was never found.
Black-&-yellow
beetles smuggled her
underground; trees took
her up. Her ears became—
among other things—leaves,
& her roar was reborn in
the tops of tall pines.
She ran in the sap.
But she traveled, too,
into the ravenous
stomachs of the deer,
who were no longer
the wary creatures
she used to stalk.
Through them, she explored
Brown hair,
Hazel eyes,
A smile like the sun.
She'd love to sing and dance for us,
And have more hoodies than she should. (duh)
Her favorite food would be green apples,
Oh, and she'd love to read and draw.
And anytime she sees a dog
We'll be hearing her name it all day long.
If she ever fell out of a tree
(which she will if she's like me)
She'd run inside and laugh it off-
"Don' worry daddy, I fine!"
And if she's like you,
I'll have almost no time on my hands,
Cause I'll be too busy keeping her out of trouble
People sprouted on either side
Slightly angular, they seemed to grow
Away from me.
Farther, outside the wire mesh
I saw trees growing away from me.
Overhead, across the whitewashed ceiling
The wiring, the lights and the fans ran past
Like blood vessels and organs splayed, of a roadkill.
Pulled, pushed, turned and twisted
From corridor to corridor, elevator to elevator
I hung on, in a limbo.
The stretcher offers perspectives strange…
At the traffic signal, I crawl up
Next to my friend's Mercedes
My thirty-three year old scooter
Hardly one-fourth its length.
My friend, his business worth crores
Puts down his Blackberry on the table
Beside my five-year old Nokia,
Scratched, scarred, and shoddy.
He hugs me, his cologne- laced shirt
Wrinkles its nose
At my faded cotton -
It tries to hide the button-less hole.
He said how, one day
He had this vision of a huge Banyan-like tree
Ants marching, monkeys jumping
Birds singing
Standing, as often I do, beneath my old mango tree,
I wonder how it would look without the leaves.
Without the mangoes, without the branches
Without the birds that sit preening on them.
The thick trunk sawed off, roots pulled out
Tiles or cement choking the earth.
For one, sunlight would be brighter; and glare
Upon the tiled roof of my house.
No more yellowed leaves to sweep away in the morning.
No more bird droppings to wash off
No more bat-eaten, splattered mangoes.
No more flies swarming around
No more air, thick
With the smell of the ripe, golden fruits.
No more, the tapping of the woodpecker
No more, the screeching kites.
Dear typhoon,
you destroy the trees
don't destroy my home
oh I beg you please
the wreckage you make
is a selfish art work
that only helps your insight
its disastrous for us
please find another canvas
you already pulled our roots
scraped our hills
cleared our grass
please
please
please
don't take it all away
Hurt,
Blinding my senses.
Throwing me into,
Total confusion.
Should I be sad,
Or should I smile?
What emotion,
Should I show.
What facial gestures,
Must I make.
Happiness is so much,
Easier to fake.
Is this good,
Or is this bad?
Do such terms exist,
In this universe.
Trees,
To wind,
They tilt.
Flowers,
To drought,
They wilt.
Skin,
To soil,
It wears.
Mind,
To madness,
It tears.
Flames,
To water,
They drown.
Smiles,
First of July…
rain sounds but no rain,
back of the bus
That tree
thinks about what the wind
might do next
Third of July,
ice blocks the pitcher’s spout…
corkscrewed Diet Coke
tanka:
Projector:
Ticks
of the uptake reel
spinning alone…
story’s end wears thin
A quiet heat…
A wheel, broken
but not so you would notice
dazzles travelers
Pullman porter
sits open-handed and still
his eyes, twin spirals
Solitary breath
in the fetid men’s room
stink doctors long gone
A branch’s shadow
wavers at 3 am
over the dead lamp
The politician
says it isn’t either/or
as I hide from the storm
One dead movie star’s
I can’t write haiku
about that fellow taking
the shutter cord for his toy.
I could write haiku
about the suspense thrumming
as I breathe deeply.
Right now I think
only of the two donuts
awaiting me, soon…
The nurse guides a man
on the phone; he’s gotten lost
and have not we all?
I had to hear them
squabbling over violence, to
appreciate peace.
One mustn’t assume
There is a field where a sycamore grows
Whether it be day or night, one could say it glows.
It is a peaceful place for thought;
A place where all is quiet, my own little spot.
I love this place, enough to have said
That I wanted to rest here when I'm dead.
While I'm here, I feel sort of free;
A type of magic that affects only me.
Because there, I could truly be alone.
Sitting at the tree; my own wooden throne.
And here was my kingdom; seen from a palace so grand
That I could look all across the land
Now I grow old, as most rulers do;
So I let loose my crown and gazed once more at the view
And whispered the story of the place now nobody knows;
Here in the field where the sycamore grows.