Wednesday, May 18, 2016

Mid-May Monsoon-Poems

Morning-

I wake up to see fate grinning in my face
Taunting me with alarms
One of those electronic melodies that jars the lines between the dreams and the sleep and the bed
Destiny smiles seductively
Saying 'now won't you get up and enjoy the day?
'No I won't' I wanna say
But get up I must
How long can a man sleep?
Even one as sleepy as I?
So I do...
For one more morning...
Just for one more day...
But it is a lovely morning
I'm sipping coffee and smoking cigarettes on the porch
Leaning towards the sun's rays
Feeling warm
Almost good
Even thinking
'A woman may give you love'
But...
You can always count on the 'but'
But here I am
Desolate
Listening to Cohen singing from the room
Now more desolate
Feeling down
Wanting to go up
Lost in choices
Lost in decision
Trying to extract some poor sense from this daily rich repetition


Window-Shopping-

The First of May starts drab, wet and gloomy
April sunshine hides
The heavy winds are spent
And the rains take me back in time
Riding a bicycle in Amsterdam
Listening to Leonard Cohen’s Ten New Songs
Beginning with A Thousand Kisses Deep
Riding through the Diamond District
Watching the jewelers through their ornamented windows
Where blood stones glitter
And window-shoppers gasp
At this hopeful intimacy
I bike on
Through canals of swaying houseboats
And those making merry in the waters
One celebrating stillness
And the other cheering buoyancy
I enter the Red Light District
Where women deck neon windows
Sitting on tall stools
Wearing panty-hoses
And thick facial paints
Enticing and inviting a bunch of young lads from England
Who are drunk, horny, fearful and lost
Daring them to come and smear the makeup
I bike down more alleys
Pass by sex-shops and sex-cinemas
Where lonely men come to find strange comfort
Buying salvation at twenty cent's a pop in box-solid booths
Watching yet more plastic women
I bike on
Through parks and squares
Through streets and neighborhoods
And stop by to watch ducks in a pool
And watch the lonesome watch the couples
And watch the couples watch the crowds
And watch the crowds watch those loners
Looking for precious stones
Looking for ornaments
Looking for jewelry
Window-shopping their dreams


Life isn't all it's cracked up to be
And yet we walk on eggshells
Fearful of all the ways an egg can be broken, cooked, and eaten
Scared of the sunny side
Poaching what we can
Looking for a quick lay
And again and again, running away



the desperation with which we wanna appear happy is the real sadness in these pages
now imagine being out of this whistling pressure-cooker
and preparing your meal in silence
almost a whisper
but such quiet is always suspect
loudly rejected
or only ever welcomed as noise
in audible back-ups of
scared-voices
fearful-screams
and loud-self-importance
shouting out 'me, me' me'
in empty cries
streaming down puffed-up cheeks
making a meal of everything
in a bloody kitchen nobody needs to run or own


rain on the rooftops
echoes in the ears
mist in the mountains
clouds in the eyes
glasshouses in the mind
broken shards in the heart


I’m not me
Even if I 'thinks' its me
You’re not you
Even if you 'thinks' you’re you
We’re not we
Even if we 'thinks' we’re we
The spark is brief
Its not the fire
Even if it were
The fire burns out
The thunder is short
Its not the rain
Even if it were
The rains run out of water
And all manners of sound and form go back to the void
Which echoes and mirrors back the silence and the shape
If one can hear or feel the gentle whisper and the great quiet


the old play with the dawn
the young play with the dusk
and when its midnight
lovers play with moonlight
and somewhere somehow
a sage plays with void's spontaneous display


Broken
Beyond the mend and beyond the end
Broken
Beyond the seal and beyond the heal
Broken
With nothing left to keep and nothing left to give
Broken
We go on
Broken
We live on
Broken
We die on
On all that is breaking
And all that is broken


Smokescreen-

Anonymous being comes masked in a fleshy face made up in paints dripping with impermanence
Rejecting flashing fleeting beauty
Roughening up grace
Plucking natural flower
Killing mind-bee
Missing nectar-exchange
Constructing buildings
Keeping out the sun and the moon and the stars
Hiding light
Turning natural gardens of wild meadows into clipped lawns
Poisoning ambrosia
Clocking time
Constricting space
Fearful of the void
Filling it with sand
Disregarding the elements
Hysterical of the spirit
Surprised by decay
Shocked by age
Blind to unchanging face
Deaf to the truth
Muted by plastic
Still hiding behind fleshy masks and masked flesh
Smelling of rot
Perfuming impermanence
Deodorizing change
Applying lipstick solution
Nailcutter service
Seeking nervous refuge in anonymous notoriety and notorious anonymity
Flattening death
Expecting life
Blunting the point
Yearning the edge
Living on the fringe
Desiring centrality
And when it’s about to be over
Confessing frightened bewilderment
Holding onto dear mask
Even to the end
Returning back mask in hand
Living over
Just the same
In black and in white


Unknown-

There’s a mind in my mind that minds and does not mind
But what is this mind the mind does not know
There’s a heart in my heart that hearts and does not heart
But what is this heart the heart does not know
There’s a gut in my gut that guts and does not gut
But what is this gut the gut does not know
There’s a feeling in my feeling that feels and does not feel
But what is this feeling the feeling does not know
There’s an emotion in my emotion that gets emotional and does not get emotional
But what is this emotion the emotion does not know
There’s a perception in my perception that perceives and does not perceive
But what is this perception the perception does not know
So not knowing anything we live
And having known life there is nothing else to know


i came down to the river
to watch it flow


now it gives me back a poem
tells me to take it slow



The earth vibrates
With the resonance
Of cicadas being
Just cicadas


The fall of the rains
Has suddenly quieted
The song of the cicadas
And all is silent
Except for the dropping drum and the rocking rhythm and the wet music
Of the falling rains


Slowly-

The wristwatch smirks
Knowing it’s just a matter of time
Before life runs out
And death gets the upper hand
There’s a merciless purge and a relentless surge in its murderous pace
The bastard speeds up everything and there’s nothing that isn’t a race
The watch on the wrist is a noose
To wear it with delight is to lose
I wanna sleep like a snail
Move like the old chainmail
Walk an inch at the hundredth poke
Willingly carry on my imagined yoke
So I drag my feet to the porch
Where habit waits like a burning fire
Comforting me with cigarettes
Frightening me with smoke
The breath is ash
The lungs must be black
This isn’t self-pity
It’s just tobacco tact
The morning is misty
The mountains are monsoon clad
There’s a freshness to the scene
A vigor the ageing don't have
But it’s still a dream
And every dream is a nightmare
Now I move even more slowly
From the maddening rush of this emotional fare


Misheard-

Mishearing the one great universal sound
I was busy chasing the loud echo
Mishearing miss-calls
And the thousand seductive songs
Mishearing another thousand beguiling sounds
In unison
Miscalling
In one worldly tone
Singing
‘Come and get me! Aren’t you a rock n roller?’
Now if only I’d not misheard and misrecognized this dead echo
We’d be making quiet melody and still music
Beyond all stage
Beyond all audition
Beyond all sounds
And beyond all echoes
Instead of listening to this loud and fickle noise
Playing humdrum
Crackling heads flat with mute echoes
Stillborn
Still mistaken
Still misheard


Moron-

I’d like to imitate the sage
Call the wilderness home
Live without proof
Free of evidence
In elemental frame
I’d like to trust the ground beneath
Walk the void
Fly planets
Blow with the breeze
Fall like the rain
Soak up immaterial space
Subject to cosmic reign
But
I’m a man about town
In barbecued flesh
Boiling bone
Toxic blood
Dished out in scattered veins
And nervous ends
Faithfully discarding the intangible
Substantially scared
Doubting the ground beneath my boots
Hiding my feet
Suspicious of the changing weather
When it droughts I contemplate wet umbrellas
And even when it’s already raining
I miss the rains
And this makes me miss the sage


rainmaker-

almost midnight
the heavens are wringing out the last of the day's rainclouds
the final drops fall
in scattered drips
faint stops
graceful falls
many of them land in the neighbor's garden
others kiss the trees
some of them fall here
landing outside this window
it hastens the quiet
stretches the silence
my chatter, dry with the rain, now cries with wet longing
not for dreams of comfort nor for rainbows nor gold
but just for the rain
and all that it floats, falls and silences


Dreamweaver-

The fine line blurs
Waking up and being up and about seems no more real than last night’s dreams
Seeming reality fails to cope with such a nonlinear trajectory
Haphazard timelines
And events topsy-turvy
Where the dreamer and his dreams play-out a cat and mouse chase of the apparent pursuit of some faint meaning
And the inherent absence of any
Creating the same sense of dreamlike bewilderment
Refusing to shape up
Still dreaming disorderly
Still dreaming rebellious
Where the dream dreams to show you there’re no dreams
In this land
Or in any other
But the dreamer dreams
Recalling back that dream drunk with a dreamlike substance called imagination
And life
That keeps dreaming such dreams during the day
And keeps dreaming such dreams at nights
And all you can do is try and know you’re dreaming
Whether this
Or any other dreams
But that’s not easy
For it takes a certain sleep
To begin dreaming
And to begin dreaming like this
It takes a certain life


The gentle stream that used to flow pale and soft
Has become a dark brown river of rage
Gushing through in all its changing hue
Let’s not name it anymore
And be disappointed again tomorrow
Let's not even color it
Let’s just watch it
And go with that original flow


VAST-

The painter adds color to life
And the writer gives it meaning
One makes it appear vivid
And the other makes it sound lucid
(Both are often extreme)
But people are naive
And people get livid
So the bad ones are belittled
And the good ones gain some fame
(But really it’s the subtle ones who rise above such worldly measurements)
Making it earthy
Make it expansive
(But always just and expressive)
They often suffer poverty, insanity and shame
You can see it in their faces
You can see it in their lives
Never in the limelight
(Always in debt)
They may toil and they may fail
But having accepted the highs and the lows
(Become somehow brave in all its names)


beholden-

so far-
i've yet to see a river flow in the wrong-direction
or a misshapen cloud floating in vertigo in some limited-space
or a bird singing out of tune
or rain falling in hesitation
but i've been-
in the wrong direction
watching shapeless clouds hangout in some cornered-sky
listening to noisy-crows
whining on about uncertain-rainfalls



Ps: YourLustForLifeStartsRightNow!

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