Long Unaltered Poems
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two old poems
from the book
2000-2001
Minimum Wage
Pigeons coo
as Seagulls fly
in spiraling swarms above
(universal?)
Birds in anticipation of an unknown purchase
practice aerial acrobatics
**** spattered on fresh Windex streaks
Squeegee stopped mid stroke
and swaying as I scream skyward
Formations unaltered
unlike the boss’ face
Windex bottle shattered
blue liquid down the drain
Sand King
Atop the dunes of time
spent some hours tracking
circles in the sky
and diggings in the dirt
in hope of finding water traces
not so distant but sweat
on my skin sparking
spoke of urgency
The day never so long
as night’s descent
on the old dented diesel
Peyote psychosis
now nearly nonexistent
Lighting a cigarette for change
red paint flaked off
the beat up Ford
leaving a cinder trail back to civilization
Under the deep night sky, in the labyrinth of my thoughts,
The system stretches like a spider's web,
Trying to catch me in its cold and unseen threads,
Will it manage to flatten me,
To erase my contours, to steal my humanity,
Or will I somehow find the strength to tame it,
To transform it into a tool,
To make it sing to the melody of my soul?
In the mirror of the moon, faces from other times call my name,
Voices of shadows, of deeply buried dreams,
They ask me, challenge me, call me,
On the stone paths of memories,
I walk with heavy and uncertain steps,
I wonder if I will ever be able to discover the meaning behind the chaos,
To find the light among the shadows.
Every day, the system tries to turn me into a puppet,
To steal my dreams, to steal my desires,
To steal my wounds and joys,
I feel my heart beating slower and slower,
Weaker and weaker, under the weight of norms and rules,
But somewhere deep inside me,
A spark of hope refuses to extinguish.
I remember the times when I was free,
When I ran through the green fields of childhood,
When my laughter rang like a crystal bell, pure and unaltered,
Now, among the walls of concrete and glass,
Among codes and numbers, I feel lost,
But deep in my soul,
A small but powerful voice,
Whispers to me that I am not defeated yet.
One day, perhaps I will find the courage to rise against the system,
To take it by the hand and lead it down the paths of my heart,
To show it the beauty of dreams and the power of desires,
To make it understand that we are more than cogs in a machine,
That we are beings of light and darkness,
Of laughter and tears, of hope and despair.
And maybe, one day, I will manage to transform the system into an ally,
Into a friend that helps me achieve my goals,
Fulfill my desires,
Keep my humanity alive and vibrant,
Like a star that lights the way in the night,
And then, under the deep night sky,
I will be able to say that I have won.
Water is uniquely ancient, yet it hasn’t aged a day.
It’s older than Dr. Leakey’s bones.
Older than Olduvai Gorge.
Water is older than life itself,
Unaltered by evolution’s chaotic ebb and flow.
Undiminished, though redistributed,
Surviving every mass extinction,
While continually redeeming itself through the sacred trinity
Of evaporation, condensation, and precipitation. STOP!
All the water that exists today is all the water ever was,
Lapped at by pterodactyls and mastodons.
Slurped down. Pissed out.
Recycled over countless generations,
And though polluted, can ever be made clean,
Giving blood, and sweat, and tears
Their most obvious property:
An aqueous disposition at room temperature. STOP!
Water raining down. Water drying up.
Raining down. Drying up.
I naively let it fill my cup,
Conformed to the shape of my emptiness,
Because that’s the American way.
All or nothing at all. Love it or leave it alone. STOP!
Now I’m a wallflower every social hour,
Where cup half full and cup half empty
Cut the rug like Fred and Ginger. STOP!
My cup is full, but my dance card’s empty.
There’s no one here to even tempt me.
Billy Idol sang a song about that issue. STOP!
Hard water. Rock hard.
Hey, Culligan man! STOP!
AND WE HAVE A WINNER!
Here at our rooftop, collegiate, ‘resort of the mind,’
an early heatwave has struck - we’ve been advised.
Like we needed it. It’s 94°f and climbing - we’re not insensitive.
We’re aware that the sun is bright and the air is crisp and hot.
It was Friday morning, until the sun pointed to noon.
Nothing’s going to stop the summer swelter except thunder storms
- which are on their way - we’ve been advised.
A seasonable tempest is being piped-up from the sea.
Like we needed it. We can see the far horizon’s shadowed billows
and curtains of rain - we feel the changing wind.
But we have every reason to be cheery, forewarned as we are,
here at the pool, in the still needed shade, armed with margaritas.
The weather may change, the season alter, but we will, unaltered, remain.
We seem to have captured a moment of buz. People are swinging-by,
dropping-in, bringing drinks and party snacks then lurking by the pool.
Fridays are 'sui generis'—magical—because they play tricks with time.
Dreary weekday landscapes seem to transform, as the old week wanes
and ‘the pert and nimble spirit of mirth awakens.’
(A purposeful Shakespeare misquote).
.
.
Songs for this:
Heat Wave by Linda Ronstadt
Heatwave by Bronski Beat
Heat wave - Bing Crosby
.
.
I have a (FaceTime) Med School interview with John’s Hopkins on Monday!!
I'm duper nervous.
At the dawn of our relationship, I believed in unaltered sincerity,
When skeptical voices foretold the end, I found stars of hope in my cosmos.
Before the vow, my soul was both storm and calm,
And I chose you, in the rhythm of ancestral drums, to stand by me.
On the sacred day, I wore the white of purity and promise,
And a dress of freedom, for my wild part.
The flowers gathered by Venus, a covenant with the earth,
And a veil of mystery, woven from a daughter's dreams.
On the path to our shared altar, in Cupidon chariot,
I felt history and the future sketching my course.
The steps up to the town hall, a pilgrimage into the unknown,
At the beginning, I believed truth would be my only shadow.
At first, I had no wish to conceal any syllable of the heart,
When you accused me for the first time, you stirred silent waters.
I believed in the tales told of the past,
But discoveries turned my heart into a battlefield.
The first scream in the silent night broke the wings of love,
I knew where you hid the signs of darkness.
I hid my essence in a sanctuary far from you,
Initially, I believed in the unrestricted purity of the word.
Yet, among the echoes of parting,
I began to weave a cloak from silences and shadows,
A sanctuary where light and darkness weave their destiny,
Every sigh, a page in the book of my life,
And love, an epic of the soul, lost among constellations.
Among the ruins of hope grows the garden of relinquishment,
Every fallen petal, a dream lost in the night of eternity,
And in this dance with absence, I learn to find refuge within myself,
To rediscover my essence, lighting my path to unseen heights.
In this mystical odyssey, where truth and illusion embrace,
I learned that love, in its purest form,
Is a river flowing toward an unexplored sea,
And true liberation comes only when you free your soul
In a flight towards the endless horizons of existence.
For the maneuvered inducement of compulsive being,
the transmuting tenet of uniqueness,
the personified indented identity,
changes in the self-devised palette of color mélange,
while the conjured chameleon furtively cocooned
paints the shifting façade of deceptiion.
In the ostensible enactment of life’s amazing drama,
performance perfected in one-act play,
and with the obsession of passion ostensible,
gilding the consequence crafted by metamorphic alchemy,
the surreptitious shift from one actor to another,
is an axiomatic designed drive.
Out of the limelight, the clandestine colors fade
on the visage of the virtual makeup,
the pallid original face morphs mystically into
the veracity mirror of fragile actuality,
reflecting the real rendering of shape rinsed with primal hue
of the unaltered distinctive disposition it embodied once.
The spasm of contrived perception splits the mirror,
the shapeless shards of shattered pretence
scatter as discarded debris abandoned.
Metamorphosis creates the deluding creature,
an alien in its own transformed domain,
completes the contrasting paradigm of illusive shape shift.
As the paleness of Fall and
Winter saunters toward us
As the sun moves across the sky
And the moon goes in course by night
God puts on a show in the celestial realm
He is at the helm
And in the clouds, He speaks aloud
He speaks aloud but not by trumpet blast
But with the host of the heavenly cast
He, in the quietly spoken sounds of the wind
Does not rescind, but coaxes us along
Guiding minds as He instructs each indiv’dl
With the vittles prepared in the atmosphere
God is truth (John 14:6)
God is Faithful and True (Revelation 19:11)
He is absolute verity
Unaltered by the tides of time (Numbers 23:19)
The Maker of all things
The Furnisher of all things in truth
(In heaven and creation) (Psalm 19:1-6)
He loves truth (Jeremiah 10:10)
He speaks the truth in all ways at all times (Psalm 119:116)
He's the source of all truth (1 John 5:6, 20-21)
His truth sure and pertinent
As He stretches it out then pulls back the curtain
To reveal all that is certain
My ways and thoughts are higher (Isaiah 55:9)
And I rule from My throne above the Earth
And see all its worth (Isaiah 40:22)
He doesn’t consult us for the truth
He is the emanation (Psalm 50:12)
He is The Desire of the nations (Haggai 2:7)
“I AM WHO I AM.” (Exodus 3:14)
“I am the way, the truth, and the life” (John 14:6)
For you can do nothing against the truth
But for the truth" (2 Corinthians 13:8)
He Who made heaven and earth,
The sea, and all that is in them;
Who keeps truth forever (Psalm 146:6)
Two roads lead to the apple orchard.
And I cannot continue to two.
Indeed, the gaze is in that period.
I am the visionary, long I pursue.
And start to move, might be up in the queue.
The young people hit the paved road.
They are getting deeper and deeper in the future.
The other approach is warily conveyed.
And kept for older men, women, and a two-wheeler.
Even timeworn them, almost unaltered.
I moved alone through the trees and a wisp of cloud.
Another pattern has a genius approach.
That flies the same as a bird.
Yet realizing how progress has encroached.
How that we should alter the avowed.
People are worried almost the shift.
Our atmosphere is changing, darkened.
We are entering a period of mutation in work-life drift.
Digital existence shrunk the relationship deeds.
This actual violent crime has widened.
The speed will blur the limit between man and tools.
So many futile plans I've contrive have clear up.
Two roads diverged in a wood, not sure if I follow the fools.
I will be watching if things improve or will ease up.
How easily we learn to hold hope and faith has clear up.
Two roads lead to the apple orchard.
And I cannot continue to two.
Indeed, the gaze is in that period.
I am the visionary, long I pursue.
And start to move, might be up in the queue.
The Great Man is like an ice mountain, cold and unwavering, fearless of opinion,
Devoid of virtues that accompany the respect and respectability of the herd,
If he cannot lead, he walks alone on the rough paths of his destiny,
Knowing he is ineffable, he tastes the bitterness of unshared intimacy.
When not speaking to himself, he wears an impenetrable and mysterious mask,
Within him exists an inaccessible solitude, untouched by praise or criticism,
In this silence, he finds the strength to never hesitate,
And in this isolation, he discovers his pure and unaltered essence.
Like a solitary stag in the forest of thoughts, he follows his path,
Without seeking familiarity, he finds the bitter taste of truth,
He is a soul dancing on the edge of a misunderstood world,
Where the echoes of the herd cannot penetrate his depths.
The Great Man is like a star in the infinite night, shining far away,
Misunderstood by the crowd, but blinding in his own unique light,
In this distance, he discovers the freedom to truly be himself,
And in this vast and silent space, he finds his eternity.
For the maneuvered inducement
of the compulsive being,
defined by the transmuting tenet of titular uniqueness,
configuring the personified convoluted identity,
changes in the self-devised palette of color mélange,
while the conjured chameleon furtively cocooned,
paints the shifting façade of disparaging deception.
In the ostensible enactment
of the prompted life’s incredible drama,
performance perfected in illusory one-act play,
and with the obsession of passion ostensible,
gilding the consequence crafted covertly
by metamorphic alchemic endeavor,
the surreptitious shift from one actor to another,
is an axiomatic designed drive of ambiguity.
Out of the limelight, the clandestine colors fade away
on the visage of degenerating virtual makeup,
the pallid original face morphs mystically into
the veracity mirror of fragile actuality,
replicating the real rendering of the sublime shape,
painted with the radiance of primal hue
of the unaltered distinctive disposition,
it personified once in the reflected image.
The spasm of contrived perception splits the mirror,
the shapeless shards of shattered reality
scatter as discarded debris blown away by wily air.
Metamorphosis creates the deluding creature,
an alien in its own transformed domain,
completes with the lattice of self-deceit
the contrasting paradigm of illusive shape shift.