God Days

 

Depression 2

You’re tired to the brink, to the collar bone
Sedimenting on beds and reclining chairs.
The long plod of life
As hostile as a mammoth scorpion
Reversing for a fight.

These are the days you remember God
When that stubborn strain of weariness
Regulates your movements
You’re like a potato, the couch kind,
Still the TV is too loud for you.

And those days shit happens
All you can do is to flush it all down
To the awaiting amnesia

Of a black hole God.

Moratorium

I KNOW MOST OF YOU CONDITIONALLY SUPPORT MY POETRY. (What I mean is the gossip or noise on me at that point in time will regulate your actions). I only know how to rebel against the liberal establishment that has taken away my most fundamental human rights.

Be yourself 2

1976, Asilomar comes to mind
Here when a moratorium was entered
By scientists to curb the inflammation
Of rogue scientists, making GM organisms.

Banished is just the way of the rebel.
And the rebel is found in those too comfortable
In their own shoes, and give scant respect
To the ways of the world. These lifeforms are so inimitable
Their genes are almost extraterrestrial
So alienated from the sheer boredom
Of queues of cattle lines.

And in that metamorphosis
Of purr to bark, meek to brave, you will only find a beautiful
Strain of an outlived dream, and an epitaph
That needs no flowers at the toe
Of the tombstone.

The bloom of wild flowers would do.

Translation

Dreaming

Messenger RNA to protein
Is a translation by a biological apparatus
Called the ribosome. We call this mechanism 
A dogma central to molecular biology.
We translate a sentence into meaning
Or a theory into functional practices.
We translate a book from first print
To translation, we draw metaphors
From living things and inanimate objects,
We glorify realities, fantasize the fairy tale.
We translate percussion to sound
Plucked string to strings of melodies
Stentorian voices to recordings
And laughter to a contagion.

We translate sunlight to a reservoir of vitamin D
Which in turn fortifies our teeth
And gives steel to our bones. We see
The first cherry blossom, the lonely tulip
When spring wakes from her slumber.
We translate pick-up lines into one night stands
Mozzarella cheese into toppings on pizzas,
Fine wheat flour into Battenberg cake,
Orange peel to bitter marmalade.
We countdown calendars, turning today
Into yesterday’s memory.

Our flesh translates 206 bones, 33 vertebra
And enumerable muscles and tendons into
Love machines. We pump from a maddening heart
Sending cascades down dilated arteries
And life blood to our combustion centers.
And we carry the pathology
Of our cataract eyes to our bedrooms
To translate a volume of Braille in embossed flesh,
Into longhand; to archive.

Banished

Be yourself 2

There are endless ways
Life turns sour, like when moratoriums
Are issued against a poet.

And still you dig deep, through layers
Of rock, to find that aquifer
From where all good things originate.
Poetic justice is only found navigating hostility.

And I’m like Salman Rushdie
Banished from all poetic journals.
Like Jesus was to the Pharisees at the temple.
And no God can help me at the hands
Of anthropo-gods.

And still that beautiful strain
Of poetry infects me. And I look at what lies
Ahead, that in spite of the lone voice
Seeking justice, there is something beautiful
Out there.

And possibility will always be
That pink ribbon waiting for your tug

2 Years Love

coffee cups

Broken fate like a twig halved in split
Oh the debris of storms that hit
Scrambled fate, no start or end
Like the Nile that passes the bend

And you, my lovely wife, can do no harm
Donning the shovel in your weary arm
The fallow was good for a renaissance
Leonardo was no polymath to the odds of chance

Broken bed springs and split ends
The torment of the flesh, never ends
We are always young for the blooms of the night
Like two spuds darkened by blight

Strange how the full moon has no scar
Like your face diffracted from afar
Now spread your wings like an albatross
While you pay your penance like dental floss

We danced the night to the outskirts of moan
Interfaced to a face-off, levied by atone
The pinions you swept beyond the clouds so high
Until crabs fell from your flamingo sky

While we look down the bathroom sink
Of yesteryear draining in perfect sync
We are no longer a conjecture of misplaced chance
How the fool’s seed bore the fruit of romance

Love Thirsty Leaches

Holding Hands Sea Relationship People Happiness
Holding Hands Sea Relationship People Happiness

My wife and I are about to celebrate our
Second wedding anniversary.
We have planned a dinner at our favorite
Italian restaurant in town where I know,
She will order the lamb lasagna,
And I the carbonara, seemingly set in our
Ways of what we like.

Still what I and she loves, is that strange feeling,
An accompaniment that is compulsive
And stores inside a palpitating chamber,
Fireworks that burns long and steady.
Every time, that feeling is fired, you see a skyline
That absolves you from the harsh realities
And transforms you to a greater good
Unproven by math. We are only leaches
Thinning blood and shooting each other a vitality
That never seems to run short.

And the two of us, we are all about,
The deft placement of a four-letter word
On the many sized tongues of our body

From where beautiful outreach begins.