Of Present: Night Drive.

The night drive, the twelves to fours
these were the times of growth,
of a peculiar negative phototropism
of hearing muffled sounds by the window
of coming to terms with the content of books
that had changed me forever
but then, why now, when I
close my eyes, am I lost?
Why would I crave to disappear
more than anything else
Why would I lust to drown?
I miss you
I don’t think I could live without you,
I think we’re in this for eternity
I miss you, love
But aren’t you right here?
With me?
right across the telephone?
and where am I to disappear?
Where would I be known?
What does it take,
to free yourself from the shackles of being human,
of tired, monochromatic existence
to venture to an ethereal plane?
And what would it be worth?
Isn’t everything in this poem
somehow a lie
a muffled sound you would never know
was a gunshot or laughter
but then, if what we feel
isn’t the truth
what is?

Of Present: Three

You spend your life trying to adjust,
trying to mold yourself into and against
your maladies;
but one day you realize that
you’re horribly limited
and you’ve ran out of people
to mold yourself into
and you’re lost.

You run your fingers across the seams
of the old kameez you had
and find the stitches coming apart.
You try to remember the colour
it was when you newly bought
years ago, but it’s all bleached
and you can’t remember.

Of Present: Two

And sometimes when I think of Fridays
I don’t think of going out
I don’t look out to a
recuperative weekend; I think
of curling up in my bed
And not coming out ever again
and sink down and down and down
Of sleeping and not having to think
Of not waking up
But it’s all a haze
And it only happens sometimes.
Some days. Some Wednesdays.

In the Restaurant.

We were sitting in the restaurant
across from each other
young and among salt and pepper cellars
with the people in the background
blurring and crashing into vision
like waves on the shore
and suddenly we were old
same place, same time
your lips curved in a smile
and I still loved your eyes
and suddenly you weren’t there
I sat cold and senile
trying to remember, trying to forget
then suddenly I wasn’t there
and I was forgotten.

Everything Withers Away.

The vines you used to draw along
the edges of your notebook
how delicately you entwined them
just like you did your hair
they fade away
you hold on to the notebook for years
to run your fingers across them someday
only to find that the ink has faded
and there remains only

The flowers wither away in a valley
and no one sees.
The tulips are rotting
by the bedside.

Untitled thoughts shaped into words by the wind.

Let these lovely fields surround me tonight
where the wind effaces all my sorrows
and the clouds tell me that everything changes
that everything is worth living for
stories weaved in intricate panels
piano, drum, bass, drum, crescendo, repeat
the scent of paper as cultures collide
the hugs on a warm night
the dazzling, gaudy lights outside
the invariant abstractions
which funnily form a froth of insight
and all things constant – the universe
and when years have gone by
maybe, maybe you.
But the clouds solemnly tell me that everything changes
maybe, maybe even you
but everything is worth living for
and holding on to.