pleats

what green we saw that night. crackling flesh. and red sparkles. exploding in the night sky. spouting lava. of yesterday's freedom. and the trade of the unions. centuries in a shoebox. or a bell jar full of sand. the lights on the scraper are shimmering tonight. blood. dove. sapphire.

and there is a shuffle by the riverside. a merriment of sorts. and a cluster of eyeballs from the sahara. or the valley of orchids. through your merry kaleidoscope, look at the water. pantaloon of the tribes. and naked communism. a botch of justice. you call it order. you deluded idiot. if moralism is the norm, i will be a nomad. and scamper. and slide. and kill your authority. stab your tongue so you speak no more. the castles of tomorrow, in your city of dreams, will crumble in the quake. and take with it a million arms. those arms that gave you shape. in the nature of your holiness. in the god you believe. in the rhyme of rhymes and the lace of lace. and twirling jaws of seamless galaxies. what imagination shall swell. through man and womb. and your jittery lips. cold vagina. selfish sexualia. the mother of smoke. like ointments. the filthy grease. you call it balm. to calm the calm. and selfish self. twilight of lights. stitch. and sew. and hem. this nonsensical rhyme. the lyrics of rhyme. as they did by the shelves. in charcoal and oil. smooth as jazz. so raspy. so coarse. like saws and blades on leaden leaves. oh the rhyme!

this is your world. of yellow ponds. why yellow you ask? jaundice. they have lost their minds. they have no self. useless bodies that walk around. like empty bowls from the land walls. they cheer the mob. they want to be a hundred souls. compressed in shreds. they are the leaders today. what a spectacle of mockery. go, you say. go. go. impress your lord. oil his loins. impress. your tresses and locks. remember your pleats. and the beautiful smile. you cosmetic doll. of golden degrees. service they call it. oh you helped the roads? the communion of age, which exists by the doll shop? like bangle sellers. how shiny they look. dazzle your eyes. you value at least a hundred. its real worth of one. lovely. it's this world, little pebbles. show your show. even if you are a pauper dying of loss. for in this canvas of breaths, all you need to do. is cast a web of beauty. to knit a spectacle of gold. for if you fail, you will lose. the war will end. no one cares, little pebbles. you have to win.

finger prints

i keep having forks from that night. K V. when i stepped through the wood, rang the doorbell. it sounded like a cry. shrill. resolute. scary. like a wailing womb. its arteries pierced. and frayed with blue. you took me by my lips. felt my pulse. my racing beats. like violin strings in boisterous cacophony.

i felt your bones, that fierce evening. the shape of your nipples. robust and ripe. what a beautiful brown. like chocolat et lait. and your beaming torso. so symmetrical. a paradise of geometry. the tenderness of your skin. it smiled as i breathed. the currents of red. what crimson rage! your tender touch. silken fingertips. it played with my soul. like gentle hide-and-seek behind mulberry shrubs. with the smell of burning rosewood. and as i lay by you, a whirlpool of imaginings rushed through my eyes. dilated and choking. ready for release. like the gore of labor. the building tense. the rising drone. the merry chimes. and the reeling crescendos. they rise the lilt. to explosive histrionics. as the percussion rings and the violas swell. the cellos squeal with violent romance. and the artist by the lake. jittery with sweat. swirling paint on palettes and the skinless canvas. the easel broke, into a million frowns.

to the colors of sexuality. pray for your art. for yours is one i went to hold. you slipped away. through the sieve of symmetry. the antithesis of emotionality.

for if you love the moonshine, you will fade in thirty...

to you br

what a wet thursday afternoon it was. little puddles of flesh by the sidewalks. people chuckling. and muttering. and lifting their arms through the water drops. to hail a wheel. to go home. and cry. or heave. or eat. a dream, from across the seas.

it was the time when you and i walked on pebbles and the charcoal of a gravel. by the marble of temples and science. and the dome of grey where knowledge cured man. and on the bridge. and the illuminated wine. how smooth. how frail. like beating skin and flawless silk. that jar of red. the pink rosé. and amber smiles. the green and purple by the pond. ablaze in the night sky. through clouds of haze. and whirring mist of phantom minds. what a beautiful void. what a riveting tunnel. of gentle rhymes and quizzical minds. smiling and joking. like we were born in the womb of sand. a million years ago. holding fists and bleeding sweat. like feeble brows clasping fortune. whether you wrote novellas. or the catechism of breasts. by the sparkling charles or the smiling seine. you will leave the doors. of a greener castle. peeping and peeking through a veil of fear. i have your back. for if you fall, i will lift. as much as i can. with shattering veins and bleeding wrists, i will lift your soul.

for you can smile. when you are married and mother of three. and your ringed mate, your oath-taker, will flee the floods to hear your lyrics. of science and man. and the trickle of raphael. as painted on the tapestry of love.

welcome to the pedestal of dreams.

brooklyn brooklyn take me in

brooklyn brooklyn take me in. when at first i learned to speak, i used them all to fight. with him and her and you and me and it's just a waste of time.

and the violin rhythm rose. to a room full of cheering people. and a loud sound like a little thud. little Miss A's recital.

and i may have cried. a drop of two of sweet silver. the music may have paused. the viola played. like clapping hands. a jeering pale of lovers.

i miss your voice baby. you died and cried. in your purple cage. on the record bar. while your clasp. my clasp. we were headed south.

one foot in and one foot back. cut the tiles and jump the tracks. the avett brothers. and the mysteriousness of your headphones. what a cold cult.

even if they lied on your face. and scratched your fist with the rage. and violence of a dead father. you angered at them. and then laughed innocence. you shameless thing. how could you

and then you say those eyes have no patience. while you sipped the cup of liquor tea. and squeezed the death of a lifeless palpitation. a poor soul who has nowhere to go. and is at your utter behest.

and what made me vomit today. was not the filth on their corridor. but the grue of your soul. again you laugh.

city lights

it has been an interesting past few days. with epiphanies. realizations. goals. excitement. i don't know. a blend of things i'd like to do; i'd hate. a feel that i have lost myself, somewhere in the middle of a vortex of cultures. and i fumble on syllables. and crafty phonetics of a simple language. of the national tongue. of the dainty punctuation of a billion smiles. 

i write not for what i have lost. but what i want to retain. of your intelligence Mr D. confounding, in a simplistic way. your wild enthusiasm of the world around. what a sight to watch. i sigh. to myself. in my over-lit manhattan apartment. 

while those passers-by scurry away. in a haste. as if their lives depend on their meager footsteps. and the quality of their arms. while i stood there last morning, not in my apartment. but in the middles of the square of times, i smiled at my soul. it felt like home. all over again. and i have missed it all these months. the hustle of rhyme. the buzz of visions. the image of the wall street man. his throbbing heart beat. his mental debauchery. his elegant suit, tailored to perfection. lighting a smile. faux and hazy. for in his mind, he fumbles with fright. at the value of today's might and paper. oh the green! his left arm swings, in a perpendicular swirl. he is gaping at the hands. and counting stars. when will it be five? so i may say. i made a lot of money today. the day was good. but sometimes. the day never came. it slipped away like a feather of silk through the miseries of the forceful clasp. we'll look forward to tomorrow.

and while in illi-noise, i heard those bells. them that i heard. two hundred years ago. in the womb of time. reminding me of a figurine. of slavish life. but i miss your face. and your tumored breasts. the crest and valley of your human wonder. to B and D, thank you for your time. 

sigh. 

midnight forgery

for the forty-seventh time. i have failed. my patience. my reveries. ah.

and when i build up those little frustrations. it hurts my conscience. aches in tremor. and passages from a monotone. i used to read them. when i was ten. in a corner by the alleyway. crisp and clear. and yell at the costermongers. oh how dandy they were. and their ivory nails. painted with blood and margarine. beautiful gluttony.

i left you behind. and i do not regret it. at all. honestly. and the more i move away. i feel a warmth. it's right. and i take away what i told you. that tuesday evening by the lake. for you may go. walk out of my life. forever. please.

and remember when you murmured. they want you dead. i cringed in fright. oh what a world. i used to say. and the inflamed beauty.

god is dead. remember how you used to read me the words. from your little rhyme of nietzsche. those are gone. militated against.

twirl your skin and smile your print. i will go away.

friday the third

as you sigh, and wave at your future. wistfully yet excitedly. it reminds me of many years ago. when i was a little boy. in a sharp design. scratching nails against the marble. at the palace. and my wandered through every pocket of misery. ah. what a disaster unfolded in front of my eyes. but now i am here. across shores. tingling my fingers. in the motion of a beckoning.

and you should know who you are. to whom i speak. like a melancholic bludgeon split my soul in dainty smithereens. and i wait here. every day. across time and temperament.

and i dream of the martyrs. and brave souls. dead soles. scathing pain. and the fleur-de-lis.

i miss you. again. that is all.

midnight tales

i am writing this tonight because i miss you. like crazy. thinking and thinking about how to make this better. and i can't forget that evening. when i drew my life on the air. a-front your face. and you smiled and choked. and giggled and snarled. and patted my shoulders. with a deep sense of gravity and pride. it made me quiver in pride. in an undeserving armor i was given to wear. 

and i miss your heart. and your stoicism. and the pitch of your tongue. and the little scribbles you did on the white. i still have them pinned to my suitcase. 

i miss the laugh of passion. sliding beneath your teeth. your determination. and your courage. your bravery of might. your reels of sugary candor. i loved them all. and i miss it.

thank you for your time. 

boston

back on the pebbles. and the dry fields of corn. as i wheel through the lanes, i remember those beauties. and pillars. and tear drops. and laughs. of not so long ago.

and while i sat by the wood. and a sheet of overpeering glass. i have learned from your science. that you are the man. Dr B. and your creativity. has amazed and baffled me. beyond a yardstick you can ever perceive. and as you twirl and twist, your bone of endless energy. i squirm in joy and happiness at your capabilities. and how you pen your thoughts. and gesticulate. your tolerances and bouts of imagination. and raging creativity. thank you for your time. and your syllables.

Dr S. thank you for your time. and your words of the land. i will keep you updated.

Dr D. i'm looking forward to that garland of words. and your strokes of glazy acrylic. thanks for all your help

brookline phobia

let's say it was around 9 36 this morning -the reason i do not remember the exact time is because i still do not wear a watch; a childhood peeve that i have not quite gotten over yet -and i was strolling down to work in a grey-white striped button-up shirt and tan pants. my dress shoes -i had bought them around seven months ago from a store in vernon hills, IL -I have to add, make a very characteristic shuffle when i walk. i'd like to think it's not my messed up gait that contributes largely to this annoying noise, but i choose to move forward anyway. hopeful, yes. that no one would notice or hear.

however, this morning was an extreme. i call it extreme because i am still baffled, slightly mortified and uncannily whimsical since the event this morning. it's been two hours, almost.

this is what happened. while i am mindlessly walking down brookline avenue, i am randomly stopped by a square african-american woman. i look at her closely; her lips are chattering. she is muttering something to herself in a language that is definitely not english. her fists are clenched tight enough to crush the head of a five-year old child. and she's awkwardly checking me out. i am slightly uncomfortable, so i return the (dis)favor. i will not go into details. but most noticeably she's got curly brown hair, dyed awkwardly in patches of blonde. she's wearing an orange-rimmed pair of spectacles. she has a bible in her purse -it is jutting out through the tip of the zipper. and she's overweight. after a minute of checking each other out -she spits at me and tells me. your walk reminds me of that ghost my husband had. i thought it was gone. but now you come.

walk away from me, she says. tell me you're sorry. i knew i would hear you someday.

i paused. said sorry. and left.

ramble

you make me think all the time. and sometimes when i look out of the window. i see your face. as you wed. and reel. and dream. and push. and gape. and trump those mocking birds. out of the tall turrets -brick-built and bent.

all i want to say today is thank you for all that you have said. expected and unexpected. i'm in a weird mood today. my acceptor died. and my eyes hurt. my lips tremble as i scribble this on my blog. my mind wanders. back and forth. through and through. it's an uncanny feeling.

and i'm hearing the canon. yet again. in this cold dampen room, illuminated by rain and tear. i hear a faint whistle in the background. i miss you.

this lazy sunday afternoon

this is a conversation that took between a young girl, probably fourteen or fifteen years of age and her mother, a frail lady -probably in her mid or late-forties, with blonde-brown permed hair. the young girl, let's call her Ms L, is caked with make-up, on a sunday afternoon at 1:30 pm. in a food court. she is wearing thin heels, which elevates her height by atleast an inch or two. mother M, is in frayed sandals. she is wearing a ring on every finger of her left hand. and has a very eccentric smile. she breathes heavily, as she whispers some random syllables to her daughters ears. followed by a yawn, where she half-stuck out her tongue and made a click sound as she paused. she patted L's back for no obvious reason. and decided to have a serious conversation, i guess. in the Subway line, at the Galleria.

I am standing behind the two of them. waiting for my onion-flavored chicken teriyaki sandwich.

M: Hey sweetie, so I have been meaning to ask you for a while. But yea... what exactly is text messaging?

L (pretends to have not heard what was asked) : mamma, did you order your sandwich yet?

M (clearing her throat): yes dear. i did. i got a meatball footlong. how about you? oh yea, i was wondering, what exactly is text messaging, can you explain it to me a bit?

By this point, I could hear L release a mild grunt.

L: well instead of talking, people just message. What do you want me explain mom? stop embarassing me.

M (extremely nonchalant): oh but i'm sorry honey. do you mean, by this service, you can send me something i can read?

L: exactly, now let's go.

M: But honey, i'll miss your voice so much. i didn't know you could not hear the person's voice if you text messaged. oh my...what a pity...(fading) don't ever text me honey, i'll miss your voice, and.... ....

I was done by this point. L was dragging M outside the mall. that's as much as I can recall.

a morning

as i write this, i continue to feel nauseous and loopy from the occurences of this morning. it was a spinal tap, formally known as lumbar puncture. and it definitely is one of the more painful things i have undergone thus far. i make it a point to say, one of the more physically painful. emotionally, well yes -pain just doesn't randomly evaporate into thin air. but i had a weird feeling of joy and pain. combined. it was strange, yet satisfying.

i heard that the girl, a cowering fourteen year old, had terrible metastasis. she has a 90% chance of mortality despite transplant. so i'm not sure, if i should go ahead at this point. may be i should wait and give it to omeone who has a higher survival rate. i'm confused. and sad. and despondent. i wanted the little girl to live. oh well.

lab has been going very well. lots of numbers to deal with. people. moods. sprigs. emotions. arguments. laughter. spices. eye balls. fingers. nails. and scents.

and a lot of science