Hoofprints

Everything you see of me
Rooted more resolutely

In those muddy hoofprints
Of my morning loneliness.

Pyrena

All the processed meals
And all the steady cravings;
All those times I’d mostly feel
My esurient sense of failing;
All these glands within me
Like silkworms masquerading,
Blind their burrow-mouths must be,
These ever-unworldly sensations;
Saliva in my pancreas
And bilious in my breathing;
Memories bladder-manacled
To strangely knotted bleachers
From where I sat once witnessing
Impassively, all my days receding;
With those who would abuse me
Only then, to obliterate
And smash these blistered benches –
Refuting my existence,
My purpose; those perpetrators,
Those missing old soul-eaters.

Incomprehensibly then,
Such totalities
And inexplicable mythologies,
I step out from shadows
Framing my toxic profligacy
With rhododendron, rose
And briar-choking ivy
Bordering my inadequacies
Made tangible from the tacit,
Born out from yellowed ivory.

How odd, I reflected
In afternoon relapses,
That our connections,
These mysteries,
Regardless neither of
Cooling distances
Nor cold absences which only show
Just how much we know
Each other’s oldest ossified routines
As we trespass through boundaries
Only then, again and kneaded again,
Transposed into our folded selves,
Our living sea.

Aquiline

A dog tastes first with his nose
And then his victim entrusted
Within his puffy
Cravasse-pawed toes;
Circulatory, damp,
Outer-rain ring gyratory
And then suddenly thrusted
And swiftly transposed,
Years and years ago.
An army marches on its ribs –
Calamitous, our industries.

Do you exist in the marshes
Of my aquiline cerebellum just
Because I, too, do not exist?

Foxholes

My missing fox-soul searched,
Far from foxholes flooded;
Faux Moon muzzle-mud observed,
Drizzle cubs cold-blooded.
Her vulpine veins saponified,
Her den reborn inverted,
My hair aflame personified
One less soul converted.
Refrain a sale, saint to ermine,
Daylight’s dearth, unearthly bowl;
Something singing for your soul
For longer life determined.

Graffito

All art
Is vandalism
Graffitied on
A brutally pure wall
Of conscious
Mindfulness
As self-awareness
Bubbles and forms
Before a thought.

And all artists
Crave our attention,
Transactions of time
And influence,
Only to abandon us
Like driftwood on pebbles,
Like unpolished beach-glass,
Once their needs,
Fulfilled, have passed.

Haiku #782

782.

The irreligious
Consumer cannot forgive,
But only forget.

Out Of A Lotus

Time will slip by
Unhurried, unnoticed,
So I propose one kind action
For someone out of a lotus.

Sometimes kindness requires
Doing what you would usually not;
Sometimes self should write aside
Someone else’s suffering plot.

Tempus Fugit Usquam,
So in moments see kindness renewed,
For some future day, ego expunged,
What will become of me and of you?

There Is Nothing

I sometimes get abused
And there is nothing I can do.
Some of this, by me,
But most of this by you.

I am a stone dropped, yes,
From a seagull unclenched;
Ego is a room of mirrors,
Bruises on my verbal hip.

The Capitalist (Haiku #779)

779.

To want deeper truths
Is oxymoronic and
Paradoxical.

Exigencies

There is no such object in my way
That I have not placed there myself.

Move society aside and
There is no insurmountable elevation
I did not raise myself.

In abluting these inexcusable
Exigencies of my conflated self
I can finally see
And in seeing
Then configurate
The right way out.