Like Father, Like Son

Down the lines
to slow
estrangement… till
I’d move into
a one-room apartment
close to work
and closer to travel, with
barely a window, hardly a view and
seldom have it mopped, but
have those shirts
dry-cleaned and routinely pressed,
reread escaping books,
revisit reruns and
stranger passing screens among
the angles.. each
wall makes
with the same ceiling.. and
in time, get restless and visit
a whore
or two – which
I’m not sure you
did, but
only get lonelier… to turn
to the reeds, needles and white;
then quit the drugs,
then give up whisky,
then stop smoking and
try
starving
from time
to time to test
how much I can take, though
I doubt I’d be able to do it
as well
as you did.

    
No saints
you and I, but
each of us
belonged… to
a woman, whom
we mistreated
in our different ways, as
they did
in theirs, and
it seemed
that everyone learned
to live
by themselves, though
it’s us – you
and I, who couldn’t
or can’t
care or smile
as much
for ourselves
at
all.

 

From Book IV

Suicidal Deities

grunge

As most
of the Gods of Grunge
keep killing themselves, it’s apparent
that the burdens
of regret and should-have-beens
weigh too heavy on hearts that carry them.
Yet, it doesn’t change
the feeling
that there’s nothing worth keeping
more than the weight of these chains
of being and remaining unchangeably
oneself.

Antisocial Diaries /1/

pexels-photo-220444

No good
at small talk, except
with animals and people I’ve
grown to trust, and see
they mean
no harm. I keep
my distance and observe
how someone acts around
authority, before deciding if
they’re really
worth knowing:
first
comes reading whether their
shifting sounds and varied gesticulations
could somehow amount to an idea
of actual merit
or substance, besides
attempting, by
exaggeration and charm, to
sadly further
their petty, sycophantic agendas.

Antisocial Diaries /3/

pexels-photo-220444

These lights
are rather bright, the
floor carpeted, clean;
the people mostly
young, spry, kempt; the
windows clear, scenery usual,
this white ceiling tiled
and uniformly lit, the air
mild. There
should be no cause
for discomfort. I’m acquainted
with some. They slip in and out
of sight. We speak at times, of
urgent or unnecessary things.
At times, I rise and
wander in unintended search
for something I can’t identify, but find
missing. I push
myself to wonder. I try
and
evaporate in memory. I discern
the inside of
a familiar room,
with all its
known furnishings:
the decked and mirrored
dresser, two towering steel
wardrobes, a high table behind me,
laden bookshelves, the shine from
a floor with hypnotic, fibonacci spirals
etched on each square plate of mosaic,
the red, parted curtains along the many
open windows, and a huge double bed with
enough crawlway for trunks to be stowed
while tiny children played; beside it,
a narrow thoroughfare to a balcony,
where sits
the strong-willed matriarch in her fifties,
soaking the early-morning sun
and sieving grains of rice, while
her husband, a fragile man of care,
kindness, and lighthearted banter, smiles
as he sees me there, when
in the adjacent hall, my
causal pair engage each other
in hearty conversation, and nothing
is or could go
awry. It
must’ve been minutes
of walking without a sense
of time, place, or presence,
until I stopped to gaze about
this bustling metropolis,
with its resplendent sights and glowing people
that never were essential;
…where is that room?
…where are those people?
…are they here somewhere?
…within the walls I now call home?
NO!!
that home
exists no longer!
my people.. breathe too less.
Around me, in this moment,
is no one
and nothing
real.

Bird of Prey

Grey wings come upon me..
arising, by the moment,
behind each bruised shoulder.

I perch
for better vantage
and observe intently, in wait
for blood-crazed behemoths to collide!

No room
or concessions for sentimentality
or dying wishes.. that
these fell beasts seem ever-ready
to trample underfoot! to
deprive the meek and
grow more their overflowing hoards.

I discern the lesser antagonist
and measure, for now,
how the enemy of an enemy is an instrument.

Of Sights and Seasons

Of Sights and Seasons_

You tend not to notice until
you find some
places changed… some people missing..
that the skies remain just
as beautiful and whimsical, the clouds
gather and disperse
in astounding formations,
the twilit streets
are still illumined
by more and brighter lights,
the vagrant winds continue
to wander, and trees and branches
show their sway, their leaves
collect their dew
or dance to droplets of sudden rain,
as the city roars to perennial festivities.

 

The tides continue
to turn magnificently, to our
cold comfort,
as petals wither
and children grow to skeletons.