,
or felt the trepidation,
but the traces of it grew,
and grew,
steadily trapping our hands
and feet, and heartbeats
in thick layers of unforgetfulness,
to be buried only
by time

wordings

April 26, 2016

No music withinings
O, Flewther I flame
above and belowings,
please wilden the tame

No music withings
No chord to impress
so wait for the willings,
your stutters confess.

No music withings
and words to undress,
let sing inner thrillings
those breezings that press

barbed wire

January 28, 2016

seal me in, shy alibi,
my bag,
a subtle strategy,
so casually left,
on the seat next to me,
– my gaze out the window,
away from your stare,
to tell you straight on:
there’s nothing to share.

Notice those headphones
and please carry on,
I’m not unaware
with my gaze on that phone.

Barbed wire around us,
invisible walls,
the membrane has thickened
on our old lonesome souls.

****

October 8, 2015

half of us are waiting for miracles

half of miracles are waiting for us

Himalayas

October 28, 2014

shrapnel floating in tar:

your voice reciting the truths

that came back positive.

cough medicine for hoarse throats:

my pharmaceutical tongue,

sugarcoating the lenient lies

we’d always take under our wings,

like strays.

—–

Our promised land, the cure

was right here all along,

in this mountain-top laboratory,

with its white coats

and dispassionate diagnoses.

you were never quite as medical

never quite as mystical,

sleek and subduing,

and I was never quite as white

and unabated.

—–

We’ve built our home,

a sanatorium,

in the emptied skull,

of the seventh head

of the Himalayas,

and it’s turning our hearts

to surgeons

operating on themselves,

experimentally,

with no gloves on

and no anesthetic

—–

Flight_over_himalaya_annotated

thistle

September 11, 2014

The thistle

is not a pretty flower,

the thistle’s just a weed,

a thorny,

wretched,

lovely

Weed.

The thistle is no lily,

no one ever sows its seed,

the thistle’s awkward flower

is just a foul-smelling

noble

Weed.

Thistles

despise gardens,

and they never bloom in pots,

the thistle’s graceless flower

is just a freedom-loving

Weed

mystery

July 29, 2014

‘Mystery seems so uncommon

in the electronic age’

says the New Yorker

on its electronic page

one things’s for sure:

it can’t be dead:

 it dwells in every monster

from under every bed

run

July 13, 2014

the disembodiment of speed
the raw hallucination,
electric dazzle, conscious dream
a sweaty excavation
in pure awareness, liquid stream

it’s now, it’s time to run

run –

run like the rain,
distill through vapor,
charge through mud,
just dart ahead –
ignore the thud,
swallow the thunder,
turn into fire
the dirt you thread,
because if it’s only born for plunder,
then it is already dead.

run –
and when you learn to run indeed
with your own body at your feet
there’s nothing more to ask
than speed.

*

July 7, 2014

God
Made the apple tree
Behind the Angels’ back.
Him, in His infinite sense of humor –
secretly lobbying
For History
To begin.

In those prebiblical times
He must have only trusted Eve
(to bite first)