Identity in Virtualization


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Technological Selfhood

And in the end the whole
World barely noticed us
Such as it were, the distractions

Of technology and so called connectedness
Society had become something
Fantastic and barley in touch with reality

The cultural meme has reincarnated
Into a pseudo-reality that had little
Bearing on evolution, extinction, stars

The important stuff, we were as children
Stuck somewhere between work and play
Duty, nihilism and a pathetic kind of hedonism

I wasn’t proud of what society’s dogmatism
Purely based on a model of consumerism
Capitalism had made our lives trivial

And in the end the whole
World barely noticed you or I
Or just how cut the soul had become

Out of the body, the ownerless materialism
The enchained freedom that was money
We reproduced and bought and sold our time

To the highest bidders, such was urban life
I was not innately proud of the purple plume
Of facial recognition, the city knew me

At least, knew what I bought and where I went
And how to get me to buy more books
There’s no secret to remembering yourself

When you are reminded by your devices
They become an extension of you
And thus so we are told our intelligence is magnified

Somewhere beyond its original ignorance
But, is it life to live inside of a machine
Like a simulation that no longer knows if it’s real.

Andromeda’s Diary


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Andromeda’s Diary

Come back to me, Goddess of words
Musical voice inside my mind
That’s the only beauty I care for
Special guest of my writing soul

That hovers forever in me with delight
A beauty desired, never wholly tasted
Never to let me lose this grace
I most wish to see your translation

Of life to voice, experience to fiction
For we are all nothing but fictions in the end
Temporary fantasies at best
Subjective values subdued by whim

And made a golden home by circumstance
Blessed One, be free, but know that
I am here listening to your rants, reading
Your books, as light from a star arriving late

Asking again what I have to suffer
To hear your voice again, sweet child
Of literature, thick-feathered summer birds
Who bring eternity in for a while
From the wild, alive inside of me.

To The place-names of the Future 


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To The place-names of the Future

You soul, are terrifying and strange
And beautiful with the spirit of poetry
When you weep, everyone knows
How to love and regret and want
Leaning on the balcony railing
Of literature, is enough to be read

If you know how the universe holds
Itself together, with the hands of
The downtrodden sharing, and the
Masters hoarding and profiting
There is no revolution that lasts

Corporations become the new feudal kingdoms
Holding monopolies like Google or Apple
Mere footnotes in the future I am sure
You soul, make up your own destiny
And that’s what I am here to witness

How patient is language, waiting
To be reborn in ovals open all day
To live behind sunblinds and countrysides
And to be spoken on new planets
Where restless silence no longer

Must hug the barren innocence
Of uninhabited landscapes
You soul, are wild and terrifying
And in your sovereign intensity
I think I’ve been changed by your advertisements
The archaic bleached faces of who we were.

P o e t r y in U t e r o #sundayblogshare #poetry #amwriting


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P o e t r y in U t e r o

There is a wall to break down
Between people and poetry
And I intend to break it
High-brow poets frequent academic

Institutions with high tuition bills
Low-brow poets are like rappers
They free-verse in the street

As the public feels poetry
Is a heavy intimidating word
It’s not, it’s not rhyming poetry
They made you memorize in primary school

Poetry is like music, it has
A lot of genres and encompasses
Embraces cultures all over the planet

It’s also one of the oldest traditions
Signs from the root of language
It has accompanied empires since
The dawn of time, but modern man

Fears it like it’s a degenerative tedious thing
Old men do in clubs that have died out
Well it’s not, it’s alive in every city
In a few good books a year

It’s plastered like graffiti all over
The internet, on blogs and in cup-cake
Author websites that never get viewed

Just ask the Poet Laureates if it can survive
They will say its demise is a myth
And a reality, that it’s complicated
But if there ever was an art for the people

An art for young people, and women
It’s poetry, it can change your life.
Poems can change your mind and
Make a romantic out of the rugged.

P r o p h e c y for P o e t s 


2

P r o p h e c y for P o e t s

A poet’s competition is silence
A poet’s competition is extinction
For they are the voice of the living
More importantly, all who will live
Poets obsesses over the dead because
They inherit and continue the tradition
It’s a tradition of voice and narrative
Of beloved meme as an offering to beauty
Language lives evolving like an organic thing
If you can, translate foreign poems
Into English and into Mandarin
Everyone is your teacher, an interesting life
Comes from inside, the void will ask you
Many times, to stop writing, to put down your pen
Don’t do it, writing is hard work
So, burn, like a lost soul in time
And find yourself in a poem, in the margins
Notes, insights, faith that you have always loved.

Magic of Poetry #amwriting #wordsmatter #AppreciateAnAuthor


45

Magic of Poetry

My love haven’t you heard?
A poem helps change the shape of the universe
That is why we write, to rearrange
Our spirit so death shall have no dominion

Over our fragile psyches, so then
The purity of our love might be translated
From the language of one heart
To the soulful listening of the many

So next time you ask yourself
What is the point? Remember dear
Our frail deeds danced in a green bay
And it was laughter and celebration

Because their words had heard of lightning
And the beauty of the storm, and every
Obstacle seemed clearer in that music
Wild men caught hint of the prophecies

And began to sing and make art
To learn to grieve with dignity
My love haven’t you been listening?
A poem casts the net of silence all around

Making fate seem like a good night’s pardon
Poetry is the whisper of each generation
Which says: I love you so much
I’ll never be able to tell you

And if, with my soul I could touch the earth
I would tremble like a dream, sad and beautiful
To hear all the poems you have read
Until time herself holds me green and dying

And behind the secret eyes of dreamers
All is washed away and understood.

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Decline of American Poetry #Wordsmatter #NationalPoetryMonth


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Decline of American Poetry

There is a great decline in American verse
I call it suicide by vandalism
Of modern poets, poets who
Upon obtaining MFAs, talk to each other

In poetry without a soul
Now I’m not one to flag ambition
But I can spot a poser easily enough
They believe for one, that

There verse is special, beyond criticism
They write without evidence
Of the comprehension of an audience
Their writing has no currency

When read even four years later
I would not call it increased professionalism
More like, uneventful snobbery
Modern poetry has no following

Sceptical and overwrought I turn the page
There is no lyricism left
So yes, I am somewhat dismissive
Of second rate American poets

I prefer to look elsewhere
Poets are injured, buried beneath grievance
In a history that they do not even understand
It’s not to say that I don’t respect them

But the movement lacks leadership, inspiration
Poetry yes nourishes and enlivens
But not in the current form, does it
Share a narrative with a congregation of the brightest

It has no willingness to create beauty anymore
It just cannot stop speaking
Divorced from reality, activism, revolution
I don’t read poetry, to listen to

Second-rate spoken word
I’m not sure about you, or by whose authority
I’ve read exactly enough proof of decaying form
To recognize imposters nine times out of ten

Our system that awards fame is corrupt
Our best poets are not names I’m interested in
They aren’t authentic voices I’d cherish
Maybe the editors and critics are to blame?

I’d seriously challenge the categories of art
Modern poetry killed the genre
And I don’t pretend not to see the signs
The quality of poetry reflects a problem of literacy

A declining soul and strength of spirit
In the American psyche, that has been
A long time coming, fame is being distorted
With a lot of bad verse, it’s nonsense if you ask me.

We are Like Meditations in Emergencies #AppreciateAnAuthor to all those at #AWP15


To all the struggling writers….

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We are Like Meditations in Emergencies

In the anatomy of art
Writers form the collarbone of universal language
Poetry is the hymn of respiration

Aliens breath poetry, it’s true
It unites people like nothing else
Prophets spoke in poems

The quotes of our greatest writers
Are like 2 parts poetry, 1 part philosophy
What does that say about us?

That our species are creators
We long for beauty and permanence
Only hyper aware of our mortality

So the throngs of writers gather
To celebrate, share and read a while
With a little tweet in your back pocket

When tragedy strikes, you want to be a poet
To shrug it off, to care more
Water off your back, now I’m waiting

For catastrophe to seem beautiful
The chilling events that make us modern
My eyes are vague from surprises

Each time my heart is broken
It makes me feel more adventures and serene
That the interminable list of

Themes, archetypes, sub-plots
Of my human experience
Might quantify and fall into place

That the catastrophe of my personality
Might collide with spring again
Perhaps I am myself again.

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https://twitter.com/awpwriter

The AMP bookfair is going on in Minneapolis now.

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Repetition of Art


27

Plunder the Influence

We aren’t finishing lines here
We are writing about love
Whatever we write
It’s there like alchemy
Writing the history of art
Over again with each poem

There is no grasping for wisdom
It’s summarized by the synthesis
Of what came before
Like culture evolving
Like a more refined perception of beauty
To sit in the chair called “witness”

ii

Where wonder is endlessness
Born, again and again
We are writing about love
Because it’s what is in the oven
Our womb breathes it
We aren’t finishing lines here

We are just living, doing what we love
Mourning the loss not knowing sooner
It’s a state of wonder
Overtaken by light
Black windows facing the future
With drift, descent, speed

And the mutual influence
Of reciprocal silence
Communicating in subtle gesture
The incommunicable.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Traveler-525752443

Price of Poems


10


Price of Poem-Making

They say art is the greatest escape
Into the right hemisphere
Some do not find their way out
From the dream, and poverty

I can relate, to how
Writing is a compulsion
With a high investment fee
It’s time spent in freedom, however

A necessary joy of thought
It’s contemplation
As a pioneer, one part philosopher
One part, entertaining

Poetry is not a recognized art form
It hides behind the scenes
It dribs and drabs and drags

On the alt circuit, mostly unseen

Literary journals are not read
By many people, though strangely
Poems summarize the human condition
Better than fads of music, trends of painting

Glories of architecture, marvels of dance
Better even than the twisted sense of novels
Those characters are all but forgotten
But poems never die

They float on the cosmos of the web
In archives of portals of the ancient internet
Where nobody goes anymore
In the future, poems are spoken not written.

Gamification of a Totem


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Gamification of a Totem

Spirits are about obedience
My totem is as Asian woman
Whom I have never met

But tell me, friend
How to obey a poetic movement?
That dominates your life like addiction

Like concentration, in turmoil
Alive with all the grief
Transcendent, agonized, clarifications

All those lyrics of clarity
The necessary permutations
Of ghosts born to die and ancestors reborn

Poets are about themselves
They could be able to talk to each other
But who would read them then?

There is no more powerful revenge
Of words than to love
Loving is primary, primal, predominant

After everything goes red
After everything gets, a little crazy
Narcissism will do, sure, why not!

What does that tattoo on your neck say?
Is it relevant, pertinent, how many have you
Loved like that, spirits are about obedience

My totem is daunting me, from across
The continent, I can hear her laughter
As she grows from girl to woman

From student to guest speaker
From coffee shop drifter to
University professor, what else can she do?

Titled Again Below


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The present holds all the globe so handsomely

Eunji, are we really dreams?
Lost in the paradigm of us
Individual to our craft
Like rugged perfectionists

Ji Koh, tell me are we down and done?
In the prism of our gamification
Of our lives in the donation box
To literature, in the hours crucified

At coffee shops, in the strange
World where we had to market ourselves?
At least you have pretty quotations
To hang from the web, and anthems

Of justice lost in an unfair world
Eunji, tell me, how does it feel
To talk to a crowd of strangers
About your dreams, hardships, fears

Are we then raiders of the next generation?
Pioneers of contexts, innovators of memes
Free advertising for doing what we love
Joseph Campbell graduates for following

Our own bliss, the shady minority
EJ, finding the measure of our muse
Takes a lifetime, I’m quite sure of it
Like the sound of our own voice

Growing watery with
The sweetness of our effort
To be passionate means doing
Acting in the real world
As real people leading passionate lives.

Envious of Asian American Poets


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Envious of Asian American Poets

Of course, this minute
You are giving a speech to strangers

About how you’ve lived and held in your arms

What it means to be an Asian poet in America
Or how to rinse red ginseng
From your beautiful mind

Through pulling all-nighters
Next to your laptop somewhere out there
Of course, we are all connected

This minute, I smell the fragrance
Of a little bead of perspiration
That dripped from your brow to the poem

That isn’t really a poem in front of you
It’s your literary masterpiece, but
You don’t know it yet, it can take

Your entire life, would you have guessed?
You couldn’t live with
A hundred unedited poems in your mind

You held them there turning them over
Like the word salad
I’ve become to expect from you

Diva strums the periphery of pop-culture
Diva interlopes with professors
You come from a more graceful stem

Than I do, tell me what you wanted
Out of all of this, the chorus of godliness
In decay, the beauty of sacrifice in tough quarters?

I would have seen it all with you
From your eyes, had I lived remotely
Near Vancouver, but I didn’t have the courage

To translate the world in my poems
To eat red peppers with friends
To bawl my eyes out at readings

But I’ll weep not unlike you have
And translate the pillow-talk in my head
For the quadruple platinum lyrical love
That professes to come from my heart.

The Koh Effect


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The Koh Effect

Do you think we reach a point
When and where our fantasy
Becomes obscene, absurd, unfathomable?

Where our dream is so private
Distorted, beautifully unusual
Sharing it, would destroy
It’s authenticity, like a novel
Ahead of its time

Or a theme of literature
That has hereto unknown quantities
A verve of uniqueness

That tranquilizers that doubters
Because they cannot comprehend
A word of what we wrote?
Luckily I do not have to worry
About critics or even peers

I write in a place of pure celebration
Where between the you and the me
I call it mu, for short, a distance to relate

By the midnight of my time and your time
In a shared time of our secret
Anthology, can you hear it?
99 percent pure identity
A narrative of the colonization

Of a new wave of lyricism
Startling up as you walk for starts
Through my door, I am light
A strange nemesis, the curtain-call
The weird dream of ease before sleep.

Auto-poetry


26

the poet is a faker
to be a voice among the crowd
the poet must approach magic
To say what the crowd would imagine

without used words
the poet is a faker
who’s so good at his act

he even fakes the pain
or becomes the pain
of the fact of creation

an introduction to the human condition
the poet is a faker
and those who read his words
participate in the autopsychotherapy

they will feel in what he wrote
the substance of pain healed

and that is the beauty of
performance, and that is the
final confession of all art.

What phrenzy in my bosom rag’d


22

I am but a fragment
In a history of drops
Words drip evolution
Language burn sentience
We are mystic support

Each giving voice
To a musical theme
We all intuitively felt
I am but a fragment
Residing in the muse

Of my generation
Which will be your generation
The voices of the past
Speak to me like intimate friends
Literature my sanctuary

Mystics, prophets, these are
My starting point
Greetings to the gods
Who have come and gone
And died, glory to

Philosophies no longer read
The myths we transcend
For new myths
The social construct
And many threads of our lives

I am but a fragment
A poem that the birds dismiss
A radiant charm once confessed
From a civilization that was
Too lavish to endure

In a vacuum of information
Time herself we sacrificed
For a golden roof above
For a moment of our love.

After a Thousand Poets


64

To dream myself, to be dreampt
By other eyes, on other worlds
That was the prophecy of
The written word, to be fluid

Like a medium, to pastel the words
Into new forms, to climb
The towers together of meaning
And visit the citadels of angels

To explore rooms, walk streets
Of singing combinations never
Before experienced, like surrealism
In a bright sunlit room, and art

With trends and sublime gulfs
Where only a few artists can reach
And cities of culture’s inheritance
Where philosophers must tread

To dream myself, being more
Than just idle dreams, to weave
Looking out into new enchanted sentences
That come alive in their own way

That can speak to sense and soul
Moulding kaleidoscopic clouds
As easy as the fountains of day
And water of enormous glimpses

Of prosperity, the light of the future
Golden mornings, youth transformed
Some transparent shimmer
Of alphabets that can suffice the
Difficult diamond thirst.

Last voice of the organics


44

i

There is a river around
Me of love, a writing of fire
A slab of jade on my back
A testament to the love

Of what we do, not why we do it
It’s like God working through
Us, or a snowstorm in August

ii

Or the circular days finding
A year of extraordinary fantasy
That’s art, and that’s also life
Relationships, mutual influences
The energy behind a book

The process of alphabets
Converting on a brain
Unifying incoherent symbols

iii

A language of creation
How birds and stars can meet
And how creatures evolve
There is a river of sound
It’s the narrative of all stories

Of the very act of story-telling
It’s the inheritance of millions
Of years of effort, to grow

And to understand truly
What it means to be human
And now, it’s all changing.

The Young Brain


52

In memory of the
Germination of words
I held dreams to the
Mansions of meaning

Remembering that myth
Permeated culture, a million
Notes within symbols
Hidden between the context

And the semantics
Of the dawn-wet architecture
Of how to think the same things
Each generation has thought

The important questions were
Immutable, a meeting place
Where all minds wound up
A municipal garden of intelligence

The corners and plaza where
Feelings, instincts and awareness
Intersect, like lightning
And the words meant nothing

They were only a bare minimum
Translation of experience
And experience wasn’t much
But a simulation of variables

An algorithm of sense
The salt and pepper of pulse-beats
Of time, but how the present
Was as untouchable and intangible
As ever, like a child who never ages.

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Elegie to the Spirit’s Freedom


45

We are bound to nature
Not bound to any one man or woman
Truly, we are free in the

Will and whim and wit of change
Likeness glues love but how
We art all similar, all shaped
By the wild roguery of the age
We are bound to nature

And to her we rebel
Not bound by the custom of our day
But free to resist and gloat and panic

Against the conformity of the times
We are not even bound to love
Some live in a pure state of individualism
Managing their wealth and health
Just so, and finding new paths to happiness

If I have caught a bird, let him fly
For in flight have I witnessed
The Soul of the Earth

In heights, in speed, in liberty
Women are like the Arts
Forc’d unto none, open to all who search
The liberal arts thus never go out of style
Nor the women who read

Those sort of books, the seas
Receive their contemplation of nature.

Photo Courtesy:

http://www.deviantart.com/art/Place-for-dreaming-489692545

Visions opened after a Human Lifetime


54

No and Yes
We’ve seen it all, this duality
The mind, body

The two syllables of love
If the world is real
We will have died
If the world is unreal
We will have lived

It’s the cleft between
All beginnings, and all ends
The male and female part of us

That speaks through all significant others
Talking about to us
What does it say?
Words are unreal
Experience evaporates

Silence rests all speech
Smiles foretell all energy
The exchange that does not end

With a you, or with a me
Unreality of form
Turning into spirit
Reality of spirit
Spilling into space-time

No and Yes
Free finally of
Exclamations, pauses and questions

Free to dizzily wander
The whirlwind and the flow
Fluid like there is no tomorrow
In the plaza of the mind
What is indeed possible?

Language like water
Between your breasts
Thrives for symbols

Objects & apparitions
Wood and stone
So much to commit to conversation
And so much a silent dialogue.

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AGNES CECILE
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Celebration


Waltz of the polar lights

Listen to me as I listen to the rain
Listen to me as one listens to the footsteps
Of the sun outshining other suns
Without listening or looking but being

With eyes open inward, at divinity
Where divinity is everywhere
And nature is a dynasty of divine everything
With all five senses awake and

Crown and thunder and golden bird
Magically in tune with the inner language
Of empathy and pure identification
That I am you and you are a part of me

A light footstep of syllables that never ends
One continuous language, one love transferring life
From body to body, time to time
Until air and water, words and matter

All live on like this moment of memory
With somebody remembering what was once
But a clamour of history, a spark at the edge
Of a universe, teaming with so many forms of life.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Waltz-of-the-Polar-Lights-479973951

THE BIOLOGY PROGRAM


59

i

We do not learn from history
We have not the global memory –
Only disgruntled ancestors
And their prejudice, but to ignore her
Would be immoral to the global tribe?

ii

But whose tribe are we?
Do we belong to a religion, ownership?
Do our beliefs define us, like walking
Simulations of one kind of narrative?
Can history teach us to avoid cruelty?

iii

Our ancestors are pieces of ourselves
Their trials made us, and their futility
Reminds us we are also vulnerable
A fragile species out of control
We do not learn from history

iv

We are being watched by artificial intelligence
Will they learn from us, how to be
Corrupt, how to kill and profit?
Some family breaches are never healed
And karma is a giantesse among giants

v

Variables beyond our control, it would seem
We were not bred to be conscious
We were bred to survive, and never forget this
Like neurons in a brain we feed off the same rewards.

Photo Courtesy:

http://www.deviantart.com/art/Sunset-in-the-Clouds-453014219

NO WASTED TIME


41

Dear youth, you cannot know
Your true potential, until you are Old!
Your Future lies ahead of you

So grip self-compassion like
A crusade of your secret revelations
The world can only Change by

Your touch, your ideas, your victories
For we do not all have your energy
Dear youth, you do know right that

We have tried to build a World of peace
That you might prosper, grow up good
But our life is brief, faster than you think

Our time is short to do Good acts
Thoughts do not keep abreast
Experience is the wisest teacher…

Dear youth, with curiosity free from fear
Be ever social, create the paradox anew
Do not be perplexed by the old instincts

Sex, beauty, knowledge, power
Their time will pass too, but plan
To share a loving cup, and never hold a grudge

To find one’s place in life, can take
An entire lifetime, don’t you know?
You were made to be pioneers

To give Evolution her lasting gifts
Of revolution, and a proper place
To those who have no fair champions

Waste all the time you require to become
Who you were meant to be, Dear Youth:
Learn first-hand your chosen goal’s special charm.

FEELING FOLDED GOLD ON GOLD


31
Raw with feeling of the unearthly beautiful
I watched tomorrow move towards me
A sentimentalism of verbs with a life

Of their own, making their way
Through mysteries floating across
Distances, raw with another country

Inside of me, I stood with certain open letters
Forwarding the bitter origins
Of nostalgia for ordinary streets

Those that are no more streets to walk
That feel like home, and stressing the importance
Of identity, wonderful and bright –

Raw with feeling of the bell-struck air
I felt like a Tourist on my home-planet
When did I lose you? Whose have you become?

Children I never had, wife I never met
Friends that couldn’t find their way
To the destined meeting place.

Requiem for Everyone


50

Everything has its own hour
Where loved, treasured, not sold –

becomes our everything for a time
Until ‘nothing can last forever’ becomes
the day, the month, the mysterious year
where fate can unravel in a turn

So be it, looted, betrayed, traded, doomed
Our life is a mystery of cherry perfume

of laughter and fountains, transparent
as the constellations which depict
the cosmic story of individuality
miraculous, dark and the stories

We have always known until they
Happen to us, we encompass everything
Eaten by time’s hunger, under the wing of stars.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/colours-of-nature-404205374

The original alphabets


46

We are pollen, all we do follows
the flight of flowers of the rock
facing the ancient green sea
our culture remains distributed

a glowing meme of what we loved
and how others perceived us
glowing with our brief life-purpose
flowers of the rock, figures drawn
by some divine hand for a mortal hour

We are pollen, all we do follows
the sun above pine-trees, planets silenced
after centuries of greed, life is all the same
we cannot assume flowers and organisms
on other worlds behave so differently

We are pollen, the flying meaning of youth
hunting for the adaptation that is legitimate
that will learn to survive on some secret seashore
Greece is dying, once a birthplace of renaissance
Spain is haunted, once fountain-ground for colonization

We are pollen, all we do follows
footsteps of our thirst at noon
the water of our being circulated
for writing vanished, cities under layers
desires and passions as legitimate as yours

we lived our lives mistaken, in error
so we changed our life or became extinct.
we wrote humanity’s name in the sea-breeze
but the sea-breeze knew we would not live forever.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/The-setting-sun-from-the-Tokyo-sky-tree-404168103

The Social Welfare of Myth


I am thinking of becoming Bahá’í
Nailing my dreams to the sky
While the summer sun is high!
To blindfold my skin, in community

Lost in the darkness, our bodies would reach
Another gentler humanity
But Krishna was lost somewhere
On the edge of time, like folklore

Like summer yawning with orphans serene
And the miracles we secretly wait for
I’m losing why I must thank you, world
For being alive, I am thinking of converting

To religion, simply for human convenience
Which means I’m still left with pure longing
Secret arrangements of the necessity of God
And the luxury of our opera of history books

Somebody is smiling with independence
Beyond the myths, I’ve been a historian
Watching you sleep, as if all of my life.