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Thursday, 05 November 2009

  • Alive in the Winter


    The smell of winter seeps in–
    creaks in between the leaves
    long dead on the ground.
    It tickles your nose–
    it trickles down your throat.

    The cold traces
    your skin and grasps
    your bones, gripping
    you in the throes
    of a bodily shiver.

    It reminds you of the perennial routine–
    of the birds, they flee the scene until spring–
    and how the trees resemble skeletons
    or their summer selves.

    But somehow,
    amongst all this silence
    that comes only with
    the death of everything,

    you feel so alive.


Friday, 30 October 2009

  • Already There


    Spend your currency of days
    shifting through shiftless steps–
    shuffling over skips and rifts in sidewalks,
    but you can't deny gravity when
    you cross each chasm–
    the gaps between pressed time.

    Cement is timeless sand
    filtered from your hourglass;
    mortared into place to provide
    a path of chronological spread.
    Every pace lays down
    another space of life.

    And tread you must until your sidewalk ends in dust.



Thursday, 29 October 2009

  • Shores of Time


    If you could float upon the wind-
    drift yourself to dry land-
    you would surely see the shore.
    You would walk through time-
    accumulating moments in every grain of sand-
    covering you in a coat of age
    until the day when you leave footprints no more,

    and you become the scenery.


Sunday, 25 October 2009

  • Runner's High


    Push– momentum–
    and now legs carry you
    with a crescendo–
    a tempo that twists like a gyroscope–
    an impetus – the ache
    to procure enkephalins:

    the thrill that fills you with a smile–
    thus the chase begins.
    If ever such a race there was,
    you'd win.
    To break that ticker tape
    requires the guile
    acquired only after running for miles.

    But to what do you run?
    What will be draped around
    your winner's neck at the podium?
    The gold medal gleams
    for the champion of cowards,
    and now it is your burden–
    a millstone– your gravity times ten.

    It will drag your runner's high
    to the depths of dreams,
    where your pockets are busting seams
    from the stones weighing you down
    to drown in a river

    where currents is the currency,
    and undertow becomes your new
    momentum–
    for the race must always be run.

    Enkephalins– expired and done.



Tuesday, 20 October 2009

  • White Halls


    White halls of brick walls
    with falls not high enough.
    Stairs feel like scissors with
    every sutured step–
    careful caution like a wet floor.

    Watch my life on a foreign film:
    subtitles scroll across buildings–
    displaying discussions and
    skyscraper sentiments
    as actors play puppets
    of dolls on strings–
    portray such alien emotions–
    crystal facet on a diamond ring.
    And somewhere–
    I think I've been here before.

    Punctuate each portion of the night
    with truncated lamp posts–
    marred beacons of my sanity.
    I plan to be a robot– step in time.

    No life force but gravity–
    press me to my bed–
    I'll wake up to another asylum dream.



  • Anxiety


    Tornado of leaves
    in a hollow of trees-
    catch it through periphery.
    Kicked up by biting cold wind-
    gusts that alter what is.

    Ravage the windows-
    press the people as they walk
    slanted and sideways,
    holding hats so they don't blow away.

    Clutch your jacket-
    snug inside your brackets-
    a parenthetical thought
    forms as a bubble inside your head
    as your nerves grow into dread.

    Will the roof remain?
    Or will you wake up under your bed's remains?

Wednesday, 14 October 2009

  • Burning Bridges

    Hunger pangs recall
    A similar empty feeling
    Like that hand print in the perfect snow angel-
    A scar from getting back up-
    A mar that takes away
    From the beauty of the individual-
    But alone- a mark so beautiful-
    A new foundation for an old display.
    But it leaves you wanting-
    Remove the rock from your shoe.

    Desperate attempts to hide the evidence
    Lead to discoveries that enlighten.
    Like the gum underneath the table-
    A hidden mosaical mistake
    That goes unnoticed by cursory eyes.
    Appearances can be deceiving

    As exhaustion weighs upon cognition
    Like an x-ray vest,
    it presses invisibly on the heart,
    Like an insidious hand.
    Head ties heart with an impalpable
    puppet string-
    A pulp of fictitious dreams.
    And weariness turns to weakness
    When the subtle dagger of sleep severs all seams.

    Silent nocturnes drag your consciousness
    Through the scum of the subway-
    Subconscious realm.
    Force the revival of relivings of relic cuts-
    Dwell in the blood before the scab.
    The quagmire preserves the corpses of your otherwise ethereal past,
    And what sinks in your waking skull floats to the top in the bog of sleep-
    Sick buoys like bloated bodies in the wake.

    Time is a sadistic friend
    That no one can refuse.
    But as shadows wax and wane,
    The gnomon measures relief.
    Present only in the pastime of healing.
    A welcome hand in the grip of gravity-
    As reliable a friend as time-
    A ploy to prevent the print in the snow.
    But that which rises must also fall,
    Like the blindfold lended by time.
    With an absence of appearances, none can deceive.
    He let each one down after all.

    Finality tolls like a bell,
    And if you try to deny your signature,
    You forget you signed at conception.
    Then time unwinds the fibers of repair-
    Made from borrowed blindfold moments-

    He makes you march from healed dark and into your unseeing light.

Thursday, 01 October 2009

  • Duality


    Sleep fights your head–
    [through]
    the battle for the holy land. Tic tac toe with zeroes and ones–
    digitalize[d] your analog into a shapeless, shiftless
    smog.  A smile smeared with smoke.

    Halos spike each light, now you
    are
    drifting to the pearly gates.
    Frenetic and incomplete– fractionalized thoughts
    from a fragment of a head.
    The hand forges a deal with the undertaker– fingers crossed behind the back.
    Head fights sleep–

    a[n] interchanging of the universe–
    intersection of a sidewalk dream–
    you're
    lost
    at the cracks.



Wednesday, 30 September 2009

  • Fiddles


    Crickets scream rickets
    with their backwards-bent legs.
    Tell me sweet lies from your violin head:
    sing to me about the weather,
    or black cats running through wind.

    Sing to me– sway–
    lead me astray.

    Dead leaves scratch pavement–
    sidewalk chalk delineates
    cracks that hold nothing back
    but the black in your over-wet eyes.

    A sting so hot it boils
    the broth in your bones–
    skewed from the lies
    I've been hearing each night.


  • Speaking in Tongues


    Pillars of salt stand where you fell.
    A pigment so white it burns crimson and gold,
    reminiscent of chariots that carry the old,
    or Judas Escariot seething–
    breathing so cold.

    Destruction is the antidote–
    don't let it feed–
    apothecary blues–
    never look back at the glue
    that's been chipped and strewn at
    the feet of your halo.

    Sandals cut the flow and feel–
    leaving scars too deep to be real–
    but the bible's been written for the story of an age.
    It glistens with sweat
    from the back breaking guess.

    A burning bush trips you into a fall
    so permanent the skies will unfold
    into terrible reds and beautiful hues
    that embody the hand
    pressing– carving– the clock.

    Illogical pawns take two steps back
    from the hopscotch headboard
    displaying cyanide words–
    the grip– the illusive slip
    of Sinai– melting into an eclipse–
    with no trace of gravity but tire marks.

    The father, the son, and the holy ghost
    left their absence–
    Satan's taken up post.
    The cereal box truth so tasty and new,
    rots the flesh, now shadow-boxers reign.

    A pulmonary stain leaks from the breath of man–
    a virus expelling all that it can–
    breaker box flip-tops–
    soda can news.
    Empty and weak, the pulpit's
    sick reek makes us vomit up blood.

    So winter makes the flower turn in–
    a cold case covers the earth.
    Sending SOS chills– nothing, and worse:

    that artist's smile– threaded in thorns–
    fell less of worth.



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