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

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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)

no effort

July 6, 2014

I made no effort to know you,

no attempt to understand,

and believe me, truly-

I used to distractedly skip ahead

whenever your name turned up

in the story.

So ruthless and rude,

so unconcerned,

so satanically undivided –

you were one,

the One

and you knew it,

beyond any wuthering doubt.

I made no effort to like you

and I feared you right away,

haplessly hoping that I could maybe distract,

amuse, extract or break myself away

from that inescapable ploy,

that familiar sufferance,

of knowing for a fact,

of knowing by heart

what stands written on that last page.

I made no effort at all, oh Heathcliff,

it was fatally effortless

and it was sweet,

and painless,

like that quiet Earth

summer rain

June 4, 2014

roaring rapids,

lacerating blades of liquid light

flow freely on my shoulders

slicing my flesh,

licking my bones shiny and white.

Torn up muscles

stretch and contract

in blushing delight

oozing their blues,

ready to fight back

the rain.