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"
I spent years disgruntled like a weary Ufologist pitching his tent in the desert and looking through a telescope for signs and symbols, like a first-grader attempting to play Liszt until time broke me like lightning tears a telephone pole, now, aged with regret caressing my face with her fingers like the first five syllables […]Read more "Recovery"
I Gaia once ruled here, using her aesthetic hand to paint mesmerizing forests inhabited by wood nymphs, fierce creatures, and ethereal songbirds who ushered in the morning with their sweet songs, but Industry usurped Gaia; slaughtering her using his strongmen, and brought in the age of nihilism, making his seers say, “God is dead, and […]Read more "We"
When we transcended temporality and spatiality and the grandfather clock became a relic housed in an anachronistic three-dimensional space we created and called a museum, we placed ourselves in the age of the martyrs of heritage and watched them, though they didn’t see us, the laws of physics that held them didn’t apply to us, […]Read more "Utopia"
Walking past these headstones, in this churchyard, I kneel, look back at the little Presbyterian prayer hall you used to frequent, pristine white, with blue-cushioned pews, its simple beige altar, grey steeple, little cross, and a miasma of nostalgia seems rise from the architecture, slowly creeping towards me, the twilight complementing it. I read your […]Read more "For Alisha"