The Wheel

The wheel turns with a whirr, delivering
Incarnate souls to places and purposes,
Far beyond the familiar flowerbeds, sometimes;
And just across the 10-step turn at others.

To move, the wheel turns, brother to the cigarette,
Moving mornings by smoky embers, horizontal,
Precarious in its defiance of the early breeze,
High and perched on ebonized lips.

The rides are quick, leaving the blood
Adrenalin-spiked and high,
Just before the final crash that ends it all,
The turning of the wheel and fetal buds.

31 Outlets

A night of toil,
Not a measure of repose had;
Was with others in the same coil,
We all, when done, shall be glad.

The sun has broken.

Eyes, burnt coals, flicker.

My face set beaming,
For soon faces now shall part
To meet with heart smiles
From faces all night waiting.

Pinstripe

Why do parents wish for their kids to be supervisors,
managers, vice-presidents, presidents, or CEOs
of large and looming corporations, when in the womb,
the only light that bathed the baby was from mom's
sun, moon, and all the heavenly host in one?
When as a tumbling toddler every stark crimson
crack of the skin met with doting hands clasping
the healing balm? When every wise word drawn and laid
at the feet of the renegade teen came only from
hearts thorn-riddled? And now this death wish.

The Leaves Fall

The leaves fall in a wind cradle


Lulled by the lullaby of autumn lips,


Fallen on the arms of a wet earth


Golden, it sleeps.

Dish

Many a man subsist merely on grub,
On earthly herbs sprouted from notions,
Notions of the lovely.
But there are ones with palates forged in the flames,
For whom grub is refuse, whose tastes incline
Towards food of angels, the meat of the holy,
Everyday tasting of beauty
In the silver leaves of the rain.

From a Pale Window

A blue day

gray air

specter from the land of dreams

bidding farewell to you

one gracious host.

Piper Tunes

Piper strums the chords
Making music of the Word
That gets me dancing

The Worm of Habit

I overheard my secret companion worm whisper,
That the fires I kindle to smoke and sear
Serve just to make it sweeter: the taste
Of my nerves on its viral jaws.

In kind, I lay my own rejoinder: you
Shall nibble your last on these eyes
And arms I tear loose from my body, your final
Feasting before hunger lays you to ash.

She and She Says

She has been
Within snake holes,
Within earshot of tales
Of lust and love,
Tales turned true
In romps of nothing more
Than leaks of abuse
Now character.

She has been
Bruised by them,
Serpents with slithering
Tongues forked to poke
Into her rattling instincts,
Her prisons of pleasure.

Depleted she climbs out,
Squinting pits for eyes,
The shouts of the sun,
Trying with all might
To focus.

The clutter cleared, the smoke
Blown, field of sight eased,
What does she see?
A familiar face, a common friend,
A childhood star, nothing barred
But the same slit below.

She says love,
And she says love.

Cool Breeze

Alone at home, the family's gone to the high hills;
Hills of pineapples flanked by crowns of green;
Where the lake adopted a volcano, itself a child;
Where the horses neigh bucks for back-rides and
cow meat and marrow fetch for less than the lowlands.
There the coffee is pungently fresh as if a spigot
plunged poured brew straight from tree to tongue;
Where fruit stands lined up on street shoulders pander
the rainbow and all sorts of sweet things;
Where the cool breeze everywhere is salve to city skin.

Alone at home, solitude is my high hill and reflection
the blowing breeze.

A Snack

Fine, terse poems are
Freshly-popped O2 ampoules
To an asthma man

Armless Man

I saw an old man
left forearm gone

A worn blue cap
on small shriveled head

Creases make circuits
around glazed eyes

Dry lips curve down
is he a sad man?

What soul's not betrayed
by hope clasped even

by wrinkled armless hands

Polite Games

The bleak peek at passers-by
on a day of legs in hurried business
of eyes here but really in transit

and warm bodies almost laying skin
on skin in a blanket of smoky wind.
She sways her head away almost swiftly

when his eyes, throbbing vines in the tangled climb,
invade her private infections, leery of her own
subconscious revelations in red, as he

slides past secrets poised
like marble musuem pieces
across the subway platform.

The Pink Swan

How high you have flown, you once tatter-feathered
Raptor of the high hills?
How many of the young have you made to pass
Between your slender silken talons?
With your razor eyes, none of the choice meat
Of innocence escaped and willing did they
Partake of your concealed kisses.

Now you are one among the swans, pink in delicate
Plumage, calm in the gentle unfurling of pink,
Purposeful wings. You laugh with the swans
Thinking that you are one of them; the sight
Of young hares at play seem but memories
Of a time when love meant a torn, pulsating
Heart, dripping blood, from enamored prey.

Beyond Hands Up Close

The connoisseurs of art part with cash
For works of hands depicting trees, flowers,
Butterflies, snow-capped mountains over a sea
Of green meadows, birds on the wing, humming
Streams and the splash of brine waves on the shore.

What's more, the poor plant trees and flowers befriending
Butterflies, crossing green meadows on wooden feet up
Snow-capped mountains where frolicsome birds roost and play,
Stopping for a brief splash on musical sreams recollecting
Seasons in the sea and shore.

Yesterday

The dead litter the days that led to today.
Tomorrow today will be lamented as dead
Along with all the stars unplucked,
All the daisies unpicked, and
All that could have breathed
Immortality to yesterday.

Locusts and Wild Honey

To live everyday as an artist, not a pragmatist,
Is to have the world singing in seven days.

Easy Living

Walk the daily walk
As if finishing the strokes
On a masterpiece

They That Wait

Where does a fleeing heart, that has on bruised wings
Been on the run from that which formerly gave it light,
Go when staying is a creeping blackness that begs,
Smiles, bends, and cries with an angel's white face?

Must it pass through creeks where bones ease
The passage of murky streams?

Must it climb the shapely valleys
Embraced by hills of aromatic trees?

Must it desire untimely exile
Behind the pearls of the golden city?

Must it not yet endure seasons more
Until the raven with bread,
Until the flaming messenger,
Comes with a new heart in hand?

Scorned

Fast food was fast joy in the old days.
Greased up lips having kissed up
Swallowed lovers.

When love came with two feet
And talked
And laughed
And had wavy black hair
And eyes that told more

Fast food a past love now aches
And leaves a bad wretched taste
In my kissed-up lips.

Amidst the Temples

Progress has filled the skies
With Babylonian shrines,
Temples where kids after earning
Robes go to worship; esteemed,
When one is welcomed in their ranks,
By priests in suits
Riding well-oiled carriages.

The acolytes want nothing
Than to be priests;
To live
In the same mini-temples,
Driving the same carriages;
To wear
The finer gold-embroidered robes,
Stabbing sacrifical lambs;
To this,
In devout worship, applying themselves,
Day-in day-out.

Some will live out their days never
Attaining priesthood, all the while scorning
Servitude and peers, former slaves who,
By faithful worship and more cunning,
Have gone on to shedding blood.
A smile of fortune if any of these
Live out a ripe old age.

Out on the temple courtyard I look up at the skies,
The sight of green-spirited trees in the wind
Fade temples to gray.

Worlds

Every night I vow a good book downed.
At least a few pages of one.
Most of the time I end up behind
Something black, a cyclops with glowing
Glaring eyes that let me peek into worlds.

Tonight is no exception, and my fingers
Tap into worlds hoping to return
To mine having given and taken, of
The same token, what from my world would
Prove to be otherworldly in another.

But one more eye on the wall reminds me
That worlds are best left discovered
After a good sack-hittin'.

On That Day

How to teach the Nile Crocodile
To look but not touch
The buffet of horns and hooves
Making a ruckus over its leather head,
In a parade of sumptuous ignorance,
Is Mohammed wetting the Wailing Wall,
With tears, kisses, and prostrations
Minus a strap-on.

Alienation

Must the easy culprit be
Blood sugar on a low
When even the unflinching
Gaze of a jovial sun
Is as overcast
As doubled-up midnight
Under a sneering moon,
Spent swept by the foam
And fuming of the monsoon
Months in a merry day
Of an otherwise humdrum June?

Michelangelo tells me
Take the hand.

Night Traps

After a night of tinkering with steel
Traps, more bone exposed and mutilation
Bare-faced, rising to a rainy morning
With the scent of spiced earth permeating
My head is a sorry welcome to more
Sleep. Barring the second hot cup, the gray-
Blue sky and dim room, with furtive fingers,
Bid come, when what I need is a keener
Head party to the acrobatics and
Play of sly rain and flesh-wrenching steel traps.

True Coffee

Coffee never is
If Baraco it is not
Always if it is

On the Waves

A day in the water seems to be every land-dweller's fetish.

Just this morning I was readying myself for nothing but
A day of reading and coffee, making sure the empty-self
Never becomes a breathing being as long as I can help
It, and getting along in my plan, when a reckoning went
A-wrecking.

Pretty soon I had woeful tears pouring from the missus, who
Didn't quite consider my caffeined affair with many books
Something worthy of our anniversary, and counted it
But righteous for me to come along with the family on
The escapade to water.

Never been one to allow pain to fester and grow raw and
Gangrenous, I said my peace, packed my pertinents, kissed my now
Soothed wife, and proceeded to help get things set for the short trip
To water, not neglecting to have along my lone D.H.
Lawrence collection.

My father-in-law took the wheel and made erratic work of
The business of driving as I pored over fluctuations
Of mediocre and quite stellar poetry.

The resort turned out to be a pleasing place. Aviaries
Housing an African Grey and another large green mimic
Proved distracting. Also, a stuffed Barn Owl, perched pretty on a
Column, reminded guests that birds, once dead, may be made a queer
Centerpiece, but not so with them. So after picking pockets,
Payments were made, tickets were snapped off, and we made our way through
Inspection on to our cottage.

The brisk walk over to our designated cranny was a
Parade of eyes that bounced off from one face to another and
Back to mine, with the occasional look back or twice; but I
Was trying to focus on the water and integrity-
Keeping, doing a good job of it another matter.

I took off my casual apparel, revealing pseudo-trunks,
And showered off whatever it is that management thinks is
Showered off pre-dippy then, done with that, jumped off to six-feet.

There were many with the same neurosis, and the pools were packed
With itch-scratchers and fetish-feeders.

But I cared little: I had washed off tears with water.

Back to Mother

A drop of dew falls
From a glistening leaf swayed
Home to the river

Salvation

A sparrow peters out
Angels in a flurry rejoice
One more with a new heart

On My Birthday

I have excused myself from ritual
In order to fortify the walls
Of the universe that swirls
Inside what is my soul.
The week has left its cracks,
Seeping joy in trickles,
Draining away much juice,
And I am gaunt with sour lips.
On this day when the hungry
Blackened earth smiles a wry smile,
For nearer is his claim
To this my consummating body,
I give way to one that will outlast the pulsating sun,
The burly wind that uproots and floods,
Even the jealousy of the cuckold.
I give way to see, to hold
The vessel-filler.

The Fragmented Mind

The fragmented mind rides the luxury
Cruise ship destined for the secret iceberg,
Careless as the blown leaves of the wintry
Days that portend the singing of the dirge,
With no thought of the sublime ideas
That season life like the embalmer's oil,
Dripping warm from the crown down to the toes,
In sweet caress arresting decay's toil.

The fragmented mind rides on to its end,
Passing from death to verdict, unembalmed.

Libation

Milk tea reminds me
Of the delightful mixture,
An uncoerced blend,
Of vintage darkness
Curdled and cuddled by light
That eases into
A smooth concoction,
Perhaps an apt libation
Of blood and water
Like from the One flowed
Free from a pulsing side hole,
His life for the world.

Outshined

The humbling draws near
The just recompense of fate
For a skewed self-view.
I practice the look
That dwells on the leaves below
Dirt softly embraced.
There must be a way
To have the sun on my face
As I am outshined.

Everyday Art

The cycle of light
And night in musical shifts
Is a masterpiece
Daily in auction,
Won mostly not by the rich
But by those with eyes.

The Orphan

A little scruffy kitten scurries across the street
In front of my car as I was about to pass.

It pauses just as I was about to snuff its life
With the weight of rubber and steel. I stop.

I step out on the dark road brightened only by fog lights
To check on this cowering ball of fur and confusion.

It shows no fear and distrust of me as I reach for its nape,
Gently pulling it up, its weight hung on my hand.

I lay it down on the wet grass beside the dark road, somehow
Ensuring it a few more moments of life crying for its mother.

Turning back and heading for the car, I hear it still crying,
Somehow louder, sadder, imploring me to stay, as if I hadn't stopped.

Escape

A walk alone on a hill green with fur,
No trees, no obstructions, just the expanse
Of a smooth blue above and a slight sun
Singing with the satiated wind,
Would be enough to get me back to
The black of buildings, buses, subways,
Smog, fastfood, rude faces, deadlines,
Bosses, rat races, blood pressure,
Bombings, and the news.

Candle

The summer sun sings
Forcing mortals to listen
To mortality

As every yellow
Day welcomes its due applause
From the withering

Eyes of the masses,
Parched and shallow with longing
For the encore rain.

Redefinition

Happy is the man
Who redefines happiness
With each sad beating
Of a heart forlorn
Through joys of another world
From him never torn.

A Seeking Evening

I leave this gray-colored box called the office
On seeking wings.
I will walk on dirty streets, locking eyes
With the deprived and privileged alike,
The thoughts behind the stares a mystery.

My steps will lead me up stairs
That open to various places
--- The bookstore and I feast on poetry
--- The recordbar for music and my music
--- The snackline and the rumbling stops
--- The shuttle that will carry me
Home.

Home is where steps are summed,
Where poems, music, snacks
And carrying are one.

That Musical Day

It must have been September eleventh in Sting's italian castle
When he and a band of virgin-loving bombers let some music
Into the air; some fiery music it was.

The passengers in ecstatic chorus, audible or not
Played no hand in deafening the final verse,
Sang to the motions of the conductor in the cockpit.

Sting, sporting his somber face, adviced the crowd to follow suit,
Playing a notch less livelier than if only he
Made music that musical day.

It will never be played the same way
After that musical day.

Tuning Fork Reverberating

I am at a crossroads, somewhat in turmoil,
Over what path righteous poetry must tread.
The preacherman says the old way,
The dribble and spitpools on the corners
Of his sophist mouth say it is the only way.

The beats, astray, renegades with smoky faces
And dark bats under yellow red-veined eyes,
To music hark the new way,
The way of the fastlane highway,
An orange flaming pile-up.

I've made up my mind to not make it up.
To not be stuck like the sabretooth
Soothed by the tarpit.

I Need To Pray

It is now that I need to pray.

Like the sun that must rise at six;
Or else decimation in the hands
Of vile, blood-drunk vampires.

With what coercion the sun is faithful,
So must I untangle and pray.

Speak forth the word that slays vampires
And I shall pray.

Dog Lover

Not a dog lover?
Probably too practical
Or maybe just dull.

Don't have a Rover?
Stays thrown when leaves you, the ball,
Or not thrown at all.

Pit Happy

That hour and a half with my pitbull,
Skimming streets and corners,
Meeting amused onlookers,
And working my bones,
Afforded me the luxury
Of my thoughts.

Though I smell of my companion,
I'm in no rush to wash.

My blood ran hot,
My lungs expanded on tree air,
Admiring muscles on my pit,
But more than all that
I had the luxury of my thoughts.

Inertia

Taken simply as itself bare,
Today would be a gray-moss rock
Idle beside the thoroughfare
Where't rush hour the red-frenzied flock.
To fritter it away, fading
The hours into rhythmic nothing,
Is the rock on the road rolling,
Later crushed to powdered nothing.

Sovereign

On muted cat-paw feet it descended
On an almost vintage night, darkening
To its light-less conclusion,
Raining granite on porcelain.

Fear was the first visitor,
Not far behind indecision,
And oh did they bicker
For the coveted top position,
Not long before giving way
To a perverse snicker.

Fair Game

A shot slices through the wood.
The deer reels and falls, holed.

Its head will either end
Erect on a wall,
Or its rump bare
Atop the woodman's table.

Fate

The coveted gusts of clean and green-filtered air
That bring with its fairy flight
The brittle fate of the hungry dogs,
Diploma-collared dogs with a penchant
For snarling,
Disorder the fur of
Those whose fur it has not set aright.

The show begins and the ribbon is pinned
On the dog with near perfect fur,
As if all its snarling had made it so,
But the mind of the wind is deep,
Unscrutable,
And the victor does not
Always look the part.

Yet the fall of fur always
Plays by the woosh
And the ribbon is had
Mostly by the unsnarly ones.

Palatable Poetry

Keep it simple.




Simple as




Spaces




And four lines.

The Honorable Life

The old folks taught their children the value of education
And toiled tirelessly for this end,
To provide the best of the world's amassed collection
Of knowledge.

The little ones to the schools were herded, to have their minds
Filled as its form would allow,
With what in the future would to them bestow,
An existence patterned after a template of honor
That men must aspire to.

So years were spent and now has emerged
The man and woman, with laurels and medallions
Signifying triumph and release amidst pain gained,
Ready and equipped for the honorable life.

But what is this, a malfunctioning of perfect design;
Walking the streets paved with the progress of the ages,
Men and women beside themselves, diseased with mental maladies,
Waking up to rusty-hooked anxieties plunged in their half-awake heads;
All for honor, the honorable life.

What is the honorable life?

The lion in the underbrush, scrawny and gaunt,
From days of want of a fresh piece of wildebeest,
Wide-eyed, waiting.

The bird on the branch perched, singing now and again,
For the rain that must soon come that unearths prized worms,
Wide-eyed, waiting.

The weeds that are plucked and thrown in the fire,
Thriving by sun and rain, sprouting from fertile earth,
Wide-eyed, waiting.

What of the varieties of life,
Teeming in various shades in abundance,
Wide-eyed, waiting?

Must they all suffer a nervous disorder
To live an honorable life?