Shotsie

Long flaxen hair
lifted from the boxes of christmas
past, each bundle put on the tree
the golden strands connecting
me to my past self,
like those telephones of cups
and string, practicing telepathy.

And I found out something of great
importance from my snot-nosed self:
you see Nana had a cyclops dog
with one creepy eye that would stare at you
like one of the fates,
gasping and growling with prescience
and asthma, and I was terrified
of this omen-bringer.

but one day I put my ear close to hear
what the ancient oracle had to say,
she whispered to me in rough iron words:
"Speckled adder and ebony crow
you will walk a path where none else go,
through skeletons wet with mourning dew,
you will become what you never wanted to."

Crossing Chasms

Raven hair and blinded eye,
Maggie, with locks let low
floating on prodigal zephyrs,
breezes communicating their fickleness
with invisible fingers.
Their attributes far more poignant
than the fading, rusty sun,
and the crimson rays
that descend on your pale cheeks.

Biting at the cold, at worlds unknown,
We grasp for connection.
"What does the sunset look like?"
I place her thin hand on my heart, "This
beat, this warmth, this is the rhythm
of the cosmos."

Alot of love poems, it is a bit sickening, but also kinda fun. I used to try to do love poems and they were terrible (these might be too, but they seem ok to me, right now). I do not know what has gotten into me, I do not want a relationship right now, but maybe something inside me is longing for that kind of connection. I am my own puzzle.

Two Poems, how rare: "Poem 1" and "Welcome to India"

Poem 1
How do we fall
on cardboard mattresses
and drunken hopes:
confident in delusions
and stumbling, making fools of ourselves,
happy we are warm, forgetful in stupor,
and yet we are sober.

this is a convoluted way of expressing my belief that humans can be so inhibited by their interpretation of events that they make decisions that are foolish, or trust in things that will only crash and fail, and they are not even drunk.

Welcome to India

Accusing fingers point at the sky
the sacred god is dead:
his ribs stand as bloody monuments
skeletal fingers holding the gulls,
feeding the dogs, giving of himself:
The god who ate trash and human remains.
There is another god, practicing economics
chewing the cud of his brothers body.
His skin draped on his emaciated bones,
covered in sores: he is as toxic
as the beliefs of his worshippers.

In case you did not notice, this is about cows. This was the article which inspired the last one http://www.chinasmack.com/2010/pictures/filthy-india-photos-chinese-netizen-reactions.html

Also "the white tiger" had quite an impact on me http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_White_Tiger

Fitting-in, Between the Cracks

Count the molecules on the floor
count the atoms in liquids
double that irrelevant number
that is the number of cracks
between which I fall,
why struggle for connection,
for interaction, when each step
is a realization of how weak these bonds are.
Yet I cannot cut them all,
though the thought of dissolution
to dust, can be so pleasant sometimes,
No mourners, just the world
silently doing what it always has.