Airplane
Paper is useful.
Give me paper,
I’ll help us fly.
A game of folds and triangles
is what you’ll get,
not what I give.
__
i saw us together in a crowd of familiar faces and a war broke out in my mind
it was the first one, all the knowledge I've attained after four years
of seeing ourselves together in a crowd of faces, breaking off into battle scenes
depicting millions of lives ended, thousands of homes destroyed, two nations
struggling still, staring into blood-filled trenches, which from an aerial view
map out into the veins and arteries leading to my heart, only to return.
__
how many lines could you read at once?
the same I can think of in a given frame of time
usually limited by the temptation to rhyme
which I guess defines these words as grime
you clean them with your mind cause you expect
to find something of meaning as you fret
you read this line and you regret
you read any at all.
__
i laughed once and met a man twice,
they weren’t the same man.
the first stood in front of a poster;
a red nebula in the background.
portrait and quote in the fore:
“imagination is more important than knowledge.
knowledge is limited,
imagination encircles the world.”
i perceive everything,
but it all slips into oblivion,
and still i am nothing.
__
An ism is an ism.
The criterion for enslavement is a simple definition,
a single word replacing a multitude of convoluted paragraphs
containing paradoxical dichotomies justified by the verbosity of the text; so what’s next?
The tragedies of ancient Greeks plagued by the mystery of life and death?
That’s as far as the West can respect the man of old, it seems,
though science says that prehistoric man could think the way we can today,
but someone who believes in God will say that’s false.
Cookie-cutter scholars full of dollars dance the waltz of life
approaching death at the speed of God, a concept undefined,
a promise of eternal life spelled in empty words;
I hear the tablet grind its ten suggestions across my mind like Roman laws
and broken teeth floating on a stream of blood that’s coursing through the streets, wetting the feet of cohorts fresh with death; with rotting lust they feel the right to rape the flesh that gave them life:
this is the ancient strife of God and man,
of generals immortalized in foreign lands as massive statues
of leaders plotting silent plans with words unheard
because eventually they’ll fall like bombs on Earth;
this planet falls but later rises like the phoenix statutes,
the laws of supply and demand,
it rises from the steaming ashes of a market we call free,
but when the phoenix flies it burns our eyes.
For millennia my people
have struggled with wild beasts we’ve pierced
with sticks and stones so we can eat red meat
and drink fermented wheat and barley
until our head is woozy with oblivion
and we barely cling onto existence
with a smile or a laugh,
with a sing song and a dance
until we happily prance over a cliff,
the spiralling abyss of nonexistence
which falls into our eyes,
falling at the speed of God,
with every fraction of a second spent
remembering the times our minds were fragile walls
and everything around it empty space
we yearned to fill with meaning,
looking for a purpose,
a reason to survive this endless fall,
to understand who we are,
to feel
that we are something, or someone.
__
The shadows are canaries.
Their tacit whistles are the songs of ages,
descriptions and reverberations
of eternal backrests.
A star or bulb is witness,
conscious of only itself in its frozen universe;
an accidental illuminator
of mysterious objects.
Seas of prisms are omniscient,
they have scaled eternal walls while standing on our shoulders,
gifting our avian shadows
the technicolor lining of uncertainty.
__
I seek to define context but with what motive?
Pen in hand, I’ve already defined that context—
I am self aware of my own motives:
I am writing.
In my mind the last page is already written,
the book has been filled entirely;
with an undetermined number of pages
containing a potentially infinite number of paragraphs..
I think.
Words are key(s). Sentences are locks.
Paragraphs the hallways that intertwine
forming matrices containing infinite possibilities
from which I could pluck a single truth...
already having the key in hand,
looking back, not knowing where to put my words
I stumble. Falling to the ground,
my body wrinkles to a sound and then you hear.
My death is silent;
there is no door, no hall,
no strangulating matrices intertwining
squeezing into being solemn words that pierce
like the abyss of existence crying at your doorstep
wondering why its daggers fly into my eyes
as I cease to exist.
Our eyes are blind.
Whatever truth we find
cannot be reduced to rhyme.
__
Lying half awake, half of me inside;
the other asking why we have to lie.
A lifeless corpse is crying out to know what life is.
Curses fly across empty space at the speed of light.
Days fly by, no time to waste today.
Marvel at the many ways of spiting sight.
Timeless hourglass sand blasted
Totem pole half masted
Hole in soul half empty.
Inner space is plenty
Vast tracts of absence sell
for twenty clumps of air.
Pinhole sand string streaming.
Time stops, still speeding
half of me is breathing
Cold sweat on my skin collected
twenty clumps of air, successive
gasps will never grasp
the meaning of our restless nights.
__
No juices to squeeze out of these crevices
in spite, I persevere.
Crushing fruits daily
without collecting a single drop is troubling.
Don't waste these chances to pour
your soul out of gas, is consuming;
a tired mind needs grooming, so
speak to me, I'm unkempt and
your words are like rakes
tearing through the knots inside my head.
__
I've been dreaming of a land far in time
and I'm afraid these words will never reach it.
In the beginning, when people first began
to contemplate eternity, few felt such a thing was even possible.
But the ebb and flow of cycles edified a mirage, encasing
all existence in a dome: the sky.
I've been dreaming of a place where I can look and see beyond the light of stars and into the depths of time and space. But in the end, what use will I find in this dream, having seen it all in only one glimpse?
To awake, in awe of all things true, but with respect to nothing, is, in the blink of an eye, futility, deceit.
I've been dreaming of a life of possibility where everything at once is shared, living in a world where everyone is scared of anything that moves unseen. If time stood still, who would be afraid? The hunter or his prey, both in fear of death?
Caught mid-flight, our thoughts traverse the past and loop unknowing, not in spite of knowledge, but in worst case homage to our race, devoted to a land made of footprints made of waste, crusades, and time again, the unmistakable face of iron will, fleeting as the unsinkable vessel: bound for the horizon, afloat on blood, sweat and tears for years to come: innumerable, unthinkable dreams.
__
Deep within myself I find the arrogance to make suggestions.
I declare that nothing seems as it seems, for what is is but a dream:
the basic facts, the dying numbers, all as good as steam: the stuff of clouds, a work of fiction.
Of this belief, proud I cannot be, you see, there are things no one could foresee:
the work of God or gods et al., the senses aren't good at all for knowing.
Relentless light bombards the mind with myriad showers deeming blind
our deep desires to free and be free, but not of choice.
How does wil feel, forever slave to thought, imprisoned in a word?
Will it see the light and blind itself if it escapes?
Released into the wild, will is like a child. Afraid of forms
which happen to be cells, will amidst confusion falls in chains again.
Knowledge is such violence! Can I close my eyes without knowing a thing?
Persistent, inescapable and precocious permeance, without it 'what?'
is no longer a question, but if!
If you could only find the peace of mind to read these words without a drop of scepticism
you would also find a piece of my heart embedded within them.
__
People say my heart is ugly when I speak of science, or at least that's what I hear.
Their faces talk so loudly when they stop listening, eyes wandering, me left wondering: 'why?'
Why these people cannot retain what I say is a thing of memory and its faults, I think.
Intrinsic to the nature of the mind, not a single thought goes unfiltered thrice, at least.
But you few who intently listen, without you I would be mute.
My love for you is certain, because beside you my heart feels,
as the rolling clouds, the rippling water, and all the things
we couldn't live without.
__
Sometimes I wish I could just write and write and write
and I just might I if I keep this up,
but luck, my friends, does not run rampantly on these planes of thought.
Misfortune wraps its tongue around my head and slips its secret whispers eye to eye.
Daydreaming daily doesn't detriment destiny's destination.
Absolutely ardent, automatically absolving any aberration, I
slowly became aware of my surroundings, and found her
beauty insane, exacting, profound; myself unable to explain.
Commands, commands, commands,
complex compositions convolving conniving crypts containing clean corpses
of men in suits and ties thinking of how we should behave
and how we should believe, or save our pennies.
Thinking that by spending credit we wont be lending our hands as slaves,
the common worker sits and prays, as they say,
and before he or she goes to sleep neither of them should weep, because
my friends, what have we become?
__
My head is a dry riverbed when my days are catapults on distant hills.
They pelt away until the riverbed fills—with unrelenting accuracy—
and when the day is gone, the sun starts after me…but I catch it just in time;
my eyelids are celestial nets and my mind’s eye is a roaring stream.
It tussles through the day’s debris and then a calm…
the sun falls through my eyes, into my palms.
A summary of the day’s memories—a ball of flaming sand
sifting through my tired hands, I smile and my thoughts linger…
like grains of fire trickling from the chasms of my fingers
into the roaring midnight stream.
The floodgate breaks, the sun is shining on the back of my hand
and the catapults are winding up their loaded slings.
Every day I hear birds sing, buried deep in the sand.
__
I pick a pencil to pretend I have class
I could be typing but this page is too inviting
and needless to say
I’m loving my handwriting as I’m rhyming
words without a reason
(treason of the self)
without a cause
so no effect
we can expect
will ever rise
from silent pause...
(a pause)
applause
applause
the silence broken
flattery has spoken
and my soul is silent,
tattered, shattered into pieces flattened
by a horse’s hooves; the clapping on the cobblestones—
I get it’s understood: the soul is silent,
but with the heart-ache beats a roar of lions,
the lions eat the poor and starving,
the starving eat their souls.
The cage is empty,
the plague is plenty,
the age is twenty,
the rhyme is gone,
the climb has come (again)
the bee has stung (a friend)
the tree has wrung (a trend)
its twisting roots (offend)
its falling fruits (pretend)
its dying corpse (a scent)
its fallen husk (a tent)
with flying bark
with splintered art
with smell of musk
a brutal force (descends)...
the starving eat their souls.
__
fallen silence
rising action
break the plywood into fractions
rising dove above the stage
a piece
a mind of minds in peace
resting boss at loss in rage
I found
I clowned around in Greece
I slipped the sound between the lines
I flipped
I found a piece of mind I gave
I took before my grave was laid
inside a cave where puppets hung
the shadows clung to the walls
the falling action crawls and creeps
the lightning falls
the lying weep
the crying sleep
the sleeping bawled
while darkness aged
perfection found in what we crave
the lightning sound had shot the town
a couple more wait for the call
the living fall
and rise again
let’s comprehend
the thunderclap.
(applaud)
__
Oh, how commonly senses fade away when matter
sways towards men of lust and women of spite
as weeks go by without a word between them
to remind them of their true beginnings.
And in the end, if there is such a thing, he will
carefully formulate sentences and arrange them into verses
for her, because words, my dear, are the only things I have
when you're gone, and love, the only thing I can feel
wherever you are.
__
Every piece of writing is a work of art
you just have to look hard enough
you just have to stab a hole through this paper with a needle,
hold it to the light
and see a human egg.
__
Past the sky,
elevating unprecedentedly, he looked down past his feet
and saw familiar forms shrink into black dots,
and all he could think of was how they would smile
while they looked eye to eye, or simply heard their words
they would struggle to remember every passing moment,
conquering every meddling distraction, wavering absurdly
for their words rang of truth, if only for a moment,
as they too wavered, but slowly enough so that
they may not escape their grasp.
__
I caught your silhouette as beams of light rained down the crevice of our destiny.
It was fate for you to have the upper hand though I knew you would not move.
When I lifted my foot we heard water splash amidst the sound of drops.
We both froze as darkness fell below a lazy cloud.
From this house of ice we would emerge numb and desensitised,
only to travel as the sunlight which would melt our prison
and ultimately expose your identity to me.
So cleverly I plotted this escape from the bowels of obscurity and pain
amidst the howls of coyotes prowling under light of moon
__
thousands of armed men set against each other are not meant to live in peace
every day I wake up with a weapon in my mouth without the need to slay a prey
misunderstanding is a painful situation when language is the cause of miscommunication
__
The freedom we’ve always wanted is here.
Given the choice of “we” and “I”, I’ll stick with "us".
I won’t forget to save this year and keep it
safely in my pocket when I board the bus
destined to the shackles of fate.
(They fit on us loosely)
__
To delimit the confines of any struggle is somewhat incompetent
Somehow, I believe that all things can make a difference
Apart from the casual, often colloquial expression of the mind,
it would seem wholesomely fit to render such smooth, slender designs
into the nature of deconstructing sweet delights from mere empty space.
Usually I would wonder how much time it takes
to accomplish writing a page worth your time.
As I continue to ponder on, I think of death as my release.
It smells so good to rot in the freshness of our daylight; I wait for it to shed.
This decay is the nothingness from which resentment bled.
It spawned within our mother’s womb and tore itself to shreds.
I think of death as my escape from these overtones of red
which fall before my eyes like a façade.
I tremble in awe at our existence.
When we grasped the twisting vines of life itself we failed to feel the thorns of fate escape from wounded hands.
Why is everything so calloused?
Why am I what I escape?
__
The sun rises every day;
the horizon an arc of flames,
the sea a cloud of vapor,
the sky a forest of clouds.
Every morning the forest burns
a noxious glow of pink and gold;
the sky a pool of blood,
the sea a rolling stream.
A thick fog settles in between,
the horizon now a smoky veil
with the sea a pile of ashes;
the sky bidding farewell.
It waves before its voice;
the land is blinded by a flash,
deafened by the end of time.
It slips into the sea.
The Earth is drenched in blood,
powdered in ashes.
The sky trembles with each strike,
lightning crumbling into thunder.
A farewell echoes in the stars.
They watch the sky become the sea;
clouds condense into silence,
raindrops fall onto a scab.
Everything is one.
Every night the moon is born;
the Earth a clotted knot of ashes,
glowing red like burning skies,
but frozen like the midday sun.
The moon dies every day;
the sun is an assassin,
cold like Earth is blue,
but blind like land at night.
The clouds are thick and white,
the sky is blue, the forest green
like light reflected by the leaves
that rose from ashes overnight.
Life is a beating heart.
The sun gave it to Earth;
the light of day a kiss,
the crescent moon a smile.
A farewell echoes in the stars.
Good day to the rising sun;
it melts into our blood,
though we watch it from afar.
Everything belongs.
__
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