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April 26- In Bed Reflection

Lying on my bed, night seems like day

the purple leather sky, trance chirping

cardinals awaiting a lucid dream

this no ordinary night more like light night

imagining botanist contemplating exotic

sights like those outside my paneled

windows contemplating different states

of ever expanding neighbors

out of so much change the exponential 

realtor is born

with it’s light suit and pair of

bare nothing shoes. for bare nothing

moves but keep at the same

the rhythm of

one in the morning or

three in afternoon for purchasing confused ones

if only it would be stronger  than the first

cup of coffee they mumbled with

no vocal cords

those are the anomalies in time and space.

 

 

April 19- Clearness blues

yesterday, when clearness  abounded

houses are clean and the floors are clean as well

never clear, nevertheless

trying to satisfy contemptuousness oh

what a vicious cycle!

the burden of preparation, the other

road is always easiest, that’s what

shouts from next door’s paradise

willing for one last effort looking

at my reflection, an overcast

of a kind, the light blue

almost surgical gray landscapes

I cannot concord with.

Poem April 18- It’s no fun if you are the only one

It’s no fun if you are the only one

enjoying the rustling of leaves

in a serene night’s atmosphere

when decades pasts we imagined our boots planted

in new terrains of different hues,

for it’s no fun if only half it’s involved imagine

those lactose grain terrains filled with many different

types of boots some laced and some bare

dancing to the beat of a heart;

 

for its no fun, having to cover it all

with preconceived drapes taking different but

viciously  the same form.

It’s no fun being while few understand

while many take for granted  the bestowed

circuits,

the blaming,  the centralized programmer granting

good as dead impulses such as the

standing of mirages that promises something different.

It’s no fun if you are the only one.

Poem Day 15- Terrestrial contemplation

Looking outside my window, a truck

passes through avenues of brick layered streets

how subtle the oscillating motion of the whole

mechanical structure I watch from above through the slits

of albino blinds,two navigating taillights  passing

through the darkness of this terrestrial land

making rivalries with the millions shinning from the starry sky.

 

 

a

Day 13 Poem Hound Walk

Seizing the atmosphere of a fortunate thirteen day 

hound on a string, leading me to mecca

of chicken bones, and empty paper

bags of Mc donalds, or of the more

pious chicka filaaa who is kinder towards cows

unlike Ronald standing every 3 intersections

however on Sundays it does not  keep the secular hungry

but this mutt  on a string

does not know nothing about spearing cows

for chickens,  he just knows the smell of grease

an American hound indeed.

 

Day 12-Thank you Poem To My Deranged Neighbor

I came out early Saturday at the brink of dawn

there you came drunk and sad, two cops

proceeding out of the corner of my eyes

you tell me about your father and your handwritten letters

that will make you remember, because words are safer than

your memorization, when you came and spoke to me

the smell of friday’s night festivities wafted out your mouth

through most of suburbia-

myself tricked on your sad display of tears running down

your face I thought that I could make your day ok

but you followed me and interrogated me as

if you were a fed yourself

I answered all your questions for I was hypnotized

by your out of orbit stare; saw myself running back to my cocoon

where I felt as if i was out of place outside in space

you showed me the darker depths within myself

I guess you could say that you are a teacher of

unconscious souls who navigate at the brink

of sanity and derangement.

Thank You

a fel

 

Day 11- Writing As Prayer -poem

Writing is like praying that’s what Kafka said.

thus every night I write, each word ready to take a dive

into the ever changing currents of the river

no matter how turbulent, calm,  or precise somehow

they find their place in the formless stream, thus

they all reach the patient cascade which glides them down into consciousness

or oblivion, while the ticking of the old clock hands with every second passing

the creator now endowed with his manifestation.

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