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
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
If only that dead man
were not a demon
his flight would then
have been graceful
America, a party that
The insolent child
Dripped in acrid yellow
This is preceded
By a yawn
A prophetic jeer
Bored of its
This is ridiculous
It says, while carrying
“I am not decadent
But I practice
Ask a child
For a light
Passing by pieces
Of dissonance not
“I’m not interested
Stop being stale
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.
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.
let the sun
the internal firing range
especially the mind
there is no way
let fire beat