He recognized
the two 't's
in the word
ro tt en.

They were
served to
him twice daily
along with
foul-smelling
muffins.

Why is it that I always find respite in poetry?

The question echoed
against the
dead of the
night

But that's all it did.

Another question, another poem
(another night) 

 
In spite of all the light
or because of it

There were dark corners on the
sky and in the streets
Amidst all the clear open spaces

He liked his nights to be like this -
in spite of the deceptive clarity
(or maybe because of it)

everything you fed me
last night

words songs a bit of yourself

I threw up (out)
this morning

(involuntarily).

In that puddle
I saw your reflection

and I thought

I love you too.

And he must have been insane for having lived his life by his favorite book of poems. Each poem sending him in a different direction. Lost. He smiled. Still. And cried too.

…

He liked his poems really short. Real. Like fleeting moments. Like random virtual conversations with stranger friends in spacious blue-bordered white boxes. A tiny photograph ( Read more... )

in this
our moment of separation

(for me)
angry agonizing infuriating

you smile
because your mind is stuck in a warp

where you think you
have got me

tied-in
so flawlessly

not a single visible knot,
perfect handiwork, (you think).

But that image of you
and of I
and of half a dozen others
is the image
of a lie.

The two ‘t’s that bind trust
together
are truth and truth

my truth, as the teller
and yours, as the listener

yours, as the teller and
mine, as the listener

But for your weakness for talking,
and never listening

We might just have had an
interesting time
together
reversing roles

Everything's fine
everyone's dead.
Nothing to worry about
anymore

I can go shopping
for as many Saturdays
are left

according to that anonymous
email.

was an affirmation

of that little boy

who lived on the

street-

saying,

that piece of earth

is mine.

and it was

no less than

divine intervention-

soon enough

a whole puddle

of rainwater

was his.

a piece of

my painting

remained inside

of me.

a blue sun,

a white

skyscape,

grey smoke

and black buildings:

on plywood.

a blue splinter

got stuck inside

my wrist.

nature,

disagreeing.