Will-o’-the-wisp

It’s strange
how…
in the homelike refuge
of a single inelaborate dream…

it is too easy
to dismantle, on pure instinct,
and thereby dismiss

what you
somewhere.. still
remember to be
the unshakable dominion
of the sum
of unforgiving reality..

as simply, the absurd deceit
of an unimportant nightmare

within a dream.

 

From Book IV

Echoes of Disquiet

I’m glad that one old man
remembers to take his medicine.
He tends
to speak very little
these days
and the few words that surface,
are sometimes, a solemn source
of sad comfort.
The other day, we happened
to discover
a mutual guilt…
in possibilities of
a few things
we might have done different… to thus,
have deferred the routes
to two abrupt terminals.. of a kindred loss – in
our divergent histories, that
since then… cannot matter.

 

But it is
at times ..unnerving
to know that one is the last
of a particular kind of blood,
and has failed irrevocably..! to protect those
who had always protected him.

 

Therefore,
it remains
to gaze upon reflection
and search for traces
of faces bygone, where one might
imagine reflexively.. for
the dwindling remainder
of the cherished few… as much as for the self:
how the face, the lowered eyelids,
low breathing, tired arms,
restive legs,
the twitching.. in all,
would be rendered
– when devoid
of the animus of consciousness – of the spark of life..
then
left alone for days, to rot..!!

and
in these forsaken hours
of insomnious nightmare..
can one glimpse.. the ruthless truth
of the nature and eventuality of this raw flesh..
can see right through seductive illusions
of presence… and mistakes
of love and hope.

 

 

From Book IV

Gauze

It doesn’t help..!
this irate
and bitter writing in powerless agony.

 

Like alcohol,
it doesn’t dull
that ..sinking
feeling one gets
on disinterring
an indispensable
image..
that no longer
exists
in places
other than the heart.

 

At least cheap
whisky, in a while,
fogs the senses
and knocks you cold… while
..a metamorphosis of despairing thoughts to disquiet expression..
in contrariety,
keeps you waking
and alert
as in excision without anesthetics,
at times… with words
to stopple
too much bleeding.

 

 

From Book IV

Stigma

And when I
still had… the chance,
you hardly asked.. for what
I knew
I should’ve been more… for you;
and I didn’t
take enough
care…
of you.. and I wasn’t
the only one. So,
now I keep reminding
not just myself, but
also the few
who should have,
and I might just be killing
us all.

 

 

From Book IV

Elitist Listener

Is finding
music
that, for a long
few minutes,
fills
the hollows…
that
one cannot
touch – inside…
enough
of a reason
to stay
alive?

   
There are
many
more important
ones, where
the well-being
of another
becomes
of more
consequence
to you, than your own.

   
Perhaps
a child, for whom
his Dad
gave up his drugs
and
worked hard
to give the delinquent
an education.

   
Or a personal purpose,
as a brilliant and unsuccessful doctor
rereading repurchased books
of Pathology,
to redress
an age neglected,
in the waning hope
of restoring
an out-of-reach laboratory,
and dying
of a heart attack
at forty-nine,
confused.. and alone..
while
the kid, now a man, the
one thing
he wholeheartedly cherished…
was out
making money
somewhere in the big fucking city!

   
For those
who do not believe
in fairy tales
and have seen their share
of futile trial
and cruel death,
it suffices to say
that
they often find
little reason to feel
that reality
was ever directed
toward
anything good,
and… eventually has
no meaning, other
than sadder memories.

   
And
in this capricious state
of the definite
and oncoming nature
of unpredictable
and irrevocable loss..
perhaps,
discovering pointless music
that makes you think
such pointless thoughts,
is as good a reason as any… for
lingering, pathetically, here.

   
For all reason,
in time,
disappears..
in one inescapable vacuum..
and is rendered
unknown,
unknowable,
null
and
void.

   
While the ravages
of mortality
tend
to take the shine
away
from dreams,
it is, or still feels
wrong
to take
one’s own life,
as long
as there are those you’d hurt,
were you
to simply
go away.

   
Someone
had once
asked
my father
what he wanted
his son
to be, when I
grew up.
To this,
the M.D. Pathologist
replied:
“Alive and Happy”
…and that
is what I’ll
try…
to be.

 

 

From Book IV