O TO make the most jubilant poem!
Even to set off these, and merge with these, the carols of Death.
O full of music! full of manhood, womanhood, infancy!
Full of common employments! full of grain and trees.
O for the voices of animals! O for the swiftness and balance of
fishes!
O for the dropping of rain-drops in a poem!
O for the sunshine, and motion of waves in a poem.
......
They did not recognize me in the shadows
That suck away my color in this Passport
And to them my wound was an exhibit
For a tourist Who loves to collect photographs
They did not recognize me,
Ah... Don't leave
The palm of my hand without the sun
Because the trees recognize me
Don't leave me pale like the moon!
......
Millions of babies watching the skies
Bellies swollen, with big round eyes
On Jessore Road--long bamboo huts
Noplace to shit but sand channel ruts
Millions of fathers in rain
Millions of mothers in pain
Millions of brothers in woe
Millions of sisters nowhere to go
......
Should I be called Mero, Hero, or Romero?
The creator of Rome, or a sublime tyrant-
meandering in a capitalist maze-
where cows their milk drink and throw it up.
What am I but a swift melody
in the Lost Forests of Latin America,
never heard (do I even exist?).
Psychedelic experiences - extraterrestrial-
cruising in the Milky Way, on a white Toyota.
20% beast, 30% baby, 50% thoughts.
......
'and we should die of that roar which lies on the other side of silence'
-- George Eliot, Middlemarch
Dead dandelions, bald as drumsticks,
swaying by the roadside
like Hare Krishna pilgrims
bowing to the Juggernaut.
They have given up everything.
Gold gone and their silver gone,
......
How hard I try
To box myself in
To drown myself in ink
To paint myself with chalk
To find some definition
On a page
Who I can sweet talk
But really
......
i think it’s time
to set aside
the notion that i must.
devotion to a trust that i
should, could, or would
if just...
the notion that i am, i can't
i won't, will always be
the stories that i wrote and wove
......
I looked into the mirror,
And what I saw looking back,
Was the breaking of a girl,
Her face began to crack.
Her eyes drenched with sorrow,
Her hair a tangled mess,
Her body anxiously shaking,
Wearing a ripped dress.
......
“it’s okay” they said
“we all have our own path of growth deeply individualized by our past”
“to denounce who you were and to agree with your self hatred means i strayed away from my path, backpedaling”
“you were who you were and you are who you are, just as she is and they are”
“the ones who care too much for your journey and tread along beside obsessed with you lose focus of where they are going surely to trip on the way, taking a detour on a crossroad of unfated destiny, but that is now their path, again greatly impacted by where they were and where they thought they were going”
“a long winded way to say to each his own”
they told me this unsbject of selfishness or deviance
“i love you and we will go our separate ways, alleys, avenues, and one day i hope to meet you at the end of a corridor. you, ready with stories to pour out of your heart, i will sit there patiently astounded by who you’ve become beaming at the grace that our paths crossed”
Xxxxx.
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