I’ve heard that he’s now a madman with a theological bend; a disenchanted, raging lunatic who incessantly posts confessionals on Facebook. His black and white, borderline obsession with God crippled him, and now, he’s unstable, and clamors for a like just like a beggar harassing some passerby for change. And once one of his statuses […]Read more "Normal"
I think I’m too daft to comprehend e.e.cummings’s style of writing, lines projecting out like horizontal stalagmites, spaces, words meshed together like they’re thrown in the blender, an i outside the parenthesis probably symbolizing loneliness and an i within probably embodying wholeness with another. Experimental fiction was never my forte, and maybe that’s because fate’s […]Read more "Experiments"
So, we’re a bunch of elitist men discussing the subtleties and nuances of a Rembrandt – the rich browns and the gentle beiges – in a stylish lounge bar, sipping on Château Cheval Blanc. We then talk about Ezra Pound and Fascism. “I quite enjoy him. He’s an exotic, fragile thrill,” I say; my voice […]Read more "Fine old gentlemen"
They programmed me during the age of wars, bigotry and intolerance to predict and prophesize destruction, to make people await their impending doom with cries of “Woe! Woe! Woe!” To let them know that suffering is all there is, and even death offers no respite. But seeing the world in shades of dull grey altered […]Read more "The bane of optimism"
Today, after years of servicing jazz musicians and circus clowns, I call it quits, I’m rusty and feel like an old gigolo who has had enough and wants someplace quiet and idyllic where unsatisfied wives and mustached men with pictures of Ted Bundy in their wallets don’t harass him anymore, I need a beige shelf […]Read more "The trumpet’s lament"
Melpomene, are you the only muse I’ll know? I look for other dances filled with joy and mirth but shadows of each year and age clearly show a caricature of a man denied rebirth. I tell myself that I’ll transcend, and fiercely glow, no longer held by puppeteers of loss and dearth, no longer dregs […]Read more "Tragedy"
As she sits on the veranda, the chirping of the crickets and the cool breeze complementing the fragrance of the flowers in the garden, doesn’t usher in eventide, no, she waits at the end of her make-believe aisle for his roses, as red as the bruises and welts on her skin, hoping they’ll mean something […]Read more "Survival"