If, as the saying goes,
'There's no smoke without fire,'
is it smarter to ignite a spark
(illumination causation)
than bedamn the dark,
and thereby induce a funeral pyre,
or, better yet, a safer bet,
to avoid gossip and accusations,
find the substantiated fact(s)
(true datum)
before you act
and land in sorry situations?
It's no joke, on soot you'll choke,
yet, on the greener side,
carry the torch for earth non-scorched
but best your light you hide,
(it may be life-transforming)
beneath an unburnt bush,
so as not to incur global warming.
The world was my darkness
The soot in my blackened sights
I once cried in shallows
Words entomed within my grave
Dug with smiles merrit of fading sorrows
My final morrows led by fate
Towards the rejoicing of tomorrow.
3.11.23
Children play by the tree
Rope slung over, far above
Gaping knot, left lose and free
Flying by, a soot filled dove
Nature blurred
Bodies burnt
Head held heavy
Tear filled eyes
Hope kept deadly
Blackened skies
Soot on LA highway signs. Billboard of you,
a real estate agent. All endeavor slides
toward inertia, extinction, forgetfulness.
It’s very tropical. Vegetation invades
the house unless constant inputs of joy
apply. The scientist in you feels the
great ape in you. The great ape feels
death growing wide. What about work?
I devote my present to my future existence.
In what way, in what sense
does one continue to resist. As
a dessicated cell, a mole of elements,
an ancient’s aura, a daguerreotype-like
shadow on a sidewalk, persistent headache,
paleolithic herbivore, potential energy, will.
Some wake up and pray, say thanks for
another day. Others curse their luck, stale breath,
the very thought of the rosy dawn makes them ill.
Lonely as leaf fall.
Nature knows no pity or self-pity
according to antiquity, the roof soot of the city.
I admire fire, tools and ore. Agriculture.
Cities, empire. Trading and taking (war).
Numbers, counting, writing. Libraries, discoveries, zero.
And the single-minded universe
that’s only a paper moon
without your love.
The anacrusis, please, andante maestoso,
six bars, before the chorus comes… Hell, what is wrong
with you, the mighty mage of music, virtuoso,
the treble clefsmith? Why the plain and silly song
a pretty flower girl sings outside the window
on her way home from night dating made you put
aside your magic bow? As holy Aurobindo
once said in such a situation: «Ash and soot,
that’s all what’s left of those who dared see the face
of love»… As well as sounds of music, in your case.
FROM SOOT TO RICHES
Cinderella lost her tiny glass shoe,
And after the ball there was much ado,
To find the owner it took
A while, she was sitting in soot
A princess she was made and no longer blue.
When living in any big city,
The air might be sooty or gritty,
So many will lose
Their apartment’s nice views
Due to windows with grime – what a pity!
It’s cumbersome keeping them clean.
All New Yorkers will know what I mean;
For the sparkle I got
When I Windexed, will not,
By tomorrow, retain any sheen.
So my vistas are subtly skewed,
Since with schmutz all my views are imbued.
Yet somehow, through the soot
I might notice afoot,
On a terrace, a neighbor who’s nude!
It erosion my thought to Tyson bouts molded me to who I am today. Acid liquid rocks the precocious cockroaches disguising under the shade of table waiting to hit the night dinner. Sweeping smoke to mugs shape, water trickle wet my mustaches pointing to the sea, promising the land to germination, eggs aroma no iota of hope.
Piss shackles the thought to turkey’s luminaries; the weather hurts my feeling blood gushes in my veins to vehement. The brain rays thought to the dark wings to the rats poke sound spree ears to earthworms early in the morning to the months of rain downtown shout to the soot color.
My mind keeps crunching the sound of carapace of my feeling bleed to bulldozer exploding deplorable condition. I plant thinking to national center to sister scent, I accent bright smile to weep sad mind to minutes talk.
I hop on the tree to share it fruits, the thought canopies whole night on the face of whore to hooliganism. I eat the ripe fruits on my ribs rescinding pelvic monopoly want on the mountainous thinking wets the wrap. Cigar in the mouth of notorious King collides to the Oxygen through the follicles thrill me.
Tom Fowler was a chimney sweeper
who was also a window peeper.
Caught black-handed
folks demanded
Fowler be made a breathless sleeper.
Stranded on black soot in mood
Pile of dusts sight, forsaken by time
In the mangled maze, I glued
Grief finally tranquilized, honored as it should
Still, sense's writhing in a silent polemic
Steal the realities which still running
As was strolling in the haze of hallucinations
The bitter whispers through scratches and melts into dripping sores
Upon the night which had stolen
Astonished by bolts of their innocent accusation
Exclaimed for the lifeless facts with no respect
Their imperfect tendency slipped to her to reflect
Perfect life blinds them in world of flawless
While I struggled in world of hug-less
At that time I stood upon my own shadow
While people and they chased sun from shadow to shadow
so what?i got fourty more before hitting the bed,at least its read.
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