by fading light

closer each day
inside quicksand
unable to extend hands
to the previous generation
or the next
or understand my futility
it grows the understanding
that no one’s coming

hollow woman

she was born many years ago, and she lives still, her face cold and wet, food flopping through her pointless
her children are born tired and old, her hands 10 years older,
there are no buyers for her misery, so many to sell her more
she doesnt see words and places, only a seething anger and blindness, her own, her dawn is pale and bloodless
all of her anger she fed on last night have rooted her and glued her she feels a shivering ache in her skin sometimes
just her only her, with the mockery of a thousand songs she never heard
her senses dim blissful sometimes, blighted others, ready at all moments to sleep sleep sleep and never wake
she is held aloft by sticks and stones, if it werent for them, her dream will transport her
into a magic kingdom of living, loving and laughter, with caring and forgiveness, trust and giving, beauty and peace
these words roll off her tongue freely, but no sound issues
she has run this rut far too many times to count, and the damage now is beautiful and permanent and so quick, so damn quick, she can be reduced to nothing in less than a minute, and no voices, not one voice will ever ring out in support or courage, she was born in a diseased pit with a curse on her tongue, and she hugs it close, for she clings to the wish of the damned, to not be unborn

the stuff of farce

inside a little house that grew bigger, with more on the floor, writings on the wall. mornings with the superego that flew into the air and overtook the jackass who started it. always someone else. evenings a few flights down, with the tv, food and argument. the occasional celebration filled with tense labor for obscure satisfaction. the stairs always grow longer, the bigger house has lesser people inside, their voices like mine, muted and scared. the smaller house had more fire. but they fit with each other, in alarming synchronicity. the tempo always of trying to squeeze more life from two hours, with a tenuous anchor to look forward to. the occasional disaster to switch from obtuse to acute. a continuous heartbeat of choice between now and the future. discontent and fatuousness. a growing assurance of the lack of meaning of any pursuit not accompanied by the music of money, the approval of society. as if our whole existence depended on it. footfalls filled with averted eyes.


of dark and dreary things

not quite so compelling
as the reflection of the moon
on the blade of a knife
if only, if only
not for a hackneyed sense of courage
add on and on to a cautionary tale
a dammit, why not me
back again to cold fear
how does one fill a void
with a child
and the answer continues to remain
a wild cessation of material
and very very carefully


“the reflection of the moon on the blade of a knife” is a phrase borrowed from one of my favorite poetesses – Sharanya Manivannan

red night

to draw a neat circle
around the facts of life
that there are still days
when theres no one at the helm
and life is real and urgent and ticking
through days years lifetimes
in agonizing fear of decision
trundling along on my little broken flotsam boat
living on my little piles of assumptions
unable to tell right from wrong
gathering speed with each darkness
gravity with every loss
windchimes along the age lines
slower less possible less apparent
all I hope for is to forget
and keep forgetting