Where the brick is exposed

 I sit in the sunday sun light rays.
relaxing my body and mind.
I look up to the big walls of pale gray.
That layer of concrete exposing red brick at random intervals.
There is something aged about this surface.
A single black vulture sit atop as if waiting, not soaking up the sun.
Not searching the open roads for carcasses.
Just at home upon the structure.

A place only shadows know.
A place bird feces have stained.
A place people used to inhabit.
Where the utilities have long been cut.
I stare up at the great structure.
Through dirty glass, moss and shade.
Something flickers, nay something beckons.
My eyes searching for an apparition. 

Into the depths of Thelxinoë

 Into the ocean
Dive right on in
Here beyond the flags where it is not safe
There are currents that will drag you in further

There are undertows
and hidden reefs
There are spiny fish
Looking to get things impaled upon themselves

Out further in the depths there are strange reptiles
That swim through the jungles of sea grass
There is abundant plantlife upon the floor
Growing toward the dim light above

There are thousands of miles of desolate nothingness
where chewed bones protrude from sand
Not a living thing moves here
A otherworldly dead layer of algae covers everything

There are leviathans
That chase and kill out of wrath
Only eating to survive
Never satisfied

Rolling and treading

 Rolling
Choking
seeking
overland

Rolling
sweeping
leaping
Sprinting insanely

Rolling rolling...

Treading
Lifting
Absorbing daylight
Becoming

Brimming
Steaming
Moving
Alive

Treading treading...

Mooi meisie

 South african girl
French descent
Tree fort stone's throw from the house
In the shade of a riverside forest

In the shade of her eyes
Honey in her eyes
Not far from my house
Seemed she cared

The grass would get knee high
So her old man put horses in the field
She would call me to meet her 
Those eyes filled with honey

The oldest austere
The youngest cautious
The middle girl with the honey eyes
Was an adventurer just as I was

She would look at my father as if he was a God
I failed to plant one kiss

The antenna of love

She misses him.
He doesn't know he's wanted.
She can't just approach him afterall.
She doesn't act like that.

She wants to ask him something.
He has no idea what that might be.
She wants him to know something.
Without having to say it.

Distance is strange.
Sometimes it is thousands of miles.
Sometimes mere meters.
Connection is not governed so.

He sometimes thinks of her.
The thought is not treated as a distraction.
The day replete with interruptions.
dizziness and responsibility.

She is shocked to find herself having feelings.
To experience fondness for someone again.
She feels unsafe inside her body.
She seeks psychological shelter.

The dim and the spark

 Two brothers interact on the balcony.
The smarter one talks of purpose and reason.
The simple one said his cup like his heart like his mind was empty.
The smarter one said that one needs a crafted destiny.

Movement and direction thats what he believed.
His simple brother was satisfied enough to follow along.
He never questioned much, reflected, mused, pontificated.
But never questioned, never initiated.

The smarter brother was crippled.
The simple one a drunk.
The smarter brother dreamed dreams that obliged him to stepinto the unknown.
The simple one would resist everything but eventually be convinced.

Flow with the river that was his brother.
Smile easily conjured onto the face.
The simple brother floated.
The smarter one forged.

Yet the simple one in his caution and locked with the present was understood as the intelligent one.
And the smarter who took risks and made huge mistakes was understood to be the dim one.

Bihar Gaya

 My name is Gopal.
I was born in a shanty town.
Some kilometers from the Gaya junction station. Raised on cheap cuts of meat and root vegetables in soups. I may describe my life as hard. It was, but it was also sometimes joyous.
I used to tip toe near my mother's bed at night, just to hear her quiet snore.
Sitting down on her bedside mat. Thinking about what I might have to trade tomorrow.
How I might have to hussle between the train station stalls.
I'd nod off there on that mat, wake shortly before she did. Then go back to my rustic hay mattress bed.
During most days of the year the sun was aggressive. Rain came for weeks during equinoxes. We were forced to collect that rain water in buckets. We would cover the buckets and rationt he water.
In the shanty town we were known a Yadav family, originally cow herders. Of course now merchants. Cow herders hardly existed anymore. However the clothes shop that my mother ran gave us scarcely what we needed.  
I walked through the stalls in the lat monday morning bustle. The sun tyrranical. The blue sky slightly gray with the tinge of pollution. I noticed the tiny holes that had appeared in my shoes this month, a centimeter or so of fat no longer around the bottom of my abdomen.
I looked at the jewelry people were selling on the street.
Candy and gadgets but nothing I could afford. So I picked up the two essential ingredients wheat and sweet potato.

Everyday I made my way through the streets and sea of tarpoulin stalls. Motivated by the thought of my mother selling her clothes, and being able to sleep next to her bed on those lonely nights just to listen to her subtle snore. Whatever came to me beyond that, and many things did