Concerning Your “Love Association”

There is a child in a stroller

to the right of me, blowing

on a whistle, sharply, as

he flaps his hands

 

A bird with broken wings,

screeching through its

tiny beak, while hawks

circle overhead

 

A certain hawk that I

look up to, a phantom

predator which has been dead

for years and yet still flies with the rest

 

The hawks that still live

who desire such vulnerable

birds I deplore, and yet what

should I think about the one long dead?

 

If only this child in his stroller

had talons strong,

so that he could not be

preyed upon

 

If only that dead man

were not a demon

his flight would then

have been graceful

Invitation/Incantation

America, a party that
Never stops

The insolent child

Dripped in acrid yellow
Deliberately

This is preceded
By a yawn

A prophetic jeer
Bored of its
Own excess

This is ridiculous
It says, while carrying
On

“I am not decadent
But I practice
Decadence”

Stumble down
The street
Ask a child
For a light

Passing by pieces
Of dissonance not
Even electronic

“I’m not interested
In the
Interesting things”

Drink your
Shame

Stop being stale

No Association

There are few instances in a day when one can convey.

This city gets turned on by the smell of its own decay.

And referencing nature while only knowing remnants,

of which, are lined up and cut out mathematically, yet imperfectly.

Despite of all the talk about changing the self,

the fluidity lies in the circumstantial.

The monotonous repetition and contradiction,

desiring cold while hot and vice versa.

Left and right thighs twitch back and forth

while the grass around shivers and sways.

Sylvia Plath thought she was the God of grass

and so she had the power to take her own life.

Call it having short sight.

For Mother

Forgive me, if only I’d emulate

The grace that you have carried in your heart.

Abide with me, although you emanate

A modesty and humbleness, apart

I’ve been from Him and you, it’s been too long.

I have tried, and yet I fail to love

At times. The darkness in my mind is wrong.

You know there is some goodness in your dove;

Your child, the mustard seed, small but growing.

The stubborn tree, a nuisance through and through.

Yet you have taught me all about sowing,

To cut the weeds and branches gone askew.

And so I wish to let you know I’ve grown,

Because of you I’ll never be alone.

Lacking Humanity

let the sun

beat down

 

desire fire

on flesh

 

the internal firing range

shooting arrows

shredding insides

especially the mind

 

there is no way

to convey

 

let fire beat

down flesh