Somewhere

Somewhere there’s a revolution, I hear,

Somewhere I used to know...

And here, in a darkening dusk,

In an expanse of grass

Turned purple by the silence,

I turn away...

This is life stripped of excesses:

No one else for days,

Voices all digitized,

The constant hum of a world

Churning itself.

I laugh just because

I miss the sound.

And they come

Seeking life;

They turn them away

Not knowing

It is life they bring.

Tell no one this,

I say it here in confidence,

Throw it to the dustbin of words.

There used to be someone

Who wanted to be great

But forgot—

Where was I?

Ah, yes…

(Originally posted on Sep. 17, 2015)

Insistence of Being

And if I disappear, where would I go?

The silence left behind will not be heard

Amidst the noise. How long would it take

For anyone to notice the absence? And

Would it matter? Would any of it matter?

A church bell tolls, water gurgles,

A bird chimes another, as if in peace.

Life thrust upon us, an insistence of being,

An echoless voice in a chamber too full,

Is there any choice besides its negation?

I do not reject you, fellow prisoners,

I reject this, the sentence, the ruthlessness 

Of being, of time, of life, 

Of that essential loneliness that envelops us, 

That wraps us all like a shroud since birth.

(originally posted on May 24, 2017)

Alternatives

Tomorrow, don't wake me up
Nor the day after
You are not mine anymore
And I'm not sure
I like that world

I know I opened the door
So how could I blame you
For walking out
Heart first?

"It ain't exactly easy
But what’s the alternative?
Tread water
For the rest of our days?"

I have known the darkness:
I have looked into the abyss
And seen my name
Written in absence.
So how am I to write it now
In lights?

I have seen the exit signs.
I know other
Alternatives.

(Originally posted on July 11, 2018)

Prison

We made of love a prison
To hold us both
Like we couldn't hold each other

We furnished it well
With all the love
We couldn't show one another

And in it we drowned
In a display of domesticity
Born of our fevered dreams

But we ended up forgetting
Where we started
Or what it was all about

(Originally posted on May 21, 2017 )

Myself to Blame

I only have myself to blame
for you, my victory, my downfall,
my need, my hunger, my flame...

I only have myself to blame,
hoping endlessly, as my mother
waits for my dad, against hope
for you to change,
for you to become
what I want, to be
somebody else...

I only have myself to blame
for this, the burn that is my life,
this lie that I insist on telling,
waiting, against the odds,
for me to become
someone I want...

(Originally posted on May 14, 2013)

On the Prowl

To Foxy

It's the absence—always the absence—that gets us.
A habit lingering long after, a slip of the tongue,
a look in the direction of what remains...

And the night—always the night—mercilessly
weaving ghosts out of shadows, the cold
confrontation of mind facing sleep.

Your stained bed turned a wailing pad,
where your smell lingers we now muffle our cries.
Your bowls soaking in the kitchen sink,
your leash by the door, your food going stale
in the closet, along with half-chewed bones.
We no longer have to sneak out, but
nor is there a bark now to welcome us back.
The only sound is his sobbing,
like a jackhammer to my gut.

The last time I saw you,
after you drew your last breath,
I buried my face in your neck
to take one more breathful of you.
I think of the first time we saw you,
shivering in a cage,
big brown eyes I melted in,
and the way you drooled over
the backseat all the way home.

But I can't think of where you are now,
can't give substance to your absence,
cannot materialize it.
I turn my head, bite my tongue,
stifle a sob, and start cleaning.
And when the night comes again,
when your absence is back out
on the prowl, I'll be here...

(Originally posted on March 22, 2014)

Reasons for Living—or Not

It often begins with the low light of early spring:
the distant sounds of life on a chilly Sunday;
your reflection in a screen, bigger than it needs to be;
a dog nearing the end of her life, turning away
from food like only a dying animal can.
                                                            The last
to surrender is often the sense of the beginning,
that what might have been can still be. Instead
is a rigid sense of awakening, that this is all there is
and will be: a cold counting of assets, tabulating life,
seeing it on the losing end.
                                        And in the silence
connecting all—bathing you with your own thoughts
and the smelly leftovers of yesterday’s dream—
nothing much can be said or done:
not the anger, the last remnant of life;
not sweet abandon—only a persistence
as stubborn and meaningless as everything,
a refusal of the game and all it wills.
                                                      And yet
you remain unable to turn away—
not from fear, but from longing:
the closing of the eyes is often
harder than it appears to be.

(Originally posted on March 16, 2014)

Quartet of Endless Grey

Wipe your foggy breath off the cold bus window;
the snow-covered scape outside is darker than it.
Watch your faint reflection in the streaky glass;
the bus's harsh fluorescent lights do you no favor.

I never thought hunger could grow larger than the body,
but you don't let go of a chance to prove me wrong.
Never did I look so large as I do through your eyes;
nor have I felt so small.

I once said I'd never regret a thing--
I regret it all now, even the regret.

It's done:
no more happy endings,
no more new beginnings,
no more looking forward,
no more then...

It's all been done:
there's no tomorrow here;
there's only an endless now,
not interrupted by night or day--
an endless drone, an endless hum,
an endless pattern of downward eyes and hunched backs,
an endless silence syncopated by the static of the everyday,
an endless fog, an endless grey,
no one to save...

I forgot the taste of skin,
I forgot the smell of hair,
I forgot the feel of anticipation,
I forgot what it was all about...

Last night god killed himself;
he obviously wasn't divine enough.
Pity us men with rolls on our sides,
scars on our necks, and morning breath.
Pity us, mortals,
You, who's never lived...

(Originally posted on February 07, 2013)

Another Storm

Again, like a shot in the arm,
metal piercing the skin,
sharp intake of breath,
and the numbness...
The snow keeps falling
like frozen baby breath,
careless and uncaring,
covering wedding bands
and dog shit alike.

Oh city icy as the skies,
indifferent as only God can be...
Oh city drenched in grey,
draped in cold, drizzling
frost like confetti,
turn your back on me--
for I am blind, I am deaf,
I am mute, I am dead.
I am loss, I'm your heart:
clenched, cynical and cruel.
Turn your back, wilt,
wither, will what you will,
I'm staying, a speck of sand
in your eyes, scratching, cloying,
the only thing left of another storm.

(Originally posted on February 11, 2012)

No Return, No Exchange

Here's my life; take it,
see what you can make of it.
Like a gum that's been chewed
for far too long, it's lost its flavor.
I'm done with it; and I'm afraid
I've made quite the mess of it...
There, see if you can do better.
And let me know; I'm curious.
But I won't hold my breath;
I don't care enough to.

I've waited on sidewalks
where busses don't pass,
and the riders have all fallen asleep.
I've lingered in the fog of old songs
and teenage dreams, and woken up
to find me lurking around
a playground, overgrown
into the swing-set I forgot me in.
This adulthood, I fear, is not for me;
but then again, neither was childhood.
I'm not angry to have come to this world,
but I don't think I'll miss it much.
And to be honest, I don't think
it'll miss me much either...

(Originally posted on February 10, 2012)

Kill

Kill, kill, kill everything.

Kill the light falling on this page
like a false promise of warmth;
kill the news of a world in spiral.

Kill time, cruel time, ruthless time,
endless time, fleeting time, time
laying at your feet like a bored dog.

Kill hope, lazy hope, easy hope, hope peeking
like misguided blossoms in a snow storm.
Kill this, the need to reach out and touch,
say I am here, and you?

Kill that, the urge to call them, to hear them,
to assure them as only you want to be assured.
Kill it, kill it all, kill the want to live again, kill
the want to die, kill the want to be, to become.

Kill it and remain, not a reminder, just
a hollow shell mistaken for what was,
just an answer to a question that has
long ago given up on one.

(Originally posted on February 03, 2012)

Interruptus

There was honking outside,
rare, but reminiscent
of other more vocal towns.

There was an image inside
of what you could see
in such a place.

There were footsteps and barking,
the sounds of my silence;
there was me nodding and moving,
if only for the sake of motion.

There is this never-ending floor
and you somewhere dying -
- are you breathing still?

There is this scar, refusing to heal,
itching like an absence...
If I hold my breath, would you feel it?
If I hold still, would anybody notice?

Somewhere else, something else,
another...
If I leave this unfinished,
would -

(Originally posted on November 21, 2011)

No Escape

A wise mad man once said,
Imagine that you had to do it again,
the same all over again...
But he couldn't, not without
losing it all...
If I were to do it all again,
would I have the courage not to?
Or would I let your dimples fool me
—once more—
with the promise of another end?

But I am no wise man,
I am no brave man,
I am chapped and cracking
like the dashboard of an old car
that has long lost its charm
and is fast running out of utility...

Tomorrow, before I throw it all away
in a fit of forgiveness, I shall take
one more look at the sunshine falling
like a smirk on the pebbled floor,
at the books, stacked and oblivious
to having never been read, to the
traces of life pinned against the walls...
I shall look at all this one more time,
and let regret soak me like a wick,
and like the coward that I am,
I shall only go to sleep
and wake up
to dream it all again...

(Originally posted on February 28, 2012)

Condemned To Be Free

“Liberty! Liberty! Liberty!” they cried.

“Liberty! Liberty! Liberty!” I echoed.

“Our liberty,” they cried.

“My liberty,” I echoed.

“No, ours; not yours.”

“My liberty is yours, and yours is mine.”

“No, you’re not one of us.”

“I thought liberty is universal?”

“Only as long as it doesn’t conflict with ours.”

“And when it does?”

“Then our liberty trumps yours.”

“I thought we’re equal?”

“We made up this equality, so technically we’re more equal.
Besides, you don’t even believe in liberty!”

“But I do.”

“You may, but your religion doesn’t; ours does.”

“I have no religion! And I thought you were secular?”

“We like our churches; aren’t they pretty?”

“But you said: secular, human rights, etc.”

“You poor kid; you believe everything we say?
Why don’t you go back home, back to your people…”

“But I left my people; I live here now!
My clothes are here; my cats are here…”

“Oh, tant pis… Schade… Next!”

Glass

To Troy

Every now and then, you let the curtain drop.
Your hands, grown tired of holding tight
To the ropes, let go. It's alright sometimes
To feel the burn of the rope running hurriedly
Under the weight of what's falling. It's alright
Sometimes to see the emptiness beyond,
to hear the silence, to admit your reticence
And the cold that's taken hold so long ago
It's become inseparable from you.

But your dreams tell a different story still,
Tell of a hunger far deeper than the cold.
Will it as you may, you remain human
Under the glass: thirsty, mad, and yearning.
Will they one day, too, turn colorless as glass?
Colorless, cold--but always--breakable.

(Originally posted on October 3, 2013)

Dzongkha

You say you want to go to Nepal,

or perhaps Peru—

you're always running around in your head

somewhere far away from wherever you are,

always inhabiting where you are not.

And I follow you,

with my eyes if not my feet, 

and listen to the names of distant places

whispered with yearning,

as if you’re trying eternally

to find home again,

or have given up altogether.

And I stay put,

forever hoping 

that if I remain still long enough

I may grow roots again

wherever I am.

Written at an Olfactory Poetry Workshop, inspired by L'Artisan Parfumeur's Dzongkha.

'Stranger In Paradise'

"Take my hand
I'm a stranger in paradise
All lost in a wonderland
A stranger in paradise"
-Tony Bennett, 'Stranger In Paradise'

Here am I in paradise, they said. This is as close as it gets to it on this earth, they said. But someone forgot to mention that I don’t belong in paradise. I breathe my air charred and sticky with sweat. I take my water salty and warm. Even our mountains are shabby and riddled with people. And it’s the people in hell that I miss the most: red-hearted, red-tempered, loud and obnoxious like their laughter.

Here, I take trams all day, going nowhere, always seeking a savior. I reach out my hand only to find it in my pocket. I seek in the frozen faces floating by a little bit of the warmth of hell, but hell has frozen over, leaving me all lost in wonderland.

Here, Prince Charming wears an Armani suit and picks up his “date” in a Porsche Cayenne with an unsuspecting child-seat in the back. The princesses are all trapped in castles up the hill, looking down, missing it all. Looking beyond, dreaming of that hand, pretending it’s not the same one that locked the door this morning. Pretending paradise is still elsewhere, somewhere they may belong to…

A Day like Today

These charades we make
to do and undo each other,
what for?

This life, a blink and then
hereafter.. what for?
...

The sun shines like rain never happened,
the sky is a sarcastic shade of blue,
and the breeze blows so delicately it's almost fake...

Sure, the swans spread their wings for food again,
and the irises are in bloom like winter didn't exist,
a masquerade of life: bold, shimmering and vain...

You'd think no one will die today,
no soul will crack, no one will find
the water inviting for more than a swim...

Life is never crueler than it is on such days,
never more callous, never more slanted;
the shadows are never darker than in sunlight...

It is on a day like today that I want to leave;
give life and the living a slap in the face, deny them
at their most beautiful, most seductive, most invulnerable...

Only when life is smiling shall one stick a spear through its heart,
remind it of its worth, its worthlessness,
its lightness divine...

I.S.O.

I'm a writer in search of a subject,
a patriot in search of a land.
I'm a lover in search of a longing,
an impostor in search of a farce.
I'm a joke in search of a punchline,
and a song in search of a voice.

I'm a poem that's lost its words,
a prophet who's lost his calling.
I'm an actor without lines,
a crime without sin,
hope without faith.

I'm the yearning that fills your heart right before it sinks,
the thought that steals your sleep just as it sets,
and the feeling that lingers from a dream
you didn't want to wake from.

I'm walking in fresh snow just when you thought it was spring,
I'm the meaning that glimmers right before it fades,
and the solitude that possesses you when you realize
it's all going well without you, and it always will.

It Was Me

I only try to kill time
so that it wouldn't kill me.

Here, in the shadow of affluence,
the city waits in a deep ravine
where lives tick by methodically.

Their faces turned, expressionless,
climbing the cold step of a tram,
or shattering on steely waters.

Their throats clear familiar sounds
rendered foreign and hurried
and full of phlegm.

I wait behind curtains
the color of freeze-dried spring;
at some point you'll be back,
closer perhaps, though the distance persists.
It isn't you who's kept it this time--

somewhere over there I linger.
In the flurry of departure, it turns out,
that thing that kept nagging me,
the thing we forgot to pack,
that which stayed behind--

it was me.