the food bowl
of a baby boy
is the nest
of a fool’s
bird  

~

something smaller
than my brother
has been killed

-
I’ve been walking this long hallway
for over a year
Reading the gilded framed
poems lining the walls,
verse after verse of
beautifully written words

I have made some good
friends along the way
Met some wonderful poets
who I have learned from
as well as learned to respect
and admire (watching far too many leave)
these meetings I will cherish

I have also crossed paths with a few
who didn’t care for me all that much,
hated my dreadful reviews, (blocked me for that)
misundertood my attempts at humor
or didn't appreciate the love poetry
I tried to slip in amongst the fighting,
but that’s okay, it takes all kinds

I've counted the masks worn,
there are more than two reasons
aren't there?
Some smiling, some not,
all there for their own reasons,
which it is not for me to judge
or anyone else, though that doesn't
seem to stop it from happening

Still little by little I have
headed towards a faint light
The soft glow at the far end
of this prose tiled floor
Each day the light became
a bit stronger, brighter
That tiny glowing square
in the distance
bigger and bigger

My shadow leading or following,
longer or shorter
depending on if I walk facing
forwards or backwards,
hop scotching over the hate,
sneaking past the accusations,
hiding from trolls (he found me anyway)
and the finger pointed whining,
hoping to pass go,
(you can keep the two hundred)


All the while sadly realizing
I am slowly becoming
smaller and smaller,
barely visible to others here
Disappearing a little more
with each passing day
Till now I am nothing more
than a forgotten minute speck
at the furthest end
of this meandering corridor

An insignificant silhouette
of a poet who once was,
now slowly fading
out through the opening
to stand in the bright sunlight
And as I refocus my eyes
to my new surroundings
I turn to wave goodbye
to what I so enjoyed
only to see a sign that reads…

*“Thanks for visiting Hellopoetry, whoever the hell you were”

this is the first day that
my grandma
didn't
get to live
since a really long time ago

what can i possibly say?

i want to curl up inside my own fist right now
like one of your old matryoshka dolls
that i used to play with
and put you inside me so i can make it all better

i wanna recall all the thoughts
that once were yours
i want to know you why didn't i get to know you better

i stayed away im sorry im strange i get sad a lot but i loved you still

she had once
been
a person
but
now
she isn't and
i can't stop shouting these rips from my eyes

To all the world
All my friends
As I close in
Near the end
A tight rope stretched
Forced to strain
And deep inside
A lake of pain
I drowned the sorrows
Trapt inside
Now all there is left to say
Is.. I'm sorry and goodbye.

The worst
Pain of
It all- is
When
Your amor
Is dead
And
Go-
Ne-

An empty container
Doesn't always
Show the fullness
Inside. An empty
Container
Just means your in
For the biggest
Surprise of
Your life.

i too find the lack of colour in the winter bouquet
demeaning, but with so much colour missing,
i find the remains of colour
much approving, that the remains can be exfoliating,
sharpening on the smithy hoof
in arthur's sneeze for new years'
celebration,
and too the sunlight accompanied
with beer for the encore of uninhibited laughter
at the sorrow of hebrew tonguing
h                              &                             a
(turned witty that combination did,
or slapstick the donkey with mel brooks’
gags shaming adolf chaplin; for care of a freudian couch),
as not akin to knitting laughter
but simply with index codices make
vectors and arrows of fingers turned into eyes...
with beer the encore until resolved serious
with a track-list of post hippy reflection:
beginning with 21st schizoid man (+ mirrors),
through i talk to the wind, epitaph
(+ march of no reason) and tomorrow and tomorrow,
moonchild (+ the dream and the illusion);
and ending with the court of the crimson king
(+ return of the fire witch, the dance of the puppets).
i once made a tape, odd thing in the 21st century
to make tapes for other people with a chance
personal reunion, as based on the novel high
fidelity by nick hornby...
but i did and she said... i walked at 5am through
oxford street emptied by an apocalypse, and the song
epitaph resonated like birdsong.