writers

Haunted Houses

I lean with the gravity
Of a dark vortex
Of possessions
Of possessions,
It has opened up
a zone
of

Houses
how are they made
haunted
With dancing the same dance
Washing the same hands,
Hoping the cycle
Would turn into a spiral

Exile

 There was a curve in the road
 Where I left you
 And then I suddenly became aware
 Of the public space floor;
 It was a desolate throat without water,
 It was blackened 
 At the same spot
 Every day
  
 By a man who differed with his left foot
 Or the woman whose trolley car had canines,
 I waited and absorbed the floor
 Like a sad old mop. 
  
 And the limbo before the sunset
 Did not itch the back of a woman
 Sprawled in the irony
 Of white sheets
 On the floor
 Without a mattress
 Without a cushion,
 Waiting to exile the land the next day,
 Sleeping on an airport.
  
 At that time,
 I felt as if I had forgotten to pick up my keys
 I walked as if weeded out 
 Mismatched
 Letting go of rubber bands
 Handbags, violins,
 Wondering to myself
 How odd it was to be alone
 With one’s own mind.
   

On abiding the seasons

I.
I remember the cold in my body
it had arrived
in the middle of a succulent August.

There was daze in the eyes of the sky,
it had blunted its own vision
and melted down the buildings off their roads.

I was in the white room
they had barred the windows
and I could not tell the knock.

There was that life-explaining roar of the wind,
may be,
they did not let me listen.

II.

I remember the cold in my body
in the pit of my heart,
it had arrived
in the middle of a succulent August.

The August was grey
and hinted an October,
but they had opened their obedient mouths
and smelled the plastic lilies.

Their colors were gay,
and not like a hermit’s hut’s kitchen;
they persisted
and those who couldn’t,

they left behind.













August

Image result for mist surreal
Photo by Nick Steinberg

The rowing of the boat,
the wading
through the sounds
in the river of August
when the light percolates with the color of a soft green
as if the trees have come
to lay dead in the water
and there are sounds of night in the afternoon–
the poet’s broth–
is it then life that is at its mud-bed?
heavy and fertile
with sinking

Chink in time

Image result for stage surreal

Notice how
whenever they switch on the mic
and arrest it upon an empty stage,
the absence becomes a vapor
and there remains a small ghost of the
white noise;
the tip of a tongue
for an orator to fall out.

And in turn,
then his tip of tongue
the bow-drawn
the breath before diving
will fall with a break
and release the vociferous of
copper plates, drum sticks
the china of various polished teeth,
ladies with popcorn gait
circus balls, faux fur
blood-thirst, a podium,
the eye of the needle.

the eye of the needle,
the eye of the keyhole,
there is no orator
there is no visitor at the door.







The Gift



Sleeping Beauty painting – Victor Gabriel Gilbert 




The words have already been used before
and what is more for me to say
but
to
go
into
my inventory
and solve a puzzle
of conjuring words that actually look like
the steadfast knot of peace
that has been gift-wrapped upon my monkey-heart.

The gift of happiness
that is always so uncanny,
but never with you.