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Yvette and I, we were once sworn enemies, for many acrimonious years, wasted hours plotting the other’s destruction. In our war of attrition, I’d be once proud to claim: I had the edge. That was until her one deft move. I saw her hidden beauty under the blue light of the moon. Now I no longer seek her destruction, only to conquer her, to drink love from her warm, supple, freely giving hands.


The mid morning sun is gentle and pleasant. I pass by the softest pink and purple flowers that quiver meekly at the periphery of my brutish eyes. I’m aware…but there’s a hole in my tongue, for I cannot name them nor the soft flutter of birds that startle me halfway down the block. Harsher words have too long colonized my mind. I think of the fires in the streets last night and the righteous burning of prisons and the flares that lit up the distant mountainsides like angry dragons. Maybe one day. Today it’s still a war zone here.


"Solitude did increase my perception. But here’s the tricky thing—when I applied my increased perception to myself, I lost my identity. With no audience, no one to perform for, I was just there. There was no need to define myself; I became irrelevant. The moon was the minute hand, the seasons the hour hand. I didn’t even have a name. I never felt lonely. To put it romantically: I was completely free."


Third World - 96° In The Shade

(via aidan-westrupp)

I was late, but I sensed it in the hollow grimness of the breeze, in the ancient summer reluctantly divesting its fire, in the strange new housemates cum ready wardens of the haunting lonesome dark.

There midst the city’s tentative civility, I contemplated a neighbour’s crossing, and a widow with eyes ringed black and tongue slurring drunk on sadness.

I pondered the wager of…
belated condolences, exhumed memories.

In the end, I extended ruefully the gravity of my silence.

The Passing of Sir Bobby

Bristlecone Pines

I wish to live as the Bristlecone Pines; If only to see the long splendid arc of your life. Too many the Blooming flowers So Soon gone, Stolen by…The lightening fingers of the blind.

There’s this strange feat in being human: One must hold on dearly…and yet always - always be willing to let go.

The Exiled

I return through the doors once denied me, Shorn of youthful hair and heavy with the accumulated wealth of foreign sensibilities. But I weep openly in the crowded streets, and strangely I feel alone, as if no one can really see me as I hail the shadows of family, and friends, and old memories, and all the walls stained and brittle with the violent winds’ passings. It is not now joy that I feel - but some unjustifiable indignity, as if trapped in some forever unsatisfying Noon day reverie.

Under the Ornate sky I rest. In the distance - a white flag…Your Dress of organdy allows me A Peek into a more beautiful vision. Away From the Doldrums and wars I see, Bright eyed and So open…the world with its sharp fangs is yet to strike. You lure me to the pond, Offering my bloodied hands Ablution; Though I dare not look up to face you, lest now I’ve become one of them.

Be Not Afraid


I am from a land of lion myths
and loud thunder
Land slides and the uprooting
of foundations,
Where governments fall come
the rain season
And storms of malice grew from
the cradling of mere curses,
It is a place of birth stones
magicked into death zones,
The diamond upon your wedding
finger, drawn from the
amputated limbs of the abducted,
Where all that was friendly
vanished into a shadow of such
villainy we hardly recognized
a past neighbor,
And the seas called for the refugee
whispering a promise
of safe passage amidst grim night,
But who could trust that which
does not speak save for
the conjuring of omens and dreams,
I know who it is -
the one with not even a life to lose
for he has been shown such
Hell he is no longer afraid.

I open up my mouth and all the old languages and all the strange old worlds slip right out of me; and there in mid sentence and now at your feet I grapple with the ghosts of all the places I have seen, all the gnarled loving hands that have gripped me, all the things I used to be; for even on this glorious morning, and though the bells peal, liberty has yet to make my death complete….

Take your precision weapons and stick them up your butt, Let them precisely aim at and tear apart your gut, That instrument which with glee you call a guided missile, Can rip to bits your liver and drip your blood with bile, This thing named War is ultimately about this - The destruction of bodies and laying them to peace, No cleanliness to it, just a widespread cleansing, I deplore all who turn its clash of swords into a mere fencing.

Songs of Ruinous Anger: Attempts to Sterilize Carnage 

i. I should have returned to you this morning, instead of boarding that well lit early morning city bus. How zombie-like with gaunt faces, sleep still heavy in our bones, we made our way to give ourselves to the moil of soulless work.

ii. I should have returned to you this morning, feet echoing through the dank, dark Philadelphia air, where fools and early morning runners seek to stave off dying.

iii. I should have returned to you this morning, raced through the familiar welcoming foyer, the cramped apartment anxious with future days, passed the mire of unpaid bills and sleeping shadows, to where I’d crawl back into the oasis of our bed.

Your skin succulent with the water of roses, the pure mist of innocent mountains, the life giving trees of

Your arms.
Your arms.
Your arms.

iv. Into your arms warm yet fresh with the joys of living to deliver myself…to be twisted into the gentle shapes of madness - all over again.

Dreams of a Cog

I need to find A Turbulent peace. I long to be Away from The machine, Myopic visions, The…smallness of screens. I long to be Outside in the quick pageant of days, Where pink sunsets - Unfiltered & raw, and Trees, Like majestic paupers, now Go a begging.