Unworthy 

The pot’s gratis

Is watering the basil 

The clay’s thirst quenched is

Only a happenstance

Of merit unwarranted

 Just Returns

“Only the closeted desire 

did not cry bitterly in the end”

She declared, as if I should 

Have remembered from a past life

A life, an inverted circle

Half drawn, its weak light sponged out

By memory’s intrepid night

Heavy,  a weighted blanket

On details, feelings, bodies and minds alike

The dark side of the moon waxing

In the dark, which is not exactly

The absence of light,

mining for that everlasting pain’s morphine

“The eggs, share with me”, he said

“If I do, she whispered, they will be hatched velociraptors, coming after you”

The circle was birthed 

With just returns

WRATH

The alchemy of action thwarted
A period, at the end of struggle’s endless paragraph
The final note of waves phubbing
This sustained scarcity’s offspring

Necessity of destruction’s fuel
And metamorphosis’s wing alike

Current emotion on one’s tiny universe 

Impotent Goliath 

David’s mighty rock

In life’s unforgiving arithmetic, we are the sum of our choices





“ Part of the radical work of justice is that we have to imagine something that no one has ever taught us before, but what’s fascinating is people do that all the time. They do it in science. They do it in literature. They do it in art.”

Disquietude

The sounds softened, disappearing
From the arena of daily hustle
The feeding schedule of the world’s
Images, goodies for endless gorging
Disrupted
The wilderness of fear and surrender
Had to be negotiated
Step by step

Spring progressed unbothered by
The demise of our naïveté
Greening the grey woods
As forever more
While caught limp
Between its barbed teeth
We wished death to be a lie
So we wouldn’t get lost
In the silence of time

FALL

Is

The autumn of attachment is
Passion wilting, cleaving halves
Mellow, softening,
Orange glow of canopy’s underside

Us

A carpet of convergences,
Woven of rough and plush,
Twin sides of domesticity
Our mushroom underworld of connection

As A Circle

Line - deceptive end is fraying
The journey now borne round,
A pregnant decomposition
Of Fibonacci’s serial fate

Never attribute to malice that which is adequately explained by stupidity.