Ex Nihilo Nihil Fit ~ Friday, 30 March 2018

Enter the world sleepy and bright
to search for a treasure

X marks the spot where a pirate

buried gold in a chest

Never to find that place I sought

I saw fit to quit yet

I could not stop my mind to seek

the hidden at leisure

Humble hubris unlike a bee

bumbles through history

If my time here on earth made sense

my mind could then seek rest

Lest I linger too long asleep

please pain me with regret

Only God or the devil know

the future from the past

Never to see in the present

the gift God sent as time

I always want to understand

the absurd from the real

Humble people bumble like bees

but not me as you know

If I could be happy and sane

cool and calm I would climb

Loping mountains in leaps and bounds

with long strides blustery

Forest paths wind with wind to find

the lost mind blind to heal

Injuries deep with emotion

the surface never shows

Take for instance the face you greet

deep in a well downcast

Saint Rahm ~ Thursday, 29 March 2018

I give up on this life

on family and friends

to renounce the whole world

Maybe I was not made

to enjoy this planet

as others do my mind

Belittles what I see

when others have their fun

smoking cigars or weed

Even I long ago

danced with Sweet Mary Jane

and like a cat all curled

Comfortably in sleep

I woke from my slumber

stretched and ran all around

I cannot say sober

life is for me whisky

adds flavor when I find

Life in this world too much

too grave too sad hardship

everywhere all who read

Even the local news

become inured to death

violence and greed cold

Figures in Chicago

sit over metal grates

in winter when the ground

Relieves no one of frost

heat rises from the grates

to warm lost souls with needs

In a city too blind

to care for the homeless

without shelters or beds

Never enough to save

our souls like ships lost

at sea my wallet bleeds

Green algae to surface

in the spring if I give

I won't suffer the reds

Eating at our bourgeois

establishments to say

Communists were once bold

Tabula Rasa ~ Thursday, 29 March 2018

If my word were my bond

you would not look at me

with disappointment scorn

For whether you were held

to account for childhood

for past mistakes and lies

Maybe you would then see

why I wanted to wipe

the slate clean at eighteen

You hear me state thirty

years later I would have

been better off stillborn

Worthless as an adult

hopeless as a small boy

in a home without love

Ordinary people

don't make a whipping boy

of one son for a prince

Reason states the first born

son is indeed worthy

more so than the others

Despised for being born

another mouth to feed

another child to raise

Worthless son second born

cheated stole and told lies

hid behind wicked green

Eyes clinical and cold

as hospital bedsheets

but of course mine are brown

Rely on a liar

to continue to tell

lies with the Lord above

Ever seeing His son

struggle over hurdles

obstacles ever since

Men thought to crucify

others for their beliefs

a river stone gathers

Yellow moss as water

washes over its sins

but how can a stone speak

Better off dead my word

is my bond as are lies

I tell to poor readers

Only to make mischief

for our deceased father

and old mother the clown

No one ever wanted

who tried to runaway

followed the path of weak

Despicable men men

of worthless character

like myself not leaders

So Far, So Good ~ Wednesday, 28 March 2018

So Far, So Good

--

Sunday, October 8, 2017

Old Farts ~ Sunday, 8 October 2017

I was born in a city of millions in nineteen sixty-nine but just three months later my mom dad and brother moved away to London even though they took me with them my ghost remains haunting those Mumbai streets restless soul runs circles while I run marathons summoned by the divine imperative to fly with wings of messengers until I return home aging eternally until I become one with my Tartarus shade

Endlessly wandering with Sagittarian parents we moved again Middlesex where I said goodbye to Amanda westward across the pond because my dad worked as a flight controller for Air India his beats asked him to move to Queens New York in Kew Gardens we stayed for just two years rest assured I was five years old before we moved under the sunny dome killer of flesh and blood melanoma city to the home I can't trade

As for Huntington Beach where I was treated as foreign I can't complain simple people struggle to make a living here they compete with put downs such experiences left their mark but my friends kept me in check their hearts assented to my own eccentric character warped by beatings and tears I live as an adult child of alcoholic spirits who wore the crowns like a king and his queen I never seemed to fit their family scheme old farts

--

Saturday, November 4, 2017

Pardon ~ Saturday, 4 November 2017

Without a doubt it was entirely my fault I am to blame for not acting sooner for not showing remorse for not showing up before death took my father away where flames consumed his corpse to leave ashes and bones enter my world of shame where everything I do is wrong like getting caught reconnecting with friends my father told me not to contact nor to meet yes Ricky lit a fire Andy and Louis ran I stayed to put it out 

Excuses aside thin watery excuses deserve a good thrashing xenophobia in Southern California made me say shibboleth countless times to fit in as a foreign-born son who felt both sticks and stones under circumstances outside my own control my father beat me good sixty minutes later I lay crying in bed never could I entreat either of my parents to forgive and forget wrongs accrued without doubt 

Life in America was anything but milk and honey this flashing into reality the phenomenal world lifting away the veil quarrels with brown squirrels never advisable taught me with whom to fight under no condition never argue with mom she endured like redwood in the national parks of Sequoia and Kings Canyon where to travail deliberate hard work would deliver liquid to quench fires of delight

--

Monday, January 1, 2018

Rude Awakening ~ Monday, 1 January 2018

Police break down the door 

first thing in the morning 

before we were awake 

Of course they did not knock 

but battered down the door 

with a S.W.A.T. team of ten 

Likely someone tipped them 

off to a narcotics 

ring in our apartment 

If we were running drugs 

we would not be surprised 

to find soldiers half-baked 

Calling out both our names 

to get down on the ground 

place us under arrest 

Evidently some creep 

in California called 

in the tip as a prank

Brutal tactics they use 

let you know you may die 

if you make a false move 

Arguments won't be heard 

they've come to trash the place 

to find and or descend 

To the deepest circles 

of hell to bring Satan 

to justice they were sent 

To handle a mission 

from the Father Himself 

the Almighty ruler 

Evangelical priests 

to announce the good news 

we did not pass the test 

Rely on an arrest 

to stick even as we 

learn about the drunk tank 

In good faith these strong men 

and women of the state 

brought us to feel the groove 

Niggas on the Southside 

know all too well the cops 

serve and protect their own 

Gather the evidence 

to prove our innocence 

against guilty verdicts 

Realize the system 

doesn't care if we're poor 

or don't like the cooler 

Arrive in state prison 

because lawyers don't care 

that I sing baritone 

Marvelously in choir 

at church every Sunday 

God loves all His convicts

--

Tuesday, October 17, 2017

Hollow Smile ~ Tuesday, 17 October 2017

If I cannot finish my degree at the School of the Art Institute since my funding ran out with one semester left and only electives left for me to choose from as this problem is mine and mine alone to solve as no one seems to care whether a poor student succeeds or gets the boot never mind the loans due whether or not I get a scholarship or grant dependent on the powers that be to remember I am not an island 

Accountability for my actions my words spoken written in verse this curse to acknowledge future readers their needs for protective orders to keep the texts intact out of context language twisted devolves measures granted obtain values perverse to change meaning intent to slide into propaganda political motifs emerge from seeds to plant culpable agendas for timid hearts to grow and follow false demands 

Blinded by brilliant light atomic blasts ignite the desire to rehearse impressive explosions of power and might anger is a god filled with rage killing the enemy creates the wind that strips flesh from bone to make ash ignorance has no place in this war of egos world leaders must abide notice the hollow smile before the courts of law key holders are not sage in fact the red button insists war must be waged and won bikini flash

--

Friday, January 26, 2018

Epistle to the Pope ~ Friday, 26 January 2018

Dear Pope Francis,

          After suffering from the flu, I came to realize somehow in this lifetime I entered into hell, I fell off the radar, no search party could find my eternal soul, damned as I was before birth, before my conception. I was born a Goan, an Indian whose name derives from Portuguese conquests in South Asia. My parents moved after my birth, their second son, from Bombay to London. After only three months, I have never set foot back on Indian soil. We moved to Kew Gardens, New York after three years, then to Huntington Beach, the West Coast, where I grew up in California, only two years later. Yes! My parents were both born Sagittarians, on the very same date, only one year apart. Thus, they were on the move as if I were a child in the military, getting stationed elsewhere every couple of years. My parents raised both me and my older brother to be worthy children of Roman Catholic and Franciscan background. Our Church on Magnolia Avenue was Spartan and not lavish at all. I came to cherish this memory as a fact of the tenets our Church instilled of poverty, of humility, and of charity but I, as a child, was wicked. I would never obey. Perhaps since my father found in the alcohol he drank after long nights as a flight controller a comfort not even his wife or his two boys could offer in exchange. Thus, I learned to rebel in disobedience to my parents who beat me into submission. And thus, I was conceived in Hell as the offspring of the Great Deceiver himself, a mythical creature, literary and not of biblical origin as I read. 

To act out, I lit fires, like a young arsonist, and stole from my parents like any petty thief. Trouble was my first cause, unlike Archimedes, it was my fulcrum point from which to move the earth. But trouble does not come with a lever itself. My whole life, I acted the role of the black sheep within my own family. I acted as scapegoat and as the lunatic, the crazy, insane son who can do little right. But then, I found my love to read philosophy in college and to write little, silly poems. Perhaps, I discovered I am a late bloomer. 

After losing my mind, as a twenty year old, I turned to Buddhism to resolve my issues with my rotten childhood. Sitting meditation helped to ground my thinking. I am now forty-eight years old, without children, but my girlfriend and I have four cats as our kids. I went back to running in long-distance races after getting laid-off at the bookstore I worked at for eleven long years in the basement under a seminary here in Hyde Park, Chicago. I started a Master's Program to learn Writing but have yet to finish because I fail to find funding to pay for school. But this is of little concern and consequence to me unless I can help rid the world of hate and power politics which plays on prejudice and even racism. 

But the reason I write to you is that you are the sole person who can make amends to nations to right the wrongs of past leaders throughout the world. Yes, it may sound insane but an apology made by you for each wrong committed by the Church throughout all history may make our small planet a better place for all the sentient beings to live in harmony, or to strive to achieve healthier relations with everyone on board.

My whole life may be hell, and I may be in Hell imagining my life as a simulacrum of what was in fact real but now is illusion, this illusory world of ignorance and greed. What can I do to get a Get Out of Jail Free card from Monopoly? This hell is my prison, this life is my jail cell. Death, I fear cannot come soon enough in my life to end the suffering. 

          Yours affectionately, 

          Rui Carlos da Cunha

--

Saturday, November 4, 2017

Happiness ~ Saturday, 4 November 2017

I never got the chance to say goodbye to say thank you to my father silly to think four years later that gratitude would wash away the pain language leaves me speechless the confusion I felt just trying to make sense articulating why I never got along with my dad why bother needless explanations never answer questions but cover grief with lies difficult to stay true to not accept denial the family way for years

lifting the veil of fear and illusion from eyes that remember childhood only as a latch-key kid could in solitude with only tears to gain never did I know then how long I would suffer before I climbed the fence ending years of trauma by family torturers amateurs in the art leave me with my sorrow lonely and all alone looking into dark skies yellow diamonds at night speak the length of light years black treacle to my ears

surely honey attracts flies better than sea salt as I know now I stood honestly with no chance to stand up for myself I learned to keep quiet only to bite my tongue because no one wanted to listen to these words realize alcohol affects the future lives of your children to start effective relations in love or for business young men's hearts run riot simply from the hormones flooding the brain and blood with the songs of bluebirds

--

Wednesday, February 21, 2018

Drowning ~ Wednesday, 21 February 2018

Tired sad and lonely

after leaving art school

for one year nobody

Remains in touch reaches

out to talk on the phone

or to meet in person

Under these conditions

I call fellow students

my cohort not my friends

Stupid categories

speak volumes about me

my mind and my moody

Trust issues transparent

to nobody no one

knows how much I suffer

Ignorant from childhood

of alcoholism

its effects on wisdom

Nobody said how much

pain and sorrow this life

would sow as dividends

Guessing no one can see

behind the obvious

facade now I know why

Nicolette the homeless

woman cries in public

crocodile tears offer

Only the smallest lie

before the full monty

if you pay for her time

But like the plague I walk

the other direction

knowing full well her game

Only money makes some

people happy until

it runs out then a crime

Decidedly must take

place call it poverty

by those who made their name

Yelling at underlings

to make sure jobs get done

stocks soar and products fly

--

Saturday, September 23, 2017

Grim ~ Saturday, 23 September 2017

The funny thing about losing my sanity at twenty-one is that in this facility this sanatorium in Santa Ana time never ceased to occur Operation Desert Storm took place while I slept gathering energy to return to the sane world of eaters of khat leaves and other controlled substances the people need representatives elected officials to tell them how to live like sheep in a corral

Society like sheep enjoy the company of people who fit in particularly sane persons not locked inside an asylum for crimes involving the harming of oneself or others as likely Jesús wept not wanting to drink bleach as a way out of hell but here he was farting asshole of noxious fumes while we ate in a room common preventative liberal by design to keep odors within even anal canals

Call it what you will but no one befriended this suicide case bitten once people become shy even non-sane persons like myself but mercy leaves much to be desired in a world without God outside our thoughts of Him understand I felt so much fucking sympathy for Jesús but starting miserable friendships inside an asylum like befriending Circe notably may create tension when my real friends transform into swine grim

--

Wednesday, January 24, 2018

Misterioso ~ Wednesday, 24 January 2017

Last night I died just like you in my sleep

Although I died from pneumonia

Still the fact remains I died the same night

The very same night that you died

Nobody knew we would die together

If they did someone would have done something

Glad to know no one intervened

However obvious the fact remains

That I died and you died without a plan

I could not have killed you not in my sleep

Did I mention I died of pneumonia

I could barely breathe with these inflamed lungs

Enter the delirium state

Did I mention I called the hospital

Just as I was falling asleep

Until they arrived with an ambulance

Still the fact remains I died just last night

Timing is everything with clear vision

Lapses in certainty

In arrivals and departures

Kings and queens at the gates

Enter my delirium to tell me

Yes you did call 911 in your dreams

Obviously it wasn't effective

Until the ambulance arrives just sleep

Insist you did everything that you could

Nobody needed to die just last night

Mercy comes in the form of an angel

Yes my delirium caused me to dream

Sleep can be calm or fever pitch

Like heaven or hell as we imagine

Enter the gates at the airport

Enter my illogical dreams

Perhaps I didn't die what if I did

--

Sunday, December 31, 2017

Goodbye Cruel World ~ Sunday, 31 December 2017

Just before New Year's Eve

I flushed a small horse-fly

down the porcelain drain

Unwittingly I spoiled

the guest-host relation

with disconcerting pride

Swift with shock and awe-struck

I watched the certain death

of a pest born to lose

Time runs out with sudden

unpleasant occasion

sensations in the brain

Bewilder my senses

I cannot flee or run

away or fly past nets

Ever losing balance

the tides shifting swirling

with a maelstrom effect

Focus if I focus

my ommatidia

I may not feel so drunk

Overboard I've fallen

into the salty sea

drowned in a whirlpool tide

Recurrence eternal

my death the same my life

exact I cannot choose

Event A Event B

or even Event C

it's all the same to me

Nothing ever changes

I've seen it all before

this life full of regrets

Enter the empty bowl

only to refill once

again as I expect

Wonders never amaze

or cease to fire synapse

after synapse once sunk

Your battleship since caught

in the crosshairs to shoot

a torpedo propelled

Exactly through the hull

a bullet through my skull

a horse-fly drunk with death

Ascertain this fiction

metaphysics delight

in knowledge of theory

Rewards of afterlife

unseen and uncertain

the curtain since dispelled

See my original

face beyond the veneer

of false hope my last breath

--

Saturday, November 25, 2017

Iris ~ Saturday, 25 November 2017

7:13 AM ~ Arlo flips the channels through PBS to see Sewing with Nancy. Remembering the obituary of her he saw yesterday, he exclaims, "She's dead!" But, out loud to himself; since no one else is at home. (Nan staying with her sister Mia at her place for a Prince memorial celebratory event with a woman friend Nan met online). And he imagines the strange possibility that his best friend from childhood, his mom dies at that moment of pancreatic cancer which Arlo had just learned about yesterday. As if someone could be in touch with another person so far away as to know when they die before learning about it from the family announcing her passing themselves. Either way, he's heartbroken to hear of Iris being sick for a year or so. He's not upset with his friend, Judd. He probably had Arlo's best interests at heart. He is an unusually emotional man. But one who is insensitive to the needs of his own family, and may dance upon the metaphorical graves of his parents once his own mother passes away. No need to get sentimental on her account. Too difficult to do so anyways. So sad how perceived abuse skews perceptions in the mind of the abused but not the perception of the abusers.

--

Wednesday, October 18, 2017

Looney Tunes ~ Wednesday, 18 October 2017

Tempers flare at age ten when I was arrested put in a holding cell entirely alone except for my best friend who lit a small brush fire maybe I should have run like my other two friends who bolted when police put us in the back seat of a squad car and drove to the entrance of hell otherwise known as wrath that would descend like hail pummeling me with fists righteous with rage and feet kicking my ass from one room to the next his ire absolute relentless his displeasure bursting from his ears like dry ice little did I know then how memories remain hidden beneath the skin

Paterfamilias pushes the envelope for assault without risk opens the temporal portal into terror this son worse than the first restless for attention negating his chances to fit in with others together his family formed bonds against the boy unconscious unrehearsed accustomed as they were to tears they were not moved by the little brother life under my parent's roof was not my own to share their love like blood flows thin

--

Wednesday, November 22, 2017

Talaq ~ Wednesday, 22 November 2017

Case closed no discussion to pursue no further inquiry or time spent on investigation on blind speculation on wild accusation mother brother father you threw the book at me no longer will we speak mutual disregard useful as a tactic with letter of intent on creating ground rules to ignore each other and move on with our lives not unlike a divorce your Roman Catholic faith will never condone

never will you accept apologies for past mistakes during childhood only you keep my deeds for future reference after dad's cremation reality shatters the mirror of denial removing the mystique made apparent by loss the death of the family patriarch leaves a hole a vacuum to abhor nature consolidate power in separate hives life with you was never normal never loving alcoholics disown

family members who act as individuals children misunderstood as eccentric artists often held to account for past misdemeanors maybe there is no line clearly demarcating adulthood at eighteen I don't care how the state defines when our legal obligations start clean lifting the veil of lies secrecy deception I resolve as my goal yellow with Dutch courage dad went orange with rage remove red at cleaners

--

Monday, February 19, 2018

Runaway ~ Monday, 19 February 2018

Tristan trusting no one

took to the road and left

town let down by family

Rocked by party people

papa held a bottle

of feni in his hand

Unconcerned about work

the next day his children

hidden away upstairs

Sleeping despite the noise

mama hands shot glasses

to the school faculty

Tristan noticed at school

the next day hungover

teachers too drunk to teach

Ignorant to the needs

of children the adults

watched the surf feet in sand

No one cared what happened

that day at school they knew

their teachers had affairs

Groping for the light switch

to pull in his bedroom

he decided to steal

Nathan's motorcycle

riding along the coast

to toast girls at the beach

Only he didn't know

when or if to go back

home as a runaway

Biker without parents

who could give him their love

full respect and support

Only he didn't know

where the road would lead him

he didn't have a say

Didn't care when to stop

to settle down take root

in the redwoods to sort

Yesteryear in his head

the fresh air in the north

gave his dream it's appeal