CAN YOU WRITE ABOUT LOVE?

Death is a preferable subject
For a poet died of writing about love
These diseases, suicides, war, religions

Have to be put into perspective
Why? Because love turns
Literature into a poor resurrection
Of dead poets, it’s better they stayed dead

To be honest, Death teaches us immortality
Reuniting with our parents who
Didn’t have the courage to face
Their psychologically flawed relationships

Worse than unhappy, to be indifferent
I’d prefer to die honestly, though
It just so happens I forget
For the sake of lyrical exercise

What I once considered so important
To summon a single moment I felt
Completely loved, it’s that absence
That makes Death a literal personal subject.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Never-Want-To-Say-Goodbye-467542629

The Roggenbuck Principle

So I have heard you are obsessed with wonder
The predominant thought of your being
Is your Showzen, the arc frequency

Everything sent out returns to the source
You are a human transmission tower
Your channel is your life
Your thoughts attract consequent vibrations

So I have heard you are obsessed
With how to touch the world?
The law of attraction is a creative law
You are speaking or listening to someone

Most of all yourself, your harvest vibration
You emit and perpetuate your experience
The pattern, like a funnel of light
So focus on what you want, very very carefully

The power of your mind is innocent
Like an instrument, it requires executive oversight
So I have heard you are obsessed with success
Mind is your quantum alphabet, calculator, antennae

It’s not a secret, but it eliminates a degree of worry
If you know how to use it, feel it, channel it
Thank God there’s a time delay, choice is temporal
So now, decide what you want to be and think it.

THE DEMANDS OF SOLITUDE

My mind’s wall glows stars
The nightstand of my eternity
Is blushing a feverish pitch
For Cleaning, self and foreigners
And purity behind the doors

I no longer can eat meat
Said the pork to my nose
I awoke to a dream of a Cactus Garden
Where I could learn to abandon
The caution that had ruined my life

We are all prisons to our own light
I wanted to say I was different…
When I asked myself why, a
Pretending, unnoticeable, violent part
Of myself lit up like candy

Realizations like my father in his old age
Taught me how we could finish water
In the silence simply by watching
How life turns out, how unhappiness hinges
Upon the pain that becomes meaning

After this life, I fear I’ll never meet
This world again, the undecided singing
I write because I cannot yet sing well.

INGREDIENTS FOR CHANGING MEMORY

I am not sad anymore; I am the saddest happy person
I am the rooftop of my cheer leading squad
The bread and butter of poetry
With friends coming & going
I can’t keep track of my traditions
That are dying, my shells of laughter
The forms that gave me pleasure
I am not sad anymore; only despairing
Of the same things that no longer
Make me happy, I am a soul excited in time
Not for longing or possession
But for the exceptions and synastries
That keep me alive, young, in joy
The hallways always open for me
Dynasties of love getting me there.

THEY SAY

They say the mother in my world has no pulse
Because to me the World has died
Is already dead, too cruel an existence
They say I am cracked, that I
Know about the place where the light comes in
A commoner of low-class, caste-wise
Shy, definitely not a story-teller
Having barely experienced an ordinary life
I can safely assume to be
Without talents, wealth, backup plans
I am not conceited, nor do I believe
I live in the best country, have been
Socialized into narcotics, minus video games
They say the mother in my world
Wasn’t loved, that the men in her life were cruel
My father was an angry reader, and didn’t
Read for pleasure, never read me.

LOWS BETWEEN MANUSCRIPTS

I have written to the heart in you
Re-wrote it several times
Read it to you while you were sleeping
In whisper, free-form, without rhymes

I have spoken to the silence
That you put under your pillow
The easy dreams of zero heartbreak
In a world of such little gains

I have decided to honestly gift you
Entire poems to remember pain
It’s all backwards since we became artists
At the center of my life, I Forget my own names

I have written to the soul for you
Our soul, the one soul, the truth cannot stop
Just because one voice dies
Our manner of speaking changes

With the times, I’m sick of saying
The same thing, reading the same poem
There’s nobody as sick of themselves as me
Because I wanted an end to language

I become sick of duality
So I have written to the spirit in thee
In exchange, I will opt for a shorter life
One with tragedies that can potentially teach
Poems from obscurity, of absurdity, for posterity.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Writing-Owl-188040299

WHY EVERYONE SHOULD WRITE POETRY

I’m my own utopia
In my Utopia, we would dream awake
Writing poems about each other

Speaking in whispers hushed
I could say out loud
That I felt loved without

Trying to find a measure
Or a reason to be appreciated
In my own utopia
We wouldn’t judge each other

But act as parts of the same exposure
To compassion, we experienced
Through years of living & suffering

In my Utopia, everyone would be artistic
Painting, music, dance would be
As common as speaking
Or conversing over the internet.

photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/utopia-133483723

TRIBES AMONG THE STARS

Love set you going like a pendulum
The instinct to profit from another
Taking your place among the elements
To marry the Earth, magnifying

The fact that we depend upon
Shadows and safety, tribe and nakedness
We no longer think of our mothers
Etched as we are in our own family

One cry, and I stumbled into life
Monogamous, now you try your
Handful of notes, on how to live
Clear vowels of loyalty, expressed

Like a morning song of ‘happily ever after’
Love set you with a distilled mirror
So that you might mature finally
In your own slow kind of way

As all galaxies whiten and swallow
Finally their own red stars
Love set you a morning song for going home.

AFTER EARTH APOCALYPSE

Dead hands of foam lead me to
The stasis that is extinction of human life
Black sweet blood mouthfuls
Of the Cities we built, machines we taught

Like many species we
Drove evolution into oblivion
Becoming Gods of profit
For feeble hours, substanceless blue

Aware of short-term projects
Suicidal, reckless, individualistic
Ritualistically aggressive
Men sought to exploit other men

Women sought to breed and secure genes
It wasn’t the kind of civilization
That I imagined could survive indefinitely
We were the lowest common
Denominator of greed, fit for brief empires

Dead hands of foam lead me to the
Cloning stations, where I will get
A new body, because I’m of the elite
Last in a hierarchy of mortals.

MAN

I shut mine eyes and all the world drops dead
Though gold and silver they never die
Life goes on waltzing with stars yellow and red

Till the dreams run moon-struck
And creation whispers overhead
(I think I made you up inside my head)

Where the oceans rise and forests burn
And planets are corrupted for a few centuries
By Man the destroyer, cities of shame

Where nature hangs her head in civil disobedience
And machines calculate how to
Win back her trust, before it’s too late

I think evolution outperformed God
To make such an arrogant creature as Man.