//Unearthly//

It often happened at dinner
              the whistling, then came the blast
          followed by an expulsion of breath and knowing
      that i have been spared _
but only just

while somewhere, amid cries
               and choking clouds of smokes, there
                       was a scrambling, a barehanded digging
          of pulling out debris, what remained of a sister, a brother
                                                      a grandmother

i wasn't at all surprised
       when father said _
   fate is what is beyond man's control
        in every book, everyone has a chapter, we are
are mere words in pages 

of reincarnated scripts
            we come back again
                                   we are mere characters 
entertaining God
                                       but then I wonder
          
if God was smiling
             or sobbing when our
           breaths was rinsed by death
while we entertain

Queen of Pentacles
 
Forty dollars:
a moderate sum
for front-row seats
to the latest debacle.
 
She bought you with
a couple gin and tonics
and a plate of flesh.
 
Two thousand miles:
a trip you’ll never take
again, because
 
eventually you’d need
to work for love.
 
Your colleague complained 
that you were lazy, left 
tasks for him to do.
 
I can’t clean up
your soiled bathroom,
the moldy shower curtain
hanging upside down to dry,
 
or the fan that 
runs for hours 
to hide all traces of your habits.
 
Your blinds pulled down,
your phone shut off
and never charged.
 
So much I was unwilling
to witness: even as I
rode your bicycle
with its flattened tires
 
and was struck 
by a random motorist
a few blocks from your home.
 
How I wish
I had loved anyone else,
even a stranger in a bar,
 
or someone from the internet
wearing a cowboy hat,
looking for an honest woman.
 
At least I would know
where I stood. But you
slip like rain through crevices,
find the lowest ground,
 
as I swim in 
your leaden puddles,
searching for sky.

 "Rising"

Dirt in my nostrils
blowing it out

yelling

bloody tongue
bloody teeth

stones covering my legs
and aching chest

but I will get up

as the bombs fall
on the cities and countryside

all of us
will get up

rising again and again
to be free!

Hooligans

Dudes boisterous and loud,
Party animals laughing it up,
Parading thru the town streets
Like a bunch of wild hooligans
Downin’ the green beer and
Guzzling loads of Irish nectar,
What most would call whiskey.
‘Tis Patrick the saint’s own day.
Do a jig, tease a fairy.  What?
Where did you get that from?
That’s not the spirit of the day.
Leave the fairies alone before
They talk the wee people into
Punchin’ ya in the gilhoolies or
Wackin’ you in the noggin with
Their leprechaun pots of gold.
That’d make your eyes pop out.
It’d be worse than a hangover.

Amnesiac Memory

It starts with 
Just a trigger
A buzzer, an alarm. 
A shot fired from a practicing gun. 
A dart of aim, 
A gong of cacophony, 
Rattle of screeching steel tyres 
Its skin, tearing apart. 
Fire sparks stretching on the road. 
My voice, a shrill of tongue
Still unheard. 
Hard rain dripping 
Striking the tin roof. 
Any sound is a game here 
Playing with the disturbed politics. 
Sounds metamorphosed to war cries 
Creativity escaping through bullet holes. 
Broken vase of poetry 
Dead flowers of elegy
Decorating the epitaph 
Of silenced sound of amnesiac memory. 
Is it also easy to forget war? 

Wretched

Deeper I've drawn by distress, 
Flooded by the flooding river of discomfort
Leaving me shaky and shaggy within my heart and body

Turbulent sea is where I arrived
The whales and dolphins wanted to have a catch
After being freed from the shark
Trying to combat and to turn tail

The ribcage and the cardia jumbled
Eyes and its conjoins became reddish
Like the burned wood or an ember left to be eaten by the ash

My Heart

She ripped out my heart
And stomped on it,
Which made it break into hard,
Stone cold, razor sharp shards.
If she’d try that now,
She’d hurt her feet.


The Bar Room Floor

The bar room floor
Is more comfortable
Than you’d think it’d be.
The fall didn’t hurt much.
I know my drinkin’ limit.
I done passed it a while back.
Shoulda just stayed in the chair.
But, I needed to get to the bar
To get that “last call” drink.
I hope people are kind enough
To step around or over me.
This ain’t my first time down here.
Lately, as the nights wear on
I’ve become a regular fixture
On the floor of this fine establishment.
No worries, no woes, just a drunk.
Barkeep says I certainly make
A great conversation piece.
Likes my routine.
Closing time, everybody’s leaving.
Damn, lady.  Watch those stilettos.
I wanted to keep that hand.

with plenty of whiskey
 
these are the nights i take 
my night time medicine 
with plenty of whiskey
 
no one likes the fucker that 
overstays his damn welcome
 
i see the evil eyes when i'm 
out in public, the whispers 
as i walk by
 
one day they'll get to see the 
monster they believe me to be
 
though i'm sure they will be 
disappointed
 
everyone else has been
 
my father could never bring 
himself to say he loves me
 
chose to die instead
 
my mother does it out of guilt
 
my sister has moved on
 
any chance for a lover was pissed 
away so many years ago
 
and i have no fucking interest in 
dying old and alone
 
i'm sure there is some gutter out 
west with my name on it
 
a concrete pillow, a pet rat
 
and a random needle with just 
enough to see me through
-------------------------------------------------------
the best kind of neighbor
 
six days before christmas
the guy across the street
decided it was time
 
he took his gun to the 
basement and shot 
himself in the head
 
i have no clue if there 
was problems with the 
job or money or the 
family, etc.
 
some people argue 
that makes me a 
bad neighbor
 
i tend to think i'm 
the best kind of 
neighbor
 
i help when asked
 
wave when waved at
 
and most of the time
 
i simply mind my own
fucking business

In Lieu of Flowers

A first cousin my age dead from an overdose. A childhood friend dead from a rare cancer. My very nice mother-in-law dead from Alzheimer’s. A twenty-something student of mine dead from an undetected heart condition. Death, death, death, death. Some say it’s by design, but others that it’s mad slaughter. I don’t know. Maybe. There are times I’ll find myself staring at the back of people’s heads on the commuter bus with just so much sadness.

WreTcheD

i sauntered down our old town. now altered to a cemetery, the garden we used to play. two, three, four....&... houses, were wrecked. and the people i left, were asked to make mansions with the skulls of innocent men. 

then, it was a garden full of ripped mangoes. now, a cemetery; a black one with hills. i could remember writing my name on the middle tree that drops juice,  went to taste its horny, but found blood answering its sugary name.


i then met an old man, & he said the hills which i ride, are the graves of my townmen. and the dew which falls at dawn, is no more water, but the tears of chained, raped young women. 

God, onto you i hinge, give me back my name. the dialect i used to speak, is now the language of death. for now, even my name is another name of grief.