cynics know no light

i once begged visions of orange
to loft their skin by their lashes,
eager to mold reason through glances.

but it all became mute in retroflextives.

i figured the city put stars
on a shelf with it’s swollen hands
so mad generations would pound
the streets with thick glass blinks.
and they did.
even i did.
even i once drew dashes on my feet
for balance. deranged, i’ve cut
triangles from sheeted direction.
i only knew one way up the wall
where there was only one pin
stuck like a white flag
and labeled destination.

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wrangling dust

it’s a votive for confidence;
a feather threaded through the ear,

forging for motives spooled
by powder or ashes.
but there are no ashes

for my sin never rests
in bed. my watch still
flares over chasm.

a motto in quasi is
kindling in the shadows
that are only visible
with eyes


either that,
or it’s cinder
wrangling at dust.

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There I stop
Draw back

And nothing

Poses a threat
So who
Keeps the moon
In her pocketbook
These days
When tracks
Down their backs
My trail
Of tears

I once discussed
Prayer flags
And sisterhood
Between trees
And miles

Alone in white
Now sensing

Life is so scarce
Like acidic ink
Caught within

Now walking
Across parking lots
I’m wishing I knew
Kalari regardless
Of the trauma
Thinking of
How I lost

This bird

But I have one
Last arrow
To spare
In pleated leather

Where penmanship
Never mattered

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Chai tea

It’s the first snow
footprints; we all fall
into them like smiles
and similes of what
it’s like to smile.

They think it’s the caffeine but the
path would be sneezing by now.
Instead they should ask what it means in a
name. Except their only consern is caloric

calling for,

Did you order a venti Cancer?”

Maybe you should read
the small print, this won’t
bless your heart. Oh, but
bless your heart, you poor thing!
You afford this drink but you can’t
pronounce freeze and one woman
even wanted a tall tae chi! Okay,

I digress. I have years knitted
into coffee sleeves. But that’s
just knowing the warmth
of translation. It’s similar
to the smile they seek
when tip-toeing in line
to avoid the track that
hasn’t been steamed.

Posted in Philosophy 3308 001 | Tagged , , , | 1 Comment

Haiku, Cry or Leaf

It’s Autumn in the
Bags of your eyes and I try
Not to fall with you

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A coral coloured cast.

My knight, I’m going
mad in the shadows
that the palm trees cast.
Cast. Cast.
they were, for a play. Asked,
they were, to vibrate like foreplay
in the shadows we held over head.

We were drowning in saliva
meant for envelope seals.
I swear I saw coral. Fuck!

You have nothing but a sword
to open my letter? Fine, just
fish for my words. Ouch!
Cast. Cast.

Put a cast on my tongue,
or my my my hands,
or my my mind.

Bandage me up
because this view
is too sentimental.

See, the oceans not bloody
but it feels like boiling
coral under our water–

our sweat. You glisten and cast
those shadows so palm trees
can nestle in the night.

Then you hold me and
fold me up so I can
open and know bright.

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my dear space, time will tell

i fear we won’t watch our facade cave in.
amongst all my love, i really look forward
to wearing coral lipstick. but last night, when
you said you didn’t see my face paint, i’d
wondered what else you were blind to already.

i’m not saying we can’t grow old, i’m saying we can
try… i just don’t know the permanence of my mind.

did you know you turn away
from my kisses? it’s probably
an irrational criticism, owing
to the fact that you’re sleeping,
but at least i’m aware of my error.
i’m just not terribly sure if this
stability can last.

i strive to release so agony will
turn her cheek to the left— wait,

that’s my right.

it was the worst day when i saw her
looking at me through that mirror.

it’s because they would
tell me i looked like her.

so i try to detach from me
because i began to believe
them. and that’s when i began to believe
my super powers were meant to replace hers.

those had been chemical deficiencies.
those pigments had latched to my face
yet, tonight, you said you never noticed
all this vestige paint.

i can feel my skin is spatio-
temporal and assume my cheek bones
may collapse on the day you’ll
say, “tell him i love him.”even though
my sun never served it’s purpose.
on that day, should it come,
i’d have collapsed by choice.

we don’t know if we’ll
pretend to read logic
or resort to hymns,
wishing one day
we’ll meet again
but on that day i’ll
have to remind you that

“i want to– i need to.”

and on that day you’ll
see how i had to, for you,

because you didn’t realize
what you were getting into.

Posted in Bipolar Disorder, Other Trivial Pursuits | Tagged , , , , , , , | 3 Comments

i’ve probably quenched your thirst by now…

i’d hate to blame my homework on cats
but all those other demagogues are too
preoccupied chasing fairytales– like,
don’t you see your cloud overhead?

i didn’t whisper, “thunder,” and i probably should’ve
just to get you to look up and realize your thought-bubble
has been empty for my twenty-one years.

but really, shouldn’t our very
second wasted on the stop
light be enough?

apparently not. because you
keep reseting your stop-
watch, seeing snooze.

it’s not a thermostat, it’s necessary for arousal.
but it’s okay, i’m that way too. and maybe
even worse than you. that’s why i asked him
to be my alarming.

i had this idea that we could scream thunder.
i thought maybe our friction was lighting and
any of my tears would extinguish in his eyes.
but he stopped when they d

he knew how badly i needed his heat to evaporate.
“and that’s all i want,” i told him, “to vaporize in
our clouds.” in our heavy thought-bubbles,
we could dry.

that’s why i’m sorry the ink smudged.
i tripped over my thoughts, or love,
or thinking i was in love. i got milk
all over my paper.

my damn, damn cat!

he was so thirsty, sick of licking the tears
from my cheeks. i guess i’m not surprised.
i’ve tried to suck them up myself. it’s not
all that easy,

i obviously know my mind is a terrible thing
to share. i didn’t want to test anyone, especially
when i can’t pass as sane. now i accept how it’s wrong
to pass judgement on someone who doesn’t understand

my mind is ever-greying madder.

it’s my nerves that tell me to care less and “less” is
only proving how i’ll never grow. i’m just sliding
in my own mud and tripping over everything.

so i’m sorry, i’m gonna blame this on my cat.
i’ve run out of excuses but i promise i’ll stop
running. i’d probably just trip again anyways.

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only if there’s a last supper after my “last supper…”

if i let my tongue burn, sometimes
i think i would die. sometimes
i think i would die if i let you
fall under my breath where i hide
my bread crumbs.

it’s because they didn’t teach me misery right.

they told me it came in a pocketbook.
they told me the leather was real.
they told me it was indian leather and that because they’re all hindu,
i would be safe.

my sanity kept me on edge
for the moments-after but every moment of before,
during the only moments i knew,

i shriveled.
because the cultured fact was that my aura had faded
with my ignorance and repairing it meant making friends
with a shoe-makers daughter.
and if she is a marine biologist now,
i can’t care to know.
i can’t.
if i did, i would be foolish–
those are my eyes.
theirs would speak, “you crazy!”

surely rooms boarded in egg-whites sound soothing
nothing feels worse than spirituality bruising.

i should be purple by now! but thank god
the colour fades,
it was all just in time before i got fired.

maybe i should’ve been a marine biologist.
but those aren’t the type of aliens i associate with.
that’s why i ran away; to be one of my own–
an alien in india. they made my tongue burn,
i was dying.
i was crazy.
i admit it.

now i know it’s true:
if i let my tongue burn, i would die.
i would die.
but i don’t want to. not in anyway,
but i will and i am.
forever dying.

at least, forever as i know it to be.

and this time, everything is so crooked and
refluxed, if i could just adjust everything
maybe the cows wouldn’t have to die.

when i ran away, i wanted to know for myself
that they were safe. because if they were safe,
i was real.

but they’re not all hindu there.
even when they are, they still lie.
they hide away in hotel rooms lined with cocaine-white walls
to host a feast so massive, they have to loosen their saris.

it’s so disappointing.
it’s so disheartening.
it’s so disgusting, i couldn’t swallow.
they were rebelling as fools would,
“amateurs,” i’d say.
(as if i understood it).

i regret now to say that i’m not an amateur,
i’m scared.
i just really, really, want to feel that misery of a true fool.
the one they never taught me.
the one that makes it okay to be full.
the one that makes it okay to be a marine biologist.
the one that isn’t money wasted but maybe just that;
the happiness of a fool.

i just abuse thoughts of it now.
and me.
and everything in-between
because i’m not an amateur like that,
i’m just fucking scared.

scared of my failure,
scared of my potential,
scared of my creativity,
scared of my incompetence.

i’m scared of myself so much that i’d rather die
like those cows

that are probably in their bellies,
sitting on stomachs
like you do your couch.

i want to slit my throat.

i keep feeling it pulse with sandpaper lovers
but it’s not enough to choke me.

so i just hold my breath until i need a cigarette.

those make me exhale,
they force me to live for death.
hell, if i keep this up,
maybe they will cut open my ribs for you to look inside.
then you can follow the breadcrumbs and see
all of the fear that i hide. if that’s the case,
carry some in that leather bag of yours and feed it to me
in our afterlife.

Posted in Cohering My Trip, Life, Recollecting India, Recollecting Insanity | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 6 Comments

One Hundred Crystal Balls

Stand still–
for this moment, you are
blind in peacock feather
eyes. You are doused in
crystals, beaded in
fortunes too new

to be told–

stand still.

Stand still–
for this moment, you have
drained mosaic windows
of their prophecies in
every temple, they are
bleached with the light
of your will.

Devoted to your flight,
even when still because
you are still.
You are waiting.
You are destiny,
You colour our providence
pigmented by prospects
that blister through dew
faucets, figments of fate
like droplets and when

you fly,

we drink purpose.

So stand still
before I realize
I am worthless.

* 30+ line poem prompted by a random photo for class…

Posted in Poetry 101, Prompted Poetry | Tagged , , , , , | 1 Comment