No Word About Love


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The clock is chiming in our wombs
Ready for a new world to be born
Time never outlasts our heroism
If only we realized the end could be near

It’s austere to love this world and her music
Too much, I think sometimes I do
Farewell to another lonely year
How had you loved? Who cares what you did!

Time is running with new longings
I feel them in you, in kind
Distance from afar, spooky action noted
Love’s feature-bliss has no casual witnesses

It’s something white hot inside of us
It’s the need to create more than
Software, more than poems
More than playing in the dark

The clock is running out of hands
And my intent is running out of eyes
I don’t have the eyes in this world
To see all the beauty, and participate

Sometimes in a revolution, when the
Activists have all died, what shall we do?
When there’s nobody to read the books we write
No word about love, in such a brutal world

No men to embrace, no women to educate us!
And this moonlight looks for the end of all adoring
But I cannot help myself, I’m foolish in all things
The clock keeps me grounded in absurdity

Never a nihilist, I laugh shyly into the wild
I’m always the honored guest at the feasts
Of the imagination, where I roam freely
But, the partners are sourly missing

I’m holding my own hand in this anonymous playground
Committing blunders for my scanty hope
So long I’d live and work alone
That I might forget all heart and mercy
Or suffer time’s designs with stronger plans.

Afraid of Big Cities


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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.

At The Hinge of All My Days


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If I shouldn’t be alive –
Let others do, what I could not
Let them not save me
Any memorial crumbs

Our stories are all retold
Again and again, like being fast
Asleep and dreaming life
Our lives, they come and go

So quickly, if I should die tomorrow
Perhaps I will have been asked
To go abroad, to some further star –
And there I shall take compact Sunshine

With me, my first well Day in ages
If I shouldn’t be alive –
Let poets rise from every circumstance
Uncertain of themselves, so –

We all cheat ourselves, dropping
Threads of our youthful dreams
We conform to routine lives
If I shouldn’t be alive –

Maybe it is for the best?
To fade into tomorrow with
Rainbows held, like brief recompense.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Winter-Spices-412283366

Such Anniversary as Language


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Many a phrase, I will never say again
How fruitful are the crickets
In the evening, the darkness itself

Speaks a Billion Suns
How lovely, is the Thunder’s tongue
That cannot spell lightning

But forgives the fact
For many choirs of the winds
That dance along the Tide’s tail

Breaking in bright mornings
Along the sleeping shores
Many a phrase, I will never push

With joy, out from my humble mouth
With a hush of English so deep
Romance is fiction, poetry does recall –

How fruitful the silence of the sun
That warms not by sound, but by waves
To spell slower glory would be to die.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Flowers-in-December-VII-412112014

A Beat Poem as a Marvelous Omen


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I’m apt to loaf for news about you
I heard you did Salsa from Singapore
Played the saxophone as a decoy
While translating and interpreting market values
Us poets work bankers’ hours

You know it, with your silk grin of patience, your
Vocabulary that can’t be cataloged
Your words strike me as a saber of the future
Street-smart, like laughter right after supper
Champagne that sparkles, in the world’s most bustling city

I’m apt to not know what to say, once I find you
With your spoken french so far superior to mine
Wearing a dress tailor made for how
We failed at secular life, it wasn’t surprising
That I’m running out of ways to distract myself from
The inevitable dilemma that I can’t stop writing

About my lack of mentors, lovers, heirlooms, legacies, girlfriends
Nothing can compare to the exposure of my dying lips
Of the trinkets of your humanitarian sustenance

I caught myself worshiping today
At the thought of discovering you, losing you, crying
Triumph in-between your surrealism and the non-locality
Of how we know of each other at all
Like a rumor of lost identity hushed in semantics.