Wisdom ~ Monday, 12 March 2018

The hardest part about

writing a poem for

readers is knowing what

Works to excite their brains

the surprise they long for

like a twist at the end

If I knew what readers

want what clicks on the page

to make their fingers snap

To make them jump for joy

run around in circles

bark raving mad a mutt

Caught between chasing cars

rubbing their dirty ass

on the grass or sleeping

Hell yes the reader is

a mongrel that eats shit

and dreams kicking her paws

Maybe I am wrong but

you'd think after thirty

years I'd get how to write

Under no conditions

does a writer figure

out what works best to send

Slippery is the slope

of logic to know why

someone else gives a crap

Created equal people

are equally stupid

equally smart as time

Leaps forward and backward

as girls skip double dutch

boys play hopscotch weeping

Each day of their childhood

is numbered until wham

adulthood and its laws

Racing around a track

I run to figure out

why we are here despite

Understanding what love

the meaning of our lives

entails without money

No one cares if you drink

smoke curse since you can't help

no one else in this life

No one cares if you write

for yourself or others

or if you got a dime

Enter the world of bliss

ignorance politics

laugh though it's not funny

Remember language burns

my mind aflame brighter

than Baghdad full of strife

Hollow Inside ~ Sunday, 11 March 2018

Welcome to Pandora

in a box when hindsight

rarely helps Detective

Epimetheus Brown

solve any cases known

as cold case files the dead

Left riddled with bullets

puzzles his desk with stacks

of unresolved murders

Consider his brother

Prometheus lucky

knowing just how to live

Only to face each day

his fate his punishment

within his own prison

Made for holding such men

known for their titanic

faults each in their own way

Enter their character

background and files appear

on the computer screen

Their crimes are ego-based

their personalities

attached as neck to head

Only a guillotine

could remove such hubris

from their well-known blunders

Pretend you never met

these men of ambition

though their ubiquity

Adds their names to a club

where they wear their status

on their sleeve as is done

Nowhere else but circles

such as their own a club

where no one gets a say

Despite the fact they all

have their chain of command

none are considered green

Officers in a corps

not military-based

with a pat on the back

Recognition is made

rest assured their handshake

means more than a fist bump

Argue not with these men

they are hollow within

these men without pity

Insane as social fools

accept privilege as theirs

to carry like a sack

No one feels their burden

their need to stay on top

and make lesser men jump

Arab Nurse ~ Thursday, 8 March 2018

Nurse Noor her eyes reflect

light back into your own

twin stars near a black hole

Energy radiates

from her presence sorrow

from the pain on her face

A bandage wrapped around

her head below the eyes

each iris limpid pools

Resolved to do her job

she learned to overcome

eyes probing staring cold

Take for instance the case

of the bald caretaker

who could not know her luck

Her fortune her eyes spoke

her son cut off her nose

there the bandage felt flat

Even a blind man feels

the hollow underneath

but she herself could see

Crass casualty coarse

brutal as a dull blade

she understood her place

As a Muslim woman

outside the zenana

she learned nursing at schools

She did not mind the stares

of curious children

who would ask if it hurt

Killers of both spirit

and the soul adult men

saw just an ugly duck

Even the old woman

inside her closed casket

felt nothing but said scat

To frighten Noor away

Maman would rather die

than comfort a queen bee

Wasted beauty burdens

covers of magazines

as runway models walk

Across the long catwalk

at every fashion show

this too was once her work

Still Noor cannot complain

her present profession

allows her to assert

A certain dignity

to the process of death

as if she were to talk

Never divulge secrets

of angels who appear

before the front desk clerk

--

"Near the casket was an Arab nurse in a white smock, with a brightly colored scarf on her head."

"The nurse stood up and went toward the door. At that point the caretaker said to me, 'She's got an abscess.' I didn't understand, so I looked over at the nurse and saw that she had a bandage wrapped around her head just below the eyes. Where her nose should have been, the bandage was flat. All you could see of her face was the whiteness of the bandage."

p. 6, The Stranger by Albert Camus, tr. Matthew Ward. Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., 1988. Everyman's Library, 1993.

The Goalkeeper in Algiers ~ Wednesday, 7 March 2018

Albert to read your books

in the peace and quiet

of the turntable room

Behind a wall of noise

only I can listen

to with my headphones on

Silence beyond it seems

a pantomime of light

against living matter

Underneath my bunker

feeling invisible

I hide inside the gloom

Reading words in English

translated from the French

stealing but a moment

Delving into each book

with relish the sorrow

I stuff down deep inside

Sitting between classes

on campus in Irvine

my first and only year

In college at Irvine

after which I withdrew

as if my mind were gone

Left to read your novels

short stories essays plays

at home like a squatter

Even then my childhood

shrieked at the accident

of my birth and my life

Not until I finished

all the fiction you wrote

did I note a movement

Trapped inside my guts deep

within my abdomen

I felt a hint of pride

Rebel in a punk band

my parents could never

understand the stripped gear

Ever present my car

a four-speed manual

transmission could not reach

Veritably beyond

what was given my mind

could only imagine

Onwards and upward gears

the future would display

along with my hard strife

Long ago I struggled

against conformity

born a stranger to teach

Tomorrow's lost children

how to reclaim their soul

and strive full of passion

Horseman, Pass By ~ Wednesday, 7 March 2018

Headstone leaves a message

beyond the grave to cast

a cold eye on life marks

Our time as short long days

at work for low wages

until retirement death

Retire with what money

nothing in our savings

accounts except cobwebs

Strange how we live waiting

for our luck to change but

no one notes the skylarks

Entertaining warnings

to wake early sing songs

to celebrate each day

Mentally we took note

of the obscure speech acts

rituals deep with breath

Answered with dire warnings

of our own to destroy

the planet from Zagreb

No one heard the poet

command cast a cold eye

on life on death horseman

Pass by above his grave

these words etched in limestone

live on in verse to say

Ask not whether to live

or die whether this life

or the next has meaning

Search your conscience to see

whether your soul is free

whether within you're clear

Sighted or not to know

the difference between right

and wrong with time being

Borrowed from the horseman

who draws the hearse behind

with corpse upon the bier

Young or old matters not

to the coffin-maker

who measures each lifespan

Black with Honey ~ Tuesday, 6 March 2018

Black coffee with honey

squeezed from a plastic bear

in a white cup no cream

Liquid dreams sustain years

working at dead end jobs

at nightclubs and bookstores

As the years slip away

decades pass in a flash

nearly fifty next year

Cashed in my youth to laugh

or cry at misfortune

so bitter I could scream

Kiss the girls say goodbye

never was a rock star

in hotels a quick fuck

With a groupie or two

the life of the writer

rarely opens such doors

Indecent proposals

from affluence and cash

where motorcycle gear

Trades for a suit and tie

life on the road travel

around the world observe

How other people live

within their tribe and town

description specific

How people eat and drink

dress and dance to music

always familiar yet

Ontologically strange

as phenomenal acts

different in appearance

Nothing I know first hand

as a correspondent

in Nepal or Tibet

Entertaining landscapes

where to find adventure

with perseverance

Yonder mountains call forth

to climb or to study

patience the will to serve

Aesthetic Theory ~ Monday, 5 March 2018

The beauty of being

alive is when you're dead

you're no longer alive

However I don't know

what it means to either

be alive nor be dead

Only if the latter

leads me to the ladder

between this life and death

Under no condition

do I presume to know

how it is we can thrive

Generally pennies

don't make a millionaire

unless my chance to shine

Happily with my girl

to be husband and wife

or whatever we want

Only to break the rules

or to play by the rules

means societal games

Notwithstanding the love

and marriage industry

my own divorce was thread

Legally when I signed

the state certificate

to wed my final breath

Your love of love to laugh

in the face of morals

taught by Church and the State

Indeed the conditions

to make money in fact

is our status divine

No one knows the meaning

of life karma and death

better than one who haunts

Mumbai's streets since I left

like a doppelgänger

my infant twin who blames

Ubiquity code name

for God mortality

the prison house of souls

Mysterious language

games my deceased sister

my own fraternal twin

Bombay accepts her ghost

like so many other

dead souls flat tires deflate

As spikes puncture rubber

shells the meaning of life

cracks like ceramic bowls

I imagine the lies

I tell are pure fiction

whence I commit a sin

To Slay Goliath ~ Saturday, 3 March 2018

Cantankerous old mule

lives by the iron rule

never golden old school

He controls by his word

comfortable with his weight

to throw around to boss

Executive in style

more executioner

of happy go lucky

Front of house staff he acts

the bore stiff and genteel

lacking culture and cool

Shibboleth he can't say

no one gets in his way

he may ruin your day

As you pass before him

you mean no disrespect

to say hi to a friend

You may not think you stepped

on his toes so to speak

but he freaks when he growls

Saying cold tone it down

you may get excited

happy to see old Soos

Tone it down tone it down

rattles inside your head

Bourbon from Kentucky

Opens the dialogue

as words pour from bottle

to Old Fashioned tumbler

Never would you dare speak

to confront the head chef

when honey paves the way

Even lowly peons

without rank or status

steer clear not to descend

Inside the cavernous

belly of a blue whale

for even if you howl

There is no one to hear

your cries of sheer terror

in this house of horror

Descend into madness

into other's control

it starts to take its toll

Only you mustn't say

a thing take the high road

against such a grumbler

Work is all politics

to survive you must get

along or face slaughter

Never use your freedom

to speak bad of giants

David had but one goal

Black Sheep ~ Wednesday, 28 February 2018

Account to whom what choice

did I have growing up

with hypocrite parents

Case closed never open

disguised so none could see

the lies behind our doors

Creatures of bad habits

drink to excess often

somehow make it to work

One and all loved father

but me his punching bag

pugilist without sense

Under circumstances

beyond my own control

I your second-born son

Nothing but second rate

under your roof I held

much promise for trap floors

Tamed as a wild monkey

you always said you found

me in a basket words

Absent of love malign

and malicious you chose

family on your own terms

By chance our paths diverged

you stayed near warm weather

I found all four seasons

If I mattered to you

I never knew you felt

anything but deep shame

Labels by the doctors

you took me to needing

no second opinions

If your sister were sick

I could be sick as well

nobody was to blame

Take genetics as fact

I was given no choice

thrown out like spoiled onions

You spoke often about

accountability

see red flags hear alarms

Cosmic Dust ~ Tuesday, 27 February 2018

Tonight, on my way home, walking after dinner at work and a shift drink, I saw a shooting star. I did not know my heart well enough to wish big or small or not at all. In effect, I observed the event as a type of strange coincidence. I spoke with a buddy at work about my string of bad luck for eight years. But only one person matters through thick and thin who is my rock and friend. My girlfriend supports me as a man treads water trying hard not to drown. If I thought of my mom and brother as the star flashed brightly above me, or money or world peace, none of it holds water as my love keeps me safe, watching me tread water, to raise myself above those hurdles of my past. Obstacles lose value as time move forward past the present always gone. The shooting star compared to you means nothing but hot air and gas in space. A ball of flame and dust. Thanks to my sweetheart, Pam, I know the real difference between a cosmic fart and living here on earth. I feel grounded, my head not so much in the clouds.

Speechless ~ Tuesday, 27 February 2018

In my rearview mirror

an angel steel blue gaze

with a gun in her hand

Nothing to do but drive

not sure where to but she

puts the gun out of sight

Me I'd drive fares to hell

and back for this beauty

then she says other way

You get the gist I drive

not sure where then she says

stop wait like falling sand

Released from her control

I think for a moment

to flee get away fast

End up engine silent

unril she becomes real

again in my back seat

Angels don't just appear

as if falling like rain

from the bluest of skies

Remember my angel

entered my cab soundless

field mouse clutched by a kite

Very much how I felt

like death was immanent

at the end of each day

I thank the universe

for my pathetic life

to show my gratitude

Even though I don't feel

grateful to whatever

for this life for my past

Wish on a shooting star

I don't know what to ask

a reprieve from my beat

Maybe she knew my past

intentionally found

my cab my web of lies

Instinct told me to run

get away while I can

but this kite clutched the mouse

Resolved to eat her prey

or feed her brood my flesh

torn apart limb from limb

Really I never saw

her wings her reflection

in my rearview her mood

Ordinary people

don't have her attitude

her focus made me douse

Real flames within my heart

with gasoline I sat

rapt ecstatic and dumb

Willow ~ Monday, 26 February 2018

When forests burn I learn

to look within to see

the inferno inside

I rage within this cage

I made solely myself

for myself called silence

Livid beyond belief

I ask why I am me

why I burn down forests

Language cannot explain

my actions to others

inside I feel no pride

Only when I begin

to let the embers dim

I feel a sense of calm

When forests burn I learn

to account for my sins

to accept my defects

Of character weakness

to overcome my true self

to conform to the rules

Remember I am not

like others I inform

the world in my defense

Defiance rules my thoughts

I offer you the bird

to which the defense rests

Ask yourself if you feel

none of the laws make sense

these are the trees I burn

I learn from my actions

not ever to get caught

let others buy the farm

No one can say I'm wrong

without saying my thoughts

make for social rejects

Missing from this picture

of systems of justice

is why an outlaw cools

Your glass of Scotch whisky

with cubes of ice instead

of lukewarm well water

Perhaps your bartender

has a charming appeal

a glint in her steel gaze

Only she knows what burns

best brighter and faster

than any star I turn

Strangers into new friends

from one bar to the next

I don't love your daughter

To settle down make roots

by the lake a willow

to cry before the blaze

En passant ~ Thursday, 22 February 2018

As we all know mistakes

made were mine mine alone

no one else was at fault

To blame somebody else

in place of me is wrong

I the child was to blame

Reason should never try

to make sense of events

that took place long before

I read philosophy

in college to make sense

of my childhood gestalt

Under no conditions

should any reader hold

someone else to account

My life I choose freely

I acted as I did

a child who could not know

That day I did something

wrong so wrong my mother

made me take off my clothes

Enter the atrium

naked from head to toe

between two doors a frame

Removed my nakedness

from the rest of the world

no one knows anymore

Really the facts behind

this event I was bad

as the bad son I stole

Observe my mad childhood

where I could not make sense

on which dark horse to mount

Race away from my home

from the terror within

myself as rivers flow

Threats like these were common

I made mistakes a child

must be punished to pose

Hereafter no future

threat to society

they must beat the child down

Realize submission

power within the chain

of command never rests

Entirely in the hands

of he who makes mistakes

unless to show the whole

Argument gets denied

as lies false memories

fiction read by a pawn

Taken off the chessboard

once captured en passant

life is full of such tests