Ambient Noise ~ Monday, July 24, 2023

Sometimes, I wish that I were never born
of course, the film, It's a Wonderful Life
made much of this idea in George Bailey
even if I were not unborn, to scorn
the world like a curmudgeon, an old crab
is to lack all respect because the strife
ministers to the will as host, daily
even if I break bread with my brother
still, I feel all alone as King Ahab

I will never be happy with myself

wish that I could live freely as a child
in this world, some collect dust on a shelf
some live in the moment, as if some wild
humor makes one life unlike another

that I feel limited in my choices
how my past actions decide the future
ask me why I run for thousands of miles
that I discover trapped within, voices

I hear beneath all the ambient noise

were I to hear a songbird immature
every morning wake me at dawn with tales
remembering dreams I have forgotten
each day suppressed as if these were my toys

never to ride a motorbike, the air
envelopes my body with emotion
voices suppressed by the will as if care
emerged meaningless against the ocean
resembling tides of force misbegotten

born, George Bailey makes good, a life of cheer
objections to the rule of law aside
reason guides me to overcome my pride
not to become a product of my fear

Adamantine Mind ~ Wednesday, July 19, 2023

In the world, I see
sapphires, rubies, emeralds,
and diamonds untame

nought but these three jewels,
and the invincible mind
I must overcome

trouble to subdue,
this adversary, I find
worthy to vanquish

how this obstacle
becomes my prime opponent
of all the wild game

evinced in spirit
I conquer mind within mind
without argument

welcome evidence
proves my own defeat of self
thus words leave me dumb

opponents as fire,
earth, air, and water leave me
to make my third wish

reflection informs
light within an illusion
language is best mute

lion licks his wounds,
his tongue, coarse as sandpaper,
in the sun, lies spent

diminished fifths play
intervals as aural chimes,
this I must perfect

I hear no difference
in this and augmented fourths,
analyze the score

see not with the eyes,
perceive not with the senses,
what might I detect

evidence unveiled
beyond all these emotions
to death, these horns gore

egos enslaved, bulls
care nothing for the three jewels,
but act as the brute

Mumma, Floccinaucinihilipilification, the Left-hand Path of the Non-resident Indian ~ Monday, July 17, 2023

The handwritten cards
you sent me for my birthday,
all of them, I kept

held by a ribbon,
a sentimental gesture,
I cannot forget

even though, I lie
to the reader who believes
everything they read

how I never knew
my grandmother as a friend
the seas, Jesus wept

ask me if I care
at fifty-four, shut the door
shut the fuck up, laugh

nothing worse than words,
poetry that sings like birds
verse catches worms, bet

did I stab your back
as a child, or just pretend
shock a friend, I bleed

words, meaningless words
they get in the way of breath
India, I left

right after my birth
by three months, that's what she said,
I, the fatted calf

if prodigal sons
were loved as well as black sheep,
Mumma, cut my throat

think how far I stray
my family couldn't care less
they made me this way

think how much I care
cynical, I have become
a lamb, not a GOAT

even the Muslim
to himself, he keeps ḥalāl
I'm evil, they say

nothing worse than verse
that does not praise illusions
love the goat bereft

caress away tears
Mumma, you were hardly there
asthmatic, I see

asthma in my lungs
in my breath when I am weak
so-called bonds, we share

remember you how
a woman complains a lot
to her son, he beats

destiny in me
my dad beats it out of me
the ordinary

see, I am stupid
like Americans I see
with whom I grew up

you were not there, no
you chose to go to Goa
asthma, if I dare

obey not the rule
to honor my grandmother
no one reads these sheets

understandably,
I cast aside delusions
categories, words

send me back, a child
to care for his grandmother
I was just a pup

even if I had
the time gone would be the same
not an Indian

no, Shashi Tharoor
that ignominious fuck
can shut the front door

the privileged writers,
bureaucrats, civil servants,
Uncle Cyprian

my daimonion,
not unlike Czesław Miłosz,
my head on the floor

even if I bow
so deeply, I lose balance
I hear early birds

for it is morning
in Chicago, old woman
and you are long gone

ordinarily,
I speak nothing of the dead
neither good nor bad

remember the dead
for soon you too will be gone
a blip on the screen

murder me Mumma,
a ghost could kill her grandson
a folktale at dawn

yellow is the yolk
of the egg, sun in the sky
Ramanujan writes

brilliant poetry,
"Lines to a Granny" short, sweet
not ugly and sad

if I tell some lies
about ribbons, it's to see
who knows where I've been

remember Mumma,
one grandmother out of two
Betty was herself

there in Nairobi,
so far away in Kenya,
once I reach the heights

how I met her once
at home in Huntington Beach
she came to visit

decidedly not
sentimental or stupid
of a different sort

ask me if I care
you had grandparents galore
dear readers, eat shit

yes, eat shit, dumb fucks
you and that Shashi Tharoor
eat shit, I abort

all cunts from the earth
men cunts and the women folk
these books on a shelf

left to mold, to rot
as for my experience
you can never know

leave me abandoned
a stranger to my kinfolk
grandparents mean nought

obviously, though
I go on and on and on
as if I don't care

for the crab must hide
deep feelings beneath his shell
of defense, a show

the cards in a box
tossed in with all the others
kept over the years

how to throw away
saccharine love songs, I hear
the birds call, I sought

ever so, the truth
I am but a speck of dust
worthless, as I stare

mysteriously,
at the crepuscular sky
I shed all my fears

I look at the light
ever-present, at sunrise
at sunset, sunshine

kiss my small brown ass
dumb-ass motherfucking cunts
you asinine twats

even if I love
no one and nothing, you made
me drink all that brine

please forgive me cunts
dear readers, pricks and twats grope
in the dark for watts

to say I don't care
is an obvious falsehood
why lose sleep for tears

Why Buy the Cow? ~ Sunday, July 16, 2023

Little Red Rooster
wakes up each day before dawn
to crow at the sun

in the afternoon
he decides to cross the road
to the other side

tonight he wrestles
with the farmer's wife; she likes
he's a little cock

tomorrow he crows
as usual at the sun
and then has some fun

like the farmer's wife,
the farmer's daughters like him,
he has a quick mind

even though, one girl
wanted Little Red Rooster
to make her his bride

Red waits for Snow White
but her entourage of dwarves
were tough as a rock

even if the girls
twirl their pigtails at his beak
Little Red pretends

decency matters
when he gets the milk for free
he won't act unkind

Red knows people ask
why he needs to cross the road
if he feels chicken

obligations rise
the need to crow at the sun
to wake up early

obviously, Red
enjoys being a small cock
how he might thicken

slowly, in his chest
when he breathes slowly, the air
puffs his chest burly

trust in the struggle
the bantam cock loves a fight
sees how a tree bends

ever so alone
he stands on his stoop and screams
the hens wake with fright

rely on each day
to change and remain the same
Rooster sleeps at night

Fierce ~ Monday, July 10, 2023

Hello, how are you doing today, my old friend? Shall I call you Nick?

Even if that's not your name or an epithet that you would accept.

Yet, yes, the Devil, my old friend, I call "Old Nick" but what's in a name?

Ordinarily, I wouldn't care to see you but you play the prick.

Force does not enforce arbitrary rules, so fit, not stated by law.

Fuck tha... fuck tha... fuck... I'd rather forget your show... as to intercept.

If I cared for you, the stupidity you breed, I might play your game.

Call me what you want, you might think reading this piece. Me, you cannot touch.

Exactly, my thoughts, especially, as I write these words without flaw.

Remember, blindness to our sense of delusion cannot see the real.

Guts, it takes real guts to care for other people. I lack compassion.

Officer Old Nick, bend over, grab your ankles. What it means to feel.

Officer Teufel, were you Latin Kings before you dressed this fashion?

Dig it! I dig it. I dig your grave with two slugs. The balls that you clutch.

Fuck tha... fuck tha... fuck... What's the point following orders? A tin badge, a Glock?

Officer Devil, what confers status of rank? River or mountain?

Remember that God, the Devil, Angels, Demons...imaginary.

Yes, make this shit up? Believe what you want, Teufel. Are you Mister Spock?

Of course, the Bible was radio and TV for generations.

Understanding lies, hyperbole and fiction as legends, we gain

Nothing but the fear of the unseen and unknown. The arbitrary

Order you enforce, based on prejudice not law, fits not with ordnance.

Wicked constables have to focus on nothing beyond their stations.

Grant me the wisdom to survive another day in suburban hell.

Of course, so Heaven and Hell...imaginary. Purgatory, too.

Fuck tha... fuck tha... fuck... The force cannot enforce lies. Here's Limbo, as well.

Underneath the greed, the need to feel powerful, shit beneath your shoe.

Cause precedes effect, the symptoms lead to the source. Feel the discordance.

Kill me if you like, it is within your power, but you lack the right.

Yesterday, I ran on the streets of Evanston. Shoved to the sidewalk.

Of course, siren wailed but a moment and I stopped to hear, disagree.

Understand, I see more than the stupidity. Boys who live to fight.

Remember, to die is no fear of mine to share. Fight another day.

Shoved to the sidewalk by the badge with loaded Glock, from afar, all talk.

Erroneous choice. To fuck with the accuser, the blood of Donne's flea.

Little I could do but get mad, run angrily. Check my attitude.

Fuck tha... fuck tha... fuck... Powerless and small, I felt. Hate cannot obey.

Concentric circles of a fortified city, Dante represents

Order within death. I am not this life, dwelling in spirit, I know

Nothing but this breath, this moment that too must pass, this turn of events.

Sidewalk, where we walk, not run, uneven, no fun. To run is to glow

To shine far greater than behind the wheel, he sits, sweltering and rude.

Ask me if I care, I would be lying to say bothered, I was not.

Bothered and annoyed by the world represented by the so-called law.

Law is divisive, argue on the battlefield, power, all the rage.

Every fool seeks wealth. He with a sieve, she with skulls. Power is a dot.

Of course, a moment passes, the balance may shift. I will have to wait.

Nothing of value lasts, as a blip on the screen, power is the claw.

Passionate lions fight for pride supremacy, never in a cage.

Ask me if I care. Yes, I care. It bothers me. If the truth be told.

Truth always hidden, rears its ugly face, science. Knowledge at the gate.

Remember, I live to fight another day, words, the might of a paw.

Obey ignorance. Lack of logic and reason. Life as on a stage.

Life is but the law, always changing while running, for I must be bold.

Bromide ~ Sunday, July 9, 2023

Platitudes matter,
such thoughtless banality
where words are evil

Lift up the curtain,
intelligence is surfeit
best to climb a tree

Arguments pointless
arrive at same conclusions,
the sound of a voice

Twisted ancient karma,
consequences to actions,
there is no devil

In a word, action
affirmative, Your Honor,
Mr. Chief Justice

Tell you no lies, truth
hidden in she with knowledge,
without gender, plead

Until the world cares,
blue in the face, hold your breath,
up to you, your choice

Dig until Xīzàng,
free China, Tibet follows
politics, a hole

Evidence lies flat
a society unfazed
by the injustice

Supreme of the Court,
welcome to America
don't drink the bromide

Make way for the mules
clueless, they walk, at leisure
their pleasure, to talk

Ask no questions, rise
from the ashes, old phoenix
birthday flags, my pride

Take Stonewall and laugh,
history is no party,
AIDS killed like a hawk

Take Civil Rights, King
the jaw hurts so badly, here
the bullet kills, skol

Even on deaf ears,
these words become meaningless
raise a bowl, your eye

Rebuttal, sling mud
cryptic but not commonplace
castles in the sky

Lifeline ~ Tuesday, July 4, 2023

Nine Eight Eight. Call me
later when you feel alone,
confused, without hope.

Imagine a world
where people don't care, money
makes the world go round.

Not that they don't care
at all but specifically,
they simply can't cope.

Even if they could,
they'd spend their whole lives trying
to live like the Pope.

Even if you called
back in the day, before now,
before nine eight eight

I cannot believe
you wanted anything more
than death, the unsound

Guarantee to end
suffering with suicide,
so you grabbed a rope.

However often
I replay that day, I find
you suddenly gone.

To say you were sad,
disaffected and distraught,
sorrow set a date.

Even if I knew
how to help you overcome
the pain of your past

I cannot believe
God wanted you to survive,
to live, even thrive.

Given, you are dead,
and I, left without my friend,
how long must this last?

How long must I grieve
the mistake I feel you made;
that I am alive

Take me from this world,
not you, my beautiful friend;
you are not alone.

Call me, I'm waiting
to hear your voice, whiskey sour,
raspy, husky, hoarse.

Ask me if I cried,
it took me weeks, all alone
in my car, I wailed.

Left with my anguish,
after all the strange questions
I could not answer

Left with my desire
to understand your despair,
I felt, I had failed

Myself to help you;
as if I arrived too late
to cure this cancer

Even metaphors
fall flat in the face of death;
now, I know the source.