GBV ~ Monday, 27 August 2018

Yawning soccer mommy

      as you stand with crossed arms

on the perimeter

      of the stage at center

under the microphone

      stand of the vocalist

ask yourself one question

      am I too old to rock

really you can't even

      let you hair down to show

even for a moment

      the gray hair in your mane

take a minute to check

      your ego at the door

or if your poor husband

      doesn't die of despair

over your cold charade

      or of embarrassment

only he knows you well

      enough to know whether

left alone for so long

      you became uptight bored

devil may care whether

      you're dying of cancer

to be frank I'm sorry

      you may have a migraine

or you may serve a still

      higher purpose for God

really it was Sunday

      it was late tomorrow

on the other hand lasts

      until the work day ends

create your own karma

      yawning soccer mommy

kill the bile and venom

      seething within my heart

Latchkey ~ Thursday, 23 August 2018

The last days of summer were beautiful indeed

how we spent our time meant everything to children

even the heat that made us complain drifted by

left on our own we played baseball until sunset

as the fall came to pass football became our sport

streets littered with children playing silly kid's games

those days are now long gone we all grew up so fast

daylight fades from the sky we became dead inside

as winter made the air grow chill we played hockey

yes we were forced to play in the dark the street lamp

served to set our goal lines with nets to catch a puck

old old old no longer in touch to talk about those days

for no one cares to speak or remember the past

summoned to do greater things expected of us

under the watchful eye of parents and neighbors

mothers and fathers made sure we made fine adults

maybe someone became a criminal who knows

even our small network was looked at with envy

really we were no good none of us were boy scouts

we helped no one to do what they needed get done

enter the world of kids who know nothing at all

retain control of street activity the cars

even knew to drive slow along Sanderson Lane

big shots born into bad families bring trouble

everywhere they settle down as fat cat adults

act in their own interest we liked but did not love

unless it was in our interest to love someone

take a group of latchkey kids who knew no better

in this glorious world other than to conquer

for win or lose we played our games inside or out

under the summer heat or hiding from the rain

left on our own we grew up hard and cold inside

if our parents wouldn't shell out for little league

nobody could blame them they brought us together

demon children who asked for the sun and the sky

even if we could change the past never would we

everything was given to us those lousy boys

devils who demand stars for payment for breathing

Ethnicity ~ Tuesday, 21 August 2018

Rui Carlos da Cunha, a name few know how to pronounce well, even myself. It took me thirty years to learn how to speak my own given name as someone from Portugal would. So why would I ever get upset when someone butchers my name over the phone or in person. Funny thing, the anonymity when you never see the face of the other. You think you can say anything, act tough or like an ass, what matters most in this world is your own reputation. Mr. Nice Guy or an asshole, does it matter, and to whom, when? Obviously, sometime in the future. The person on the line doesn't give a damn if you lose your shit, all they care about is if they get paid. Whether people are nice or not never matters if you don't get to see their face. Of course, mean people take their toll on someone's sense of decency, a world lacking in compassion never lasts long. But people are people who act as they choose from a script, a role they've played their whole lives, so who cares? It's easy when your name is one everyone knows how to pronounce it properly. But mine is a gift from my mother, whose sense of humor is found in hindsight, after she has done everything a little too right, too perfect to dismiss as perfectly honest. She was a born sadist.

Ethnicity ~ Sunday, 19 August 2018

The difficulty of being Goan resides in a Catholic guilt that makes me question what relations my family, or more my ancestors, had with the Portuguese, and therefore the slave trade. Do I benefit from my name and family tree coming from Portugal, or are we Indian with a Portuguese name? Do I identify by association with global oppressors, or do I stand with those who were displaced by them, the victims of global oppression, by the sword the Portuguese changed lives, history will never return to the ages before discovery. So how do I accept my ambiguous role when I am neither black, nor white, neither victim, nor oppressor, or is it not so black and white to discuss these matters in post-colonial terms in America, or anywhere in this great, big world we live in? Will it make a difference when I make a peanut butter sandwich for lunch? Probably not. Why fuss?

Ethnicity ~ Sunday, 19 August 2018

I was born long ago and far away, yet I came here on purpose to meet you. My intention is pure and simple yet disguised to hide the truth behind my position. If you feel the great lengths I took to arrive here beside you were worthwhile, I'm sure you needn't let me know for to speak explicitly of obvious matters is deception and subterfuge in itself. My love for your country is profound, or why else should I stay here most of my life as if in a prison. Of course, your country is my country is our country: one nation, under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all, blah, blah, blah. If I take your hand in marriage, do not confuse me for an upright citizen. I am first and foremost, an artist of literature, and therefore a terribly, untrustworthy man. But, no matter, as I am a son of immigrants and thus a case for the bureau, since I am also an anarchist and an arsonist, but more on these matters later. What is most important is that I can never be president. So, no worries, then regarding my pretensions. I am not an axe murderer, at least, not yet, though I know this would make you not unhappy to learn if the opposite were the case.

Shall I put things plainly, in a brown paper sack, so to speak, or do you have issues with the word sack as a reference to a man's scrotum, as one customer at the bookstore made clear one morning to me. Fucking morons! I give up with the lot of you. Ship me back to India in a pine box if you must, since living here, so far away from a home I never knew is hardly worth my time here. For so long, you treat me as the other.

Mindless Americans with no sense of compassion or ability to understand another's condition as one's own. Your bedside manners stink. It is a good thing so few of you are actually doctors. Empathy is an unknown word unless it is painted on the head of a missile. You are a dull and unironic people who find witless people of interest since they know how to play your games. I am bored and tired and dream of living abroad to meet more base and benign tumors such as yourselves. It's been great but nearly fifty years have gone by since my family arrived. I say, my family, but as you can guess, we no longer talk. Not worth their time or my own to spend in argument or unappreciative contempt for each other's values. This is the problem of being born elsewhere, you may or may not fit in with your foster country. You may only observe and not participate to the full degree others do, even if you are a so-called citizen. What a laugh!!!

Who wants to be a citizen of such a backwards nation? Millions of other immigrants who may die never getting the chance to thrive or fail in absurd circumstances. I know my situation. Do you even have a clue how you affect that situation for others?

Switch ~ Saturday, 18 August 2018

Turn on and off to flip up down up down up down

up down up down up down up down up down upside

red eye a black mark on god dad cannot be good

not fun my game to play I curse the day we born

onside and off we play soccer I learn my face it hurt

no beat me boss he dead now but I could not cry

as year goes by time no better to weep my tear

no shed no tear my dear old pop he dead he gone

decide to flip up down up down up down sister

old hag you say my crap I smell too bad old hag

flip up down up down up down up down up down up

forget old man become old man give me red eye

take no shit no give no regret ask for a raise not get

others cry out in pain you see my game is this

flip up down up down up down up down up down up

left up a light all day long to make me feel he

inside my guts my pain he give donate his way

people be dumb not fun he beat my face repeat

up down my game the kid a child but one time he

play he like to hurt me it hurt us both he know

decide to flip my mind in room inside my head

onward my life it mean I learn to cope with me

we know sister to play my game is dumb but fun

not him he love to hurt he fist he slap he kick

unwind a clock is time for you to help me grow

play me record old hag we love to sing in tune

delete my past my time on soil time no matter

o death take me take me faster than me can run

we seek to live a slice of pies a peace with pi

no math no mind I learn to play to love others

uglies come to a bench we fuck to love I leave

play no more no with my sister he dead she die

die die die die die old hag die see she die now

one man left me mother die too we born she die

wonder if tear tear my eye out as drop fall on

no sees my pain inside my guts he give me good

Icebox ~ Saturday, 18 August 2018

This is just to say yes no more must we say now

he said all you can say little else to remark

if time allows you may try but this is no game

seek to play in the big gamble I split my hand

if tens to make twenty one all we need are two

single letter symbol number double winner

jokers unreal we toss within a small old bin

unseen inside a house we burn what we need no

simple puzzle to find our way beyond the day

to give others a point you may follow to work

terror from my past to unwind my mind unfurl

orbits orders angels demons devils and god

shaker makers fakers takers border cutter

as wire to snip to pass neatly across in time

yesterday all you saw we kept secret to hide

yesterday for none to find to beat to invade

entrap as cops with no reason no clue for why

silent as mice they go to seek better angles

notice not ice off ice the box office

onward we stay remain if they manage our pay

monies decide if time here is worthy of mind

or fame as lies resist to tell a truth as neat 

rulers need an edge to keep us in line

egg our houses and you will be firmly broken

mine is as past time is lost to the day we find

uglies within inside each of our coy places

severe verses versus salvos for our vassal

travel burden a trunk too big to take on back

we fire whom we care so little for and we keep

ends to meet or bestow a means to each palace

spoken as wise as true as blue as dome covers

ass for to blow up each market we need to mark

your on button as gold and the others in rust

not now or just then do we know to bite the lip

of deep garnet rubies for red cannot impart

wonder upward a light passes purple as dusk

Python ~ Thursday, 16 August 2018

If by interpreting the voice of the other

a stranger on the street as that of the spirit

then the hermeneutics of language games evolves

into an art where words take on a new context

speech acts require insight to hear not the person

but to listen to what they say as the spirit

whispers oracular claims outside the temple

within the agora or open marketplace

where everyone is friend and no one a stranger

but foes act without words with infernal ice tongues

stab with burning daggers past heart into the soul

no matter the ancient battle scars you survive

into the present day moment at hand breathing

holding a newborn hare known as Mumble Bunny

Spud ~ Thursday, 16 August 2018

As I have come to realize nobody cares a lick about writing in verse or prose unless it takes them out of their own thoughts to see the world as they could not imagine it themselves without the gifted eyes of the author. Even if they do not exist as real people but as figments to imagine in an armchair in a study, a coffeeshop, a library doing research to change our minds for us as we cannot decide to flip the switch to clear our minds of cluttered thoughts and processes. I, myself, am not as of yet a real writer, entertaining the masses with brilliant ideas, scenarios, plots, characters, and dialogue. I am only a failed wordsmith, never published aside from 'zines, few ever read or take the time to let me know that they enjoy something other than the movies, television, and videos, that my efforts are not in vain, writing as if potatoes had eyes to read with, and the Irish as consumers of potatoes were the best read because they ate my gibberish with great relish, salt and butter. A writer writes and cannot help but put words down for someone else to hopefully one day enjoy.

Snail ~ Thursday, 16 August 2018

The tall, black man steps out of the Thai restaurant,

he presses a button and his Chevy Nova

engages to unlock itself in an instant.

Talk is cheap, as they say, the tall, black man walks up

and says, "You're in the way" to Mr. Gabidar,

little brown man who stands too close to the Nova,

leave it to a runner to not pay attention.

"Bullshit," Gabidar stands his ground, looks up to spit,

laughs at the tall, black man, itching for him to do

as he pleases, to land a punch or pick him up,

casual-like, you see, the tall, black man fucks up,

kill or be killed, as war taught this soldier too well.

Mary, let me tell you, the tall, black man talks mean,

as any ignorant high school dropout would talk,

no education leaves little room for manners.

Sheep jump over fences to lull a man to sleep,

take the case of the tall, black man for instance, say

even with twice the weight and a good foot taller,

place your bets carefully, for Mr. Gabidar

still knows the right people to get the job done right.

Out of nowhere, the tall, black man finds himself high

under the green awning hanging over each store,

tremendous strength throws him past the picture window.

Out of nowhere, a snap of his small, brown fingers

finds the Nova in flames, another snap explodes

The closed Thai restaurant while the tall, black man leaps

high up to save his skin, back outside a third snap

engages his bowels loose to stink for blocks around.

The tall, black man finds shame in his bullying ways,

how Mr. Gabidar performs these magic tricks,

as anyone who knows the devil to snap once

introduces the world to the realm of black arts.

Rest assured, this story plays out inside the mind,

engages like a dream to the man who watches

sheep jump over a fence to help him fall asleep,

triggers like basil beef may loosen the bowels good,

ask the tall, black man once he wakes up from his dreams,

under no conditions does anybody meet harm,

rest assured that the tall, black man wins at his game,

and Mr. Gabidar loses as a small man,

no, fiction is his way to save face against thugs,

tell him superheroes exist and he will laugh.

Grass ~ Tuesday, 14 August 2018

Decide whether this side of the fence is greener

You can try to ignore the news about police

Still they defend the law against alleged crimes

Trust they serve and protect vested interests the law

Only absolves the just before justice dissolves

Peaceful protests with high handed poker playing

If Americans choose distraction to engaged

Action know that progress requires argument

Invent new toys to play with to forget the news

Say it didn't happen to anyone you know

Rest assured if you choose to disconnect from pain

Even as you observe others suffer from crimes

Above the law their tears while not your own you own

Little but toys and games to keep you blind and numb

Banana ~ Thursday, 9 August 2018

What is on the other side of the universe

How can I peel slowly and see what lies beyond

After decades sitting in deep contemplation

To posit this  question still there is no answer

If I could step inside a black hole to observe

Simple geometry in its most basic form

Or peer inside the mind of God to view all time

Not as we see events but all moments at once

To travel faster than the speed of light as thought

Hobbled by the Hubble telescope cannot see

Eternity as God understands existence

Only these words I use get in the way to speak

Truth to lies and fiction I must see beyond mind

Hold imagination to account for others

Every aspect of life taken from their account

Reality observed beyond the big picture

Simply put all creatures think in terms of body

Indeed function follows form not the other way

Differences between humans and the great apes

Enter as arguments futile and misguided

On the one hand to teach an ape to speak is dumb

For humans to listen to how other creatures

Try to communicate and learn how they succeed

How they fail why they do when they do how to read

Emotions when every other being is ape

Under the veil of mind hides the logic machine

Nothing makes sense except when opposites attract

In terms of magnets force repels force when alike

Verisimilitude in the world occurs

Each time we connect eyes across a room as light

Relative in motion slows down to comprehend

States of mind we call love as opposed to murder

Even though we may kill to show immense passion

Gone ~ Monday, 6 August 2018

A furrowed brow: then her high-pitched voice shrill,

No love in the whirlpool swirl, her eyes obsessed

With the dark web, her mouth agape distraught ill, 

Her husband holds her son captive, a test.

Why would this deranged maniac try to crush

The weathered story of first love? She cries

As Jesus wept, nobody hears the hush

Of silence in their home, where the heart lies.

In the gutter, she found a broken man, where

Once, before his fall, under the bower

They made love.

 

                               Her father said, pouring a cup

Of tea for her, her husband would not share

An interest in her company, the hour

Of truth arrives, disconsolate, her loss abrupt.

Saudade ~ Friday, 3 August 2018

I was born in Mumbai though this name was not real

was still only a dream in 1969

as was GLBQ rights and the end of AIDS

still free love played the course through 1981

but my adolescence and early adulthood

only played with those women uninfected by love

religion played a role as the Catholic Church

naturally made me feel ashamed to have sex

in a context outside of wedlock then I met

nobody as women only went for real men

May I enlighten you to awaken your soul

understand why I write these troubling poems

maybe to help sort out a problem I must solve

basically writing is telling lies to find truth

as a poet stories about my life ring true

in the ears of readers who see the hammer strike

the sound bow of the bell they can relate better

haunting me as data on a blogger website

only they like juicy details salacious things

under the knife to lose a testicle running

gunning for my last race during our freshman year

high school was stupid fun give one up for the team

take a fact and twist it like the torsion I felt

how I literally collapsed after the race

in surgery they shaved my genitals as porn

stars do for magazines those shoots must be crazy

numb from shyness and dead from alcoholism

after I turned eighteen I met a young woman

making out with a drunk drummer at a party

even then my ego preceded my entrance

why my first time at sex I was too drunk to fuck

after the encounter we exchanged phone numbers

still I was embarrassed and too naive to call

nothing in life is real upon deep reflection

only every passing moment in the present

takes time to process each event as meaningful

really the ego is a lens to see the world

each character arrives in time to say her lines

as light bends so does mind to make sense of the id

little people inside my head never go home

Irrational ~ Friday, 3 August 2018

I was born in Bombay, this city no longer exists

renamed Mumbai after Hindu nationalists regained

rights to revert the name to the goddess of the city

as Mumbadevi is the patron deity to serve

the Marathi-speaking locals of Maharashtra state

if my family remained in India after my birth

only I would never know the difference between Goa

never having the chance to see Huntington Beach as I

asked no one to help me fulfill my destiny stuck in

limbo like a stillborn baby never bearing witness

Mirror ~ Friday, 3 August 2018

this is how I lost the tournament with my face

hastily in a rush first thing in the morning

in the absence of a fogless mirror I held

seven blades in one hand on one giant cartridge

if this was a safety razor I found trouble

safely shaving my face hungover from a night

how should I say dancing between the satin sheets

of course Satan could do better at the nightclub

will I ever me her again God only knows

I can't keep wandering in and out of strange beds

left on my own I find a way to find trouble

or trouble seems to find me standing all alone

seemingly lost in thought a penny for your thoughts

this line I've heard dozens of times leads me to bed

to hustle the player works hard to earn his keep

his fair share of the game the herd thins pretty quick

even if he talks up enough women their beds

take forever to find sometimes only in dreams

only he imagines he knows all the angles

understands the other as opposite to him

really he needs to play it cool like Miles Davis

never directly face the crowd to turn around

and show only your back never show them your horn

maybe then he'll work less hard work smarter to pay

every mother fucker back in spades for doubting

nobody knows women better than this young man

tragic as it all sounds he thinks he's a genius

women seek the meaning to their lives when I stand

in contemplation of some inconceivable

thought a philosophy a system of ideas

honed like a samurai sword so sharp as to cut

men in half in any direction the blade cuts

yet leaving not a trace of blood across the blade

farcical you might say but here you would be wrong

and wanting to admit your mistake but you lack

certain character traits to efface the ego

even ordinary men can't face the mirror

Immigrant ~ Friday, 3 August 2018

I was born in Bombay, a city of millions,

when I was three months old, we left for Middlesex

as an infant my choice to stay in India

simply disregarded by my stupid parents

but for forty-nine years I have yet to return

other than ignorant people saying I should

really go and visit my homeland of Goa

nobody understands I feel like an exile

in the United States I am a citizen

not really a worthwhile benefit when you want

Basically not to live in a country founded

on oppression and hate disguised as liberty

making a mockery of true democratic

beliefs when civil rights becomes a cause to fight

against or for notions of equality speak

yet another volume of historical lies

ask me if the values placed in the Bill of Rights

create a dystopic sense of reality

in the perverse nature to defend the nation

to preserve the systems of government that help

yet another dimwit to gun down schoolchildren

of course I will decline to comment on this fact

freedom of speech be damned it means nothing if we

make everyone suffer equally I declare

inside our glorious nation outsiders are just that

left to clean up after others the status quo

left alone belittled as children by children

in fact the attitudes of the parents lacking

only humility seek to ensure their own

notions of privilege to earn prosperity

secret handshakes backroom deals deny my value