Afraid of Big Cities


Screen Shot 04-03-15 at 10.08 AM

Being Eaten by the Big Apple

The big cities can kill you
Like how they can make you poor in a month
It’s unforgiving to move
To a bit city if you are poor

In debt, alone, or any of the above
New York, Toronto, Tokyo
What’s the difference, they swallow
The soul, perhaps we should avoid them

There are too many people
On any given corner to get
Through, to reach your destination
Unless you become one of them

Cold, hardened, not stopping for
Just any homeless man, walking over
Their old guitar, not crying in public
There are days I have no retrospect

I have purposefully forgotten
Some of the Godless situations I’ve lived
It’s for the better I think, I wouldn’t
Want to live with the humiliation

The wide-dilated embarrassment of pupils
And fear it took to communicate abandonment
The insomnia of old wounds rubbing sweat
All over my half-starved body

Everything was a ghost and I’d pray
In my own rituals for God to
Show me a life beyond this
I remember not feeling rationale or sincere

I remember imagining acquaintances
Were friends or people in coffee shops
Were people I could get to know
Adversity does strange things to you.

Bereft of this Life


Screen Shot 04-03-15 at 10.34 AM 002

Bereft of this Life

There is a slant of fate that is cruel
How unbearable the dull numbness
In comparison to the sharp and known

Somehow the lateral events
Does not appease a soul
Connected to the vertical order of the now

Death follows me like a source of solutions
To the inevitable need to
Remember privately, what is important
There is no convenient resolution

To this problem, I am afraid
We are not meant to succeed
In a material world that craves

Always more, profit, fuel, addiction
We consume and they learn to prey
Upon our talents for consumption

If I conduct seppuku (taking my life for honour)
Don’t forgive me, realize
That I wasn’t an ironic spirit
I was too serious and bereft of this life.

Only a Passing Shrine


8

I live with Him – I see his face
Death, the sundown visitor
The look that claims us from the invisible
I’ve seen people die of grief
I’ve felt the enormous conviction
Of hopelessness, going unloved

The Stillness of the Room
When the brain stops being creative
I’ve looked in the eyes of the elderly
Tried to find the light in their eyes
There is an uncertain stumbling buzz
In the way I feel incomplete, in

The notices of feeling alive, intense
Is the lack of beloved visitors
The absence of true friends
Proof that physicians are wrong
About the human spirit, do I have
Permission to recant, permission to forget

That this life is a series of goals
That I learn and am growing
From traveling proceeding?
To Ache is human, it’s not polite
It’s just mortality’s oldest custom
The little toil of Love, on the edges
Of all that I hold dear….

Battered by Words of Sad Gold


24

Often, as I awake in my room
I am the first person holding a candle
To myself, the one that murmurs
In his dreams, weeping

These are the days, I wake up to
Empty fountains, ringing bells
For a world that falters
Nearly as much as I do

My lips taste timid metals
My mouth raw with hunger
To enter the capital of the opposite of indifference
I am sick with solitude

My eyes are lost to the nights
I end up staying home, too late alone
I see another solemn evening pass
There goes my life, it weighs upon me

I am the first and last person, I talk to
Each day, the mouth that cries
No water from these eyes at noon
When the world expects my strength

Summer sheds her petals in soft agonies
It’s only in Spring, I stare and stand before
The large white house, and ponder
The clarity of extinguished things

Like memory, like the angels of the soul
Beneath the slow martyrdom of strain
I spread my heart thin in massive words
Letters, poems, that don’t amount to much.

Towards a Naked Soul


I collected self-pity

Distilled from common heart-breaks

The Narcissus reminder

 

That we transmit pain

With cowardly eyes

Believe me it’s not

 

Anything but my stupidity

The poetical potential to learn how to hate

From foundations of so much love

 

I collected melancholy

Like a common child of love

My thirst for ambiguity

 

A gourmet prerogative

Feeling is a the great gamble

For sensitive types like me