While the World Erupts

Clover fields

and sun-drenched skies,

wispy clouds,

they are but lies.



is shrill, is cold–

nothing’s real,

they’ve lost their souls.


Smiling kids

with viper’s fangs

ring their bells–

for death, they clang.


Lovers in

their secret rooms

turn to dust

inside their tombs.


Nations rise

while others fall

but this time

death comes for all.


Shadows play

before my eyes,


what next will die.


Go along

and play your games

while the world

erupts in flames.



Thought Control

A needle

pierces my flesh

and contortionist memories

begin to twist

through my



I try to blink,

to open my


but am pulled back

to the phantasm display


behind my lids.


Real and unreal


then separate,

then blend again,

like a kaleidoscope,

and I try to focus

on one single


like a spinning dancer,

to keep steady.


The imagery

swirls before me,

challenging my


and taunting

my future.


I try to scream,

but my saccharine

coated tongue

rests heavy,

like a sandbag,

damming up

a river of



The world seems

off balance,


and I fear I might

roll off  the



I can feel

the other bodies

in this living graveyard,

hear their moans,

and smell

the sour

of their frightened



I remember

when they brought us


or I think I do,

and I try

to hold on

to their reason–

their lie,

amid our

threatened truths.


They said

we were dangerous.

A threat

to order.

Enemy combatants.


But that

is absurd,

for the only weapon

I’ve wielded

was a








The Foundations

It’s all


We ignored the cracks,

now rebar whines

somewhere deep inside,

and the foundations begin

to groan.


A cloud crosses

before the moon,

and I wonder how close

Hati is to him now.

Someday he’ll be caught.

The wolf will


the moon,

in the end.


Even the music

has faded.

Each note blurs into

the next,

as they all rush past,

without notice.


Everything reeks of mildew

and rot.


I hear crows

in the distance,

and the foundations

groan louder.


It’s time to wake up,

dear ones,

or we’re lost.



Cultural Graveyard

The roiling masses

scoop ashes of yesterday

into purses of gold,

as they crawl through fog

unaware of its caustic fumes.


The scent of lavender

and a glint of emerald light

sneak out from cracked-stone monuments

to dead and misplaced dreams.


In the distance

A low wail begins.




Night has Fallen

A cradle lay abandoned

in a darkening room,

as one by one a dozen candles

expire near a forgotten shrine.


A bird of prey

perches atop a barren olive branch–

Lord of a dying habitat.

Night has fallen.



The Liar

Silver-tongued duplicity,

Through languid eyes

Pretend to see.

False confessor,

Plastic friend–

Illusions fade,

Your game will end.



One Day You’ll Wake

One day you’ll wake,

And it’ll all be gone.

You’ll feel like either you,

Or the world,

Has become alien.


Flags will still wave

On the tops of their poles,

Like patriotic cocktail decorations

For giants.

They’ll mean nothing though,

By then.


Selfies, politics, cats,

And disasters

Will continue to roll through your


But for once you’ll have lost

Your appetite.


The stores will be open,

People will have barbeques

And Super Bowl parties,

But they’ll have nothing,

Not really.


It’ll happen,

In time,

To most of you,

You’ll wake to see this

Stark truth,

But by then it will be

Too late,

If it isn’t already.


You’ll tear your hair out

Wondering how.

How could we have all

Let this happen?


But we will,

We did,

And we are,

Because even when we

Allow ourselves

To think of it,

We don’t think very far,

To what “can’t be”

Because it’s just

Too bad,

But somehow

Still is.


The end won’t come

Announced on CNN,

The New York Times,

Or the Huffington post.

They’ll still be shouting

Their warnings



The media will be


Stuck in a traumatic repetition

Of their warnings,

Unable to accept

That they were ignored,

While ignoring the nightmare

That surrounds them.


You’ll see.

It’ll all be gone.

Everything that matters,

Everything needed to

Sustain our humanity,

Will just be



But you’ll still be here.



Maybe that’s

The worst part of all.






Out of Reach

How can something

Be so close,

As close as my own


And still remain




I reach,

I stretch,

It’s all around me,


But I cannot grab hold

Of it.



The scent of it

Fills me,


And confuses me,

Because it is.



It’s in the smell

Of fresh bread

Drifting from the bakery,

Lazily engulfing me.



It’s in exhaust

Thrown in thick clouds

From the tailpipes of cars

Working overtime

In the cold.



It’s the smell of a caramel macchiato


With that of too many bodies

Packed tight

Inside a large mobile

Metal box.



In the stomach-threatening


Of whole shops choked

With artificial cinnamon

And pine,

It’s there.



It’s amid

The mad-dash rush

Of consumerism,

Filling stockings

And emptying wallets.



It’s in the calls and the ringing

Of the bell-ringers,

Standing in the snow

For charity

Outside over-priced

Department stores,

And everything their presence




All of these things pronounce it,

Over megaphones,


And chipper music

Piped in for the




Yet I can’t find it


I feel like a

Blindfolded fool,

Stumbling this way and that

Inside a round room,

Eternally searching

For a corner

In which

To sit.




Locked doors

barred tight

danger lurks

beyond sight

“progress” kills

nuclear war

oldest profession

that of a



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