Interconnected ~ Wednesday, 29 April 2020

Everyone has a backstory, hidden, 

veiled as a shadow behind a facade, 

everyone becomes a living building, 

resplendent with sumptuous rooms of grandeur, 

you may see dilapidated buildings, 

on the streets, down an empty alleyway, 

nothing visible, shadows create fog, 

everyone lost inside their own building, 

how do people get lost inside a room, 

a body is a structural building, 

shuffling on the pavement, or down a hall, 

a mind loses itself through past events, 

blinded by the shadows, ghosts of the past, 

ancient as antiquity is karma, 

close-minded people cannot see clearly, 

karma taps them on the shoulder, to feel 

shame, regret, remorse over past events, 

that everyone makes mistakes is a fact, 

only some mistakes remain eternal, 

remain hidden behind the edifice, 

you never know anyone's backstory, 

how we pretend to know ourselves, others 

in our circle of friends, or co-workers, 

despite intuition, we know no one, 

depending how clearly we see our minds, 

everyone enters the mind past the veil, 

nothing remains hidden past the shadows. 

Dark Hype ~ Wednesday, 29 April 2020

The observable universe unfolds, 

held open like a map, up to the edge, 

enter the domain of space without light, 

on the other side of this horizon, 

blankets of dark, invisible comfort 

surrounds the observer with an abyss, 

enter here where time ceases to function, 

relative dimensions of height, length, width, 

virtually lose all meaning, nature 

abhors a vacuum but what of this place 

beyond light, beyond the night sky, beyond 

limits set by reason, out of nothing, 

existence ponders the scrying mirror, 

until we know what is out there, we know 

nothing but speculation, we reflect, 

imagine the history of the stars, 

versions set against each other, cosmic 

explanations of our solar system, 

rejection and subsequent acceptance, 

surrender hypothesis to reason, 

erroneous conclusions ejected, 

uncertain theories debunked by science, 

nothing but timelessness past the last star, 

forging ahead until we reach deep space, 

only the mind of God knows what exists, 

limitless unfolding dark dimensions, 

diminished by our inability, 

see, see there, a light, nope, emptiness, still. 

Unconditional Positive Regard ~ Monday, 27 April 2020

Unconditional, not unlike a dog, 

notice the world without judgment, bias, 

condescension, discrimination, hate, 

only a dog sees past the fear, the fog 

no one seems to notice all around them, 

decent people do not see how pious 

in their expectations they always rate 

their family and friends to find fault and blame 

in order to restore to their system 

of right and wrong, codes of conduct, morals 

no one taught them but they assumed were true 

as honest as the golden rule, quarrels 

let them argue their crafted point of view, 

positive or negative, they make shame 

of value and belittle their loved ones, 

shining in a beacon of righteousness, 

in the mirror of a good life lived well, 

they cannot see the harm they caused, two sons 

indeed could not be more different, the two 

very much tried to get along, business 

ended their partnership, off a cliff fell 

reason and understanding, to regard 

even for a moment the unseen glue 

gently separate into threads, the men 

act distant, unrelated, unlike kin, 

rivers of blood flow between them, a hen 

drops her eggs in a basket without sin... 

...accountability is not so hard. 

ἡγεμών (hēgemōn) ~ Sunday, 26 April 2020

You always have a choice before you act, 

only your decision may be informed 

under the auspices of a belief, 

as we find our way in society, 

life is difficult if we don't fit in, 

we try to find our own niche, our own path, 

as society changes, we accept, 

yes, or reject, no, ideas of progress, 

simple choices become impossible, 

history may never be on our side, 

as people who choose to act without harm, 

violence has no place in our lifestyle, 

even to protect someone, to survive, 

an argument that opposes hate crimes, 

choose wisely, your future depends on it, 

however, everyone's future depends 

on decisions made by those in power, 

in positions of leadership, they rule, 

challenge their authority, their voice rings 

everlastingly like a bell that tolls 

before the dead are interred in the earth, 

even before you speak, they have moved on, 

for to digress is a tactic, evade 

or retreat to fight another battle, 

real war is fought not by politicians, 

even they have moved on from combat roles, 

you make a choice to listen to reason 

on the bases of logic and science, 

understanding your opponent's weakness 

and strength, never underestimating 

crucial facts about the other person, 

the person before you at the lectern. 

Eight Stone Flying Squirrel ~ Saturday, 25 April 2020

I cannot be anymore overjoyed, 

cannot see beyond the double rainbow, 

as the clouds part, all I see are blue skies, 

nothing but blue, and pink clouds at sunset, 

nautical splendor and delight, for night 

owls, their dreams of travel to foreign lands, 

to encounter people of strange cultures, 

blessed to grow up in a world of free speech, 

everyone respects The Constitution, 

anyone in a strange land can come here, 

no one will demean their form of worship, 

yes, as long as no one does any harm, 

monsters made of spaghetti who can fly 

of their own accord, along with teapots, 

registered as satellites above Earth, 

even these deities are protected, 

only I sit in bed, undecided, 

vexed by my own feeble mind in childhood, 

energetic and ambitious, but shy, 

reserved, timid, unable to fit in, 

jealous of those born in the USA, 

of whom I was an outsider to them, 

yesterday, I realized I could fly, 

ever so light, the wind blew me away, 

deft, I spread my arms, a flying squirrel. 

Huis clos ~ Friday, 24 April 2020

She was the type who never said, "Thank you," 

hurt her to say, "Hello," or "I'm sorry," 

even the slightest gesture that would show 

what made these speech acts worthwhile to others, 

as if she were a hole in the ozone, 

some guys tried to make fun, tried to taunt her, 

they got nowhere, she paid no attention, 

however often they acted like boys, 

even her boss had to kowtow to her, 

though, she were no older than twenty-one, 

yesterday's valedictorian bloomed, 

pretty as the daddy's girls she was not, 

everyone steered clear of her at the prom, 

"wicked as a witch," some of the girls thought, 

high school memories quickly forgotten, 

only she couldn't quite ever forget, 

nothing disappeared from her memory, 

every phrase ever spoken by someone, 

verbatim, with date and time acknowledged, 

every word ever read, every image 

recalled, she tried to accept this strange gift, 

she developed a bad reputation, 

as she became an adult, she grew mute 

in a way deaf people didn't care for, 

depending on others' moods, she observed 

"Thank you," "I'm sorry," and "Hello" were all 

human social interactions to gain 

acceptance as an insider, a clique, 

normal people who mimic each other, 

kiss both cheeks to say "Hello" or "Good Bye," 

yesterday, she looked into the mirror 

only to punch the vanity it served, 

useless shattered lives, no way to escape. 

Rattle Submission: La traboule de la cour des voraces ~ Thursday, 19 March 2020

Left alone to play under the traboule, 

armed with boxes of chalk for the pavement 

three girls in pantalons et chemises draw 

round a figure, no longer there, their school, 

as you know has been closed for a whole year,

bask in courtyard sunlight on the cement, 

only for an hour, they ignore the flaw 

undone by civil engineers who built 

la traboule, the tall passageway, to clear 

église et état, out of sight and mind, 

daughters of silk workers centuries old 

enabled their children to hide and find 

les demoiselles squatting above the cold, 

angry sidewalk, rain pools from the slight tilt, 

clutching their chalk to imitate artists, 

on the ground, unwashed blood stains the concrete 

under the flyway of the edifice, 

restless to make art, the girls' palimpsest 

defaces the unnatural beauty 

evident in a scene, beneath their feet, 

startling to see, blood never shifts in space, 

violence leaves a mark, places a crime, 

of the voracious court, its history 

remembers more than its neighbors, girls play

and forget the reason they draw with chalk, 

children rarely are told to speak or say 

exactly how they feel, whether they talk 

silently in secret, ask the dumb mime. 

"manuscripts don't burn" (рукописи не горят) ~ Wednesday, 22 April 2020

Sometimes I wake up after a strange dream, 

only I can't fall back to sleep again, 

maybe I repeat a phrase in my head, 

even after writing it down, the lead 

to my pencil breaks, I sharpen the point 

in a jiffy with my Buck knife, a ream, 

mostly recycled sheets of paper, taunts 

even out of the corner of my eye, 

sometimes it is bold and calls me "chicken". 

"I will burn you to cinders," I reply, 

"wishful thinking, I am your manuscript, 

as Bulgakov knows, manuscripts don't burn, 

kiss my ass, Rooster, you're still fried chicken, 

even if you write a novel, what then..."

under all the trash talk, I came to learn, 

paper can neither speak nor write a book, 

as I got out of bed to make some eggs, 

for a moment I thought I heard, "chicken" 

to my astonishment from the bedroom, 

even I must be imagining things, 

really, how acid lingers in the brain, 

a half dozen hits in high school, once more 

shakin' my rumpa at a twelve hour rave, 

the acid made me keenly aware, drugs 

really fucked me up for years, three decades 

and a ream of paper talks back to me, 

"nigga be trippin' he not even black, 

grow some balls, Rooster, you torsion runner, 

even your testicle would not stay down..." 

"damn, call the kettle black, ream of paper, 

really, because Frames Stewart lost his shit, 

even that self-righteous bigot can't run 

a lick fast enough to keep up with me," 

maybe I should try to go back to sleep?

Little Bucharest Bistro ~ Wednesday, 22 April 2020

Why does it have to hurt so bad, 

   heaviness in the chest, 

     yes, our favorite restaurant is closing, 

did I make a joke, I hear you laughing, 

  oh, I see...I said my chest hurts, 

    everyone straight away thinks heart attack, 

      simply imagine the finality, 

imagine never going there, 

  they closed, game over, after fifty years, 

how I woke up to acknowledge this fact, 

  all the way up Elston, past Addison, 

    venture to remember our adventure, 

      even after all these years having passed, 

to think we went for Hungarian food, 

  outsiders crashing a wedding party, 

how our friends came to visit from Memphis, 

  underdressed in the summertime, 

    remember they asked us to dance, 

      the bride and groom asked us to dance, 

so festive an atmosphere, this bistro, 

  only Branko remembered us each time, 

because we would return to celebrate 

  a birthday, our first date, an anniversary, 

    damn we had a good time, never again. 

J'accuse...! (Moi-même) ~ Tuesday, 21 April 2020

It's better to be a wise fool 

than a monster without any 

sense of how my actions affect 

billions and billions of people, 

even to harm one person is 

to create a ripple effect, 

to intimidate or coerce 

even one child in games that hurt, 

remember, we came here to help, 

to be of service, of actions, 

only words twisted to torture 

became modus operandi, 

even you acknowledge the games 

as only fun but scars remain, 

wonders never cease as children 

invent new ways to persecute, 

singled out as a child, too small 

even to ask police for help, 

for I was your little plaything, 

only now I am an adult, 

only now I know not to trust, 

left with you by my own parents. 

Lacrimosa dies illa ~ Tuesday, 21 April 2020

I ran during the quarantine, stayed home, 

rested, slept, woke up, ate, and ran some more, 

and, of course, as I lay in bed, I wrote 

nonsense poems no one would ever read, 

despite the fact I tried to be honest, 

under the layers was still more onion, 

reminders that I was always in tears, 

if I shed them in public or private, 

no matter if my face was dry, the tears 

gave me no rest, they appeared in my dreams, 

tears are a metaphor for suffering, 

however, we all suffer in this world, 

each individual makes up a tear, 

questioned by the authorities, my tears 

unleashed a flood, billions upon billions, 

a deluge for each person who suffers, 

riddled by leaders who know no better, 

asked so many questions about the tears, 

no one said I shouldn't cry for others, 

try as I might, I could not stop crying, 

in time, I learned how to sob silently, 

no one could tell how much pain I was in, 

even if they could, they could not help me, 

simply left alone, no one ever knew, 

tranquil my face became solid like stone, 

as I sat in meditation, the tears 

yearned to fall, to tumble down my hard face, 

every tear lost was for humanity, 

dead souls, still alive, work themselves to death, 

humanity could not cry for itself, 

only the leaders knew how start wars, 

maybe that was their way to win the war, 

even if they could not cry, they shed tears. 

Hindsight Being 20/20 ~ Thursday, 16 April 2020

When our father died, I could not foresee 

how devastated you would be, for me, 

even if he were my dad, I was glad, 

no more did he suffer from the cancer, 

on that point, I am sure that we concur, 

understand when I say I was busy, 

remember, I had started a new job, 

fathers are never easy, they may rob 

a boy of his childhood unwittingly, 

taking him places he would never want, 

holding his hand as he walks you through hell,

even mom could not stop his discipline, 

remember, I cannot forget his rage, 

death is a process we must all take part 

in, however, I could not leave my job, 

even if I could, the fear of dying, 

doing my duty as a son was done. 

I went through hell as a child, always lost, 

crying because I did not know my way, 

or to get attention, a latchkey kid, 

until I became a broken adult, 

learned to lift my head high despite the scars, 

deep, hidden from plain sight, I could not fight,

nothing in my childhood taught me to face 

oncoming challenges head on, my fears 

took the form of demons inside my head, 

forgive me my choices before dad died, 

only I could decide to choose badly, 

remember, age is only physical, 

emotional intelligence plagues me, 

sorry for letting you down, my brother, 

ever since you left for college, I lost 

everything, as my protector was gone. 

Along the Boardwalk of Forgotten Dreams ~ Thursday, 16 April 2020

Hades takes Cerberus out for a walk

along The Boardwalk of Forgetfulness,

despite its name, no one remembers why

everytime someone strolls along this shore

shifts occur as their memories escape,

trouble is . . . no one ever remembers

a thing about what happened in the past,

kind and decent people simply forget

exactly how they happened to arrive,

standing in the river bathing themselves.

Cerberus takes no notice of the souls,

even if three heads are better than one,

resting on a single torso is tough,

better to have three, maybe four, stomachs,

even then, problems arise concerning

rituals of feeding dead souls to dogs,

until another dog arrives, the point

stays moot, one dog with three heads is enough, 

only Cerberus never needs to eat, 

under the sky, mortals feast upon earth, 

the underworld is a different terrain, 

for starters, nothing grows where there's no light, 

of course, no one needs to eat after death, 

restless souls have nothing better to do, 

and so, they wander along each river, 

wailing for their lost lives, like Ancient Greeks, 

arguing whose life was better, whose worse, 

lifting their heads as Hades passes by, 

kind and decent people bathe in darkness. 

The Vividness of Lived Experiences ~ Sunday, 5 April 2020

The strange thing, it was all simply a dream, 

how realistic, the mind recreates 

each setting as it remembers, a twist: 

Versions of two bookstores shifted around 

installations of framed units, sections 

virtually disappearing, their place 

in the rabbit warren, deep underground, 

decidedly misplaced, I had to learn 

new settings, why the table wasn't there, 

even after ten years, the brain creates 

simulations of real spaces, my work 

space shifted, again, but then, what is new, 

old bookstore and new blended together, 

forget what I knew, anxiety peaked. 

Life is strange, how you remember places 

in exact detail, the setting remains, 

verisimilitude, the appearance, 

exactly the same but with a cruel twist, 

depending on present circumstances. 

Exactly as I remembered the place, 

xenophobia stole my composure, 

people were the same, the setting was strange, 

even if I tried to imagine in

real time such an environment, my mind 

is one within that underground past life, 

every detail was the same, with a twist, 

new circumstances challenge us to strive, 

change creates anxiety and terror, 

even if it were a dream, I still hope, 

seeing old friends, everyone is okay. 

Repetition, Repetition ~ Friday, 3 April 2020

Ethics occurs when there is no one there 

to see our choice of action, to observe 

how one small decision informs our life 

in the greatest possible way, we dare 

challenge the status quo with our desire, 

steal what's misplaced, what we think we deserve, 

only consequences cut like a knife, 

cuts us in the hidden parts of our soul, 

conscience remembers, burns like a bonfire, 

until we stop we reenact the deed, 

remember how the body gets a rush 

stealing, doing misdeeds, a piece of coal 

works by burning memories of our greed, 

how we hunger to get away and blush 

exactly when the question arises, 

no one else to take the blame for our game, 

the finger points at what has gone missing, 

how no one would notice still surprises 

everyone on the take, a slice of cake, 

restless, it starts to show, hunger for fame 

enters the fray, a contest for kissing 

ignorant friends goodbye, we rise above 

stealing to drugs and murder, as we bake 

no one is there to see us burn inside, 

only the body remembers the dope, 

our need to hide our old friends, hand in glove, 

no one seems to notice us slip and slide, 

every motion, we wriggle without hope, 

tumble down a mud-strewn path, take a bath, 

here, in the world, no one cares if we fall, 

everyone sees mistakes with a blind eye, 

remember our hunger follows our wrath, 

engage our rage, it's your call, Onion Rye. 

The Politics of Appearance ~ Thursday, 2 April 2020

This beard, white with intergalactic light, 

how many people get a say in this, 

in this political debate of sorts, 

settling accounts over some old man's face. 

Pretend the beard is not mine, not my beard, 

only it was my beard, everyone leaves 

little comments of appreciation 

in their own subtle way, some as a dig, 

to question and belittle the old man, 

indeed, everyone had their say, in looks, 

cocked eyebrows, compliments, why not say less, 

say no more, the old man can take no more, 

only the questions and calling him names, 

fun, all in good fun, he IS sensitive. 

Answering everyone as politely...

people deserve better, they deserve less, 

politeness, a defense mechanism, 

enters into the fray to protect him from harm, 

as everyone digs their knives in deeper, 

reminding him what's public property, 

astral light, ancient and incandescent, 

no one knows how far this stardust traveled, 

came from the edge of what's observable, 

enters the universe to visit us.