The tapestry which feeds the
Caustic rope binds me, you to
A river – Let us swim this dark
Morning to feel the pinch of
Wet & the itch of salt against
The verbose redundancy of tide.
The tapestry which feeds the
Caustic rope binds me, you to
A river – Let us swim this dark
Morning to feel the pinch of
Wet & the itch of salt against
The verbose redundancy of tide.
the rekindled beat, the hearing
heart that sends no echo of
sun, the brazen day mulling rain
as it deepens the uncharted, the
un/up/rooted
we call, we sing, we cry, we do-
the act is solemn silent stammer
I. May 5, 2002
I have come out to play in
The sandbox of
Heaven, in the time it takes
To count the beads
Of wracked time, I will test
The shores of a
Beaten throng, a million
Smiles, smoldering.
II. January 12, 2016
the demon storehouse of untapped soil, the chances not supplied with oxygen, the games not played, the full thrust of action not known to muscle or throat or to fresh ink
For my nephew, Hasan (May 5, 2002 – January 12, 2016)
the steadfast passion of trees
for the sun,
the rootedness to soil and the
plan to stand
its ground till either the earth
moves or it’s
time to move on.
Crying out the gory ink, inch
Of pain, of
Wrack, this solitary act of
Solidarity
With the gum of the titillating
Shack of
Love, its accoutrements daily
Remembered
Forgotten.