metropolitan art

walking through the art. you can almost taste. the strokes of brush. the smell of paint. it is almost real.

pictures: Met Art

twin blind

the lady beside me. her fingers are numb. she is blind. like her son. fiddling with a spoon.

after a pause. she held my hand. and whispered in my ear. feeling my face. can you tell my little boy how the world looks? i pass a gulp. a silent twitch. okay, she says. feeling herself.

can you tell me what my son looks like? he is beautiful, i say. just like you, lady love. he looks just like you.

he left me when the child was born. who can deal with the twin blind, my boy?

she gasps. hold my hand, i say. my name is T. your love for love. is real Mrs. J. let us give purpose. to this race. one by one. the leaves. the shreds. i will give you the lens of truth. those eyes of mine. but how will i see, the beauty of your face?

them old times

the temple of love is white today. it has snowed all night all day. i am not a snow lover. by any means. but there is endearment in this home. and it makes me smile. even though i love novelty. i love walking down new streets. i love my familiar sites. the restaurant where i used to eat. the espresso bar where i cried. the book store where i thought of marriage. and sex. and vile addenda. and i love visiting them each time i visit the city. i skip a heart beat, but it is totally worth it!

take two

leaf upon love. this time. the garden of crowns is afloat on the sea. little lovers on the bay. they tear their souls. their finger nails. like poppy seeds. are painted with oil. dripping, like blood. there was a carnage. that november dusk. that broke my heart. that stabbed your smile. what tears we shed. over electricity and rhyme. the cradles on the farm were ablaze with sapphire. a cold deep whirling blue. spinning like a top. swirling and twirling. round and square. the gown of shapes. and pantaloons of scent. the whiff of dawn. a new tomorrow. those lights have dimmed. that synchrony. the lineage of time. we talked about. is frozen. re-thaw. reuse. recycle.

with the re...there is a pain. an anxiousness. like dolls in a doll house. the artifice of symmetry. resultant. superlative. where did you compare, till you took to the shrine? and shaved your womb. and ripped away the caricature of your nipple-tops. the hair on your skin. is awash in the floods. as you patiently wait. on the turn of the re. the magnificent re. chance two. the re of repeat. one. two. three. one. two. three. those tears have no meaning. dry. dead. rolled into a scoop of indolence. and disability. dis- ability. a-bility. what? you question. where did my pulse fade away that morn. that morn when we drove to the rainbow of necks. grazing past a gelatinous arch. with faces of doom. wake up. wake up. wake up my little pearl. you have lost your sheen. wake up little dove. let us fly with your wings. take two in your home. in your menagerie of lust. in your brasserie of thorns.

take two.

bean town

sometimes. you just smile. you just stand in one corner. and remember. the times you cried. you laughed. the moon you saw. every night. when you walked back home. thinking of life, and love and cold whims.

it feels like you are breathing again. it feels like home. and you embrace the walls. and breathe even more. faster each time. you want to feel this air. so smooth in your nose. you want to hold the breath. and break the vacuum that built for months. and you break down. overwhelmed with memories of home. you smile. collect your tears. and keep walking.

and the gentleman in his suit looks at you. a beautiful black neck tie greets your presence. questionable belongingness. but you shake hands. talk about life, about the footsteps in the city. the legacy of dreams and dominos. the bridge of hope and the children of fate are asleep tonight. in the city of angels. ringing. trilling. muttering like we used to before.

there is a home. this is a home. which makes you smile. and makes you believe. those lyrics are awake. it's time to play.

divide

i have come to the conclusion that i am the most socially inept human being there is on planet earth. i go to a bar to meet all my sister's friends. while they watch the basketball game on the tv sets sprawled across the walls, i am thinking about activism. i take a napkin and start scribbling ideas about the united nations' role in alleviating poverty --part of it probably triggered by the book i'm reading right now. it's called A Generation Divided. it captures the elements of activism in the 1960's United States. what stirred our people --the young boys and girls, men and women to fight against racism, communism and big governments.

i will talk to someone, look at someone. smile. toast. drink a glass of wine. constantly thinking about foreign aid. how can we make amends to foreign policy. are slums inherently bad? what is the solution to this haggard infrastructure. who creates change? how do we legitimize change?

why can i just not be a normal human being and enjoy that basketball game in a bar, drinking beer and having a good time with friends? essentially socializing and not thinking about activism. i may have a disorder. i don't know. it's possible --i may have to hunt down my DSM from somewhere. yes, i'm pathologizing myself. story of my life!

yuletide

coming back to new york city makes me so very happy. every time. it never fails. never. seeing the sister, friends and family. when i walk around, it's as if i feel every step. there is a firm grip. and there is a certain confidence.

one by one, the lights turn on. jingling and sparkling. and there is a silent cheer. in every thing. and everyone. boy, it's beautiful.

i will keep this short and say, a lot has happened this year. lots of downs, some ups. a blend of emotions. never forgetting, yet moving forward. i say a little prayer for all the loved ones who are no more. little angels, today. they sing hymns to man. their voices, volatile.

there is a certain beauty in asymmetry. and i love it. art, for example. or scarves with tassels. bumping to an arrhythmic gait. and on the streets. i will sit and watch. peoples eyebrows. and the asymmetry and asynchrony of movements. so bizarre. so spectacular.

merry christmas.

all pictures by MDL

a-synchrony

those tales that disappear. are alive. and dead. in a swish. in a swirl. they are here. tonight. peeling skin from my soul.

the soul that traces a lineage of dreams. the dreams that scowl in ravenous hegemony. and the shrill of the timpani. the raga of stars. are asleep on the cradle. of destiny. and continents. submerged. as if your heart were on a flute. piping melodies of beats. the carousel of blood is awake on the clouds.

and you, my gentle pearl. welcome to my sweat. the chariot of diamonds breathe nightingales of dawn. like a glass box. parents of truce. and trance and idiosyncracy. we will pause. and bow our tongues. and knit our veins. one by one, from the yarn of fools. the caricature of breaths will sparkle on my fist. these fingers of tune. these nails of rhyme. this menagerie of lust. these pebble stones of fire. the sweat. the rush. the slush of blood and silken ova. they give birth to the archaeology of dance. the footsteps of tomorrow. this ballet has begun.

in your womb. so organic and pure. i have lost my self. the pout of cotton. the lips. feel them. they are wet with rage. this is a time of confusion.

this november thanksgiving

slowly. it goes.

shame. joys. tears. sweat. and laughs. for you, diamond wings.

to god, and rust. and the canopy of fate. here is my prayer. my prayer of prayers. for strength, and shame. and the prickle of black. i give you thanks. this november thanksgiving. the whitewash and chalk stains are asleep on my walls.

to fingers of blood and allegiance of wombs, i give you thanks. wires emblazoned with the satin of scripts. your palm. where is your palm?

to vagaries of past. teach me your tunes. the failure has failed. and i am dry. but i give you thanks. this pastiche of fates sing serenades to the moon.

holding my hand. and folding my soul. the seams intact. there is a dizziness in the tunnel. the passage. the change. the garden of shadows. where we ran. hands tilted to the sky. sketching. like artists by the lake. shades of the raining bow, smeared across a tracing paper. wrapped around my fist. and tea stains from nine billion miles. sing soprano tonight. so beautiful, my love. i give you thanks. this november thanksgiving.

heart in a box

what is any more beautiful than a heart in a box? think about that. beating and pumping. in a box.

sit. and dream. what mountains we are yet to climb. what rivers we are yet to sail. what clouds we are yet to touch. the instrumental man. so beautiful in its form. so timid and weak. and a confused paradox. this man within. the inner self. in the world around, slipping away from the allegory of dreams. slipping away each second. like a heart in a box. stuck at the bottom of a dangerous cave. feel the time is running out. look around. shaking heads, violently from side to side. the string of stars on the night sky, like christmas lights. are out of filament. the thread is torn. slipping away. and you breathe heavily. your heart screaming. in side your body. and tears pouring out of your skin. this cloak of shame, and confusion, and harrowing servitude. to life and the beating heart. it churns the life out of my bones.

where do i even start? like a heart in a box.

dots

often times. re-visit the floods. and watch from the skies a puppetry of souls. begging to please. over and over again. like whores with mandolins. poor. and wretched. and dry. weeping. like magnolia. what is with the magnolia fields on the mountain tops that screams the tune of church-bells?

pause for a minute. and hear the sound of silence. percolating. slowly. gently. through the skin. the veins rush with the vibration of cones. tickles the soul. gentle nightfall with the ornaments. there is a sound of sunset. the color. oh skin of trills, your scarlet scarf is gray with bleach and gravy from the feast. spots, like polka dots, is your fashion of dreams. your scarlet retracts. colors ablaze. on the pastel. this bleach of love and the feast of gore. so circuitous in its meander. the crimson quill is afloat by the sea. bless the fisherman who puts to rest. the carnal mockery of conch-shells. the quill shall rest. frozen from grips and dainty fingers. bleached and preserved for posterity.

the gold on my skin. cold and shy. asleep on my bone. painted with leaves of pearls and silk. and deities and gods. those gods of the temple. where we sacrificed our breath. and gave them to you. spinning on yarns. the silk and spool. of tragedy and rhyme. churning through the air. of dreams. one day. when neruda spake. in the wave-strike over unquiet stones.

the days are gone. the nights are fresh. nibble the black. this black is god. the god of gods smile across the shelf of tomes. in the stacks, where i left my soul.

mind games

one of those mornings when my mind wanders. back to the little coffee shop in longwood. on those high tables where i have laughed, cried, celebrated and mourned. those coffee cups are long-stained. with finger prints of the dead and the living.

one of those days where my impatience is strong. i become fidgety when this happens, and slightly aggressive. and my thoughts are all over the place. cancer children, heart disease and my misty future, bobbing up and down in my cursive imaginations. i just want to know, i scream to my coffee cup. asleep on my table top. it is pale with patches of blood. bloody rims of the past. my carry over from boston. there is this comfort. temporary at the most, in touching my coffee cup. this time is a drag. how slowly it moves. every second that rolls on my digital screens. i await.

one of those hours when i am tired. this ballet of sun shine and my fabric is long. i just want to know... this life. yet who is the messenger of fatalism? this is the alchemy of fate. there is a reciprocity, however. when the golden gold is washed away. the spirit has been paused, for a few minutes. this gentle relapse of negativity.

to give comfort, i dangle a neck tie against the brown of my book shelf. it is crimson with silver polka dots. wraps so gently across my neck. smooth, slick and slender. creased with my momentary clenches. it plays with the wind. and chimes against my breath. there is a closeness. i do not know how. or why.

still breathing. the edge of my lips are set in order. this morning. touched with balm. they tremble, how. the mind games of time. matter-less at thirty. yet scouring, this october. on tissue tops. i just want to go. i just want to know

dear longwood

walking around i looked at leaves. some are crimson. some are gold. asleep on the gravel road. there is a constant hum of raindrops today. like so many others...months before, when home was home. and i loved this home. and the marble of flames, burning with souls. from years and years ago. there is a voice of crimson. afloat the rain clouds. and the winds in this city of wombs. pregnant with love and tingling ivy.

i smiled all night. and drank rose. with friends and colleagues. like old times in the crimson parlor. this is not a sophistry of umbilical imaginations. or a terra cotta figurine of intangible dreams. this is a craft of realism and silk. threads that dangle by the canvas of blood work. the uniform. of believers and givers alike. i have missed this smell. of cancerous lesions. and cluttered ambulances. of trench coats on the brookline trail. and the caricature of the charles. so graceful in its meander...i want to kiss the waves. rippling down the river boats. and the rotunda of silver pebbles. i have missed this architecture of familiarity. and the muttering Harvardian at the bus stop with a china rose and handcrafted ukulele. and late night moon gazing on the roof of the library. against the cold cement. that housed millions of tales. scribbles from two centuries ago. may be i was song bird then or a cholera victim. or a cornet player in a court house. when did that soul learn to breathe?

to this city of love. my city of joy. i have missed your rain. like a collage of polka dots. and the geography of lunar trills. vous belle lune. and the house of medicine and granite metaphysics. this cove of electricity and unshaven aptitude. inflames my hunger. my desire. my belief. on this lone spiral, difficult and challenging. i will tread and fall. leap over dams. some day, dreaming in dreams.

metropolitan manhattan

running through the conservatory garden this morning. i have missed you love. your smell. your leaves. your windows and awnings, stretching down the streets of fifth. i smiled. like a child. it feels so good to be back.

the lady at the Met. the ladies and men. and their observant children. so polished in her charisma. i loved her smack. her lips tightly pressed. delicate pearls trickling across her neck line. she was stern. and glazed at art. the language of paint. and motions of hands. this is an orchestra of finger work and acrylic. the statuettes in the hallways are blazing in the sunshine. the marble so white. the alabaster so sweet. the graphite so grey. and the art students by the master works. sweating and breathing. their language so beautiful.

i read through the little blurb. those pictures, so so very interesting. ohm night. hawks. your use of the phrase, i reveal the dark side of men. the way we are wild, and raw. i love it. a man being comfortable with body. the construction of perfect image in society. has blown away the scent of the table-salt manhood.