My backward words

 Words run backwards into a fuzzy glass instead of
pouring out of it into the ears of those who paid 
Those who forgot the meaning of them
were reminded and recovered

Words of inspiration that humm through thoughts
electricity through live wire
Words run through the open street
Raining down from a million poets

All incoherent and inconsequential
The years spray their bad breath 
Their slurrs at being ignored
As if they held no value

Words never described them well enough
And those forgotten times
They creep up on us faintly at first
Then grip our daily lives

Words that lull us into a sense of wonder
Distract us from the baseline anxieties
These words I write that fall backwards
through screens and reading glasses

 

Missing on the milk

 I saw his name and photo on the milk carton below.
In a tone of black and white only purgatory would allow.
A youth who disappeared into the world somehow.
Or tragically was taken and remains under the dirt.

I analyze his face imagining his mother's concern.
The fate of her boy she still waits to learn.
Compare the image of his face when he disappeared.
With today's simulation that the carton bears.

Those sad hopeless eyes that seem to convey a hidden pain.
Couldn't they have chosen a picture less such disdain.
Fate had decided by the ill omened photo someone took.
If his face wasn't sorrowful noone would even look.

Greeting a black hole

 The world is on pause 
I am standing on hardened ground
Covered in morning shade
It soothes my mad mind

It's a stationary reality
A way through tasteless aromaless
A neutral way where temperature and plain cloud,
make you feel you are living inside a glitch.

Some incessant void approached
Opened itself to the world
Swallowed all noise and stimuli
The only sense one can feel outside of the stillness,

is the wanting grabbing pull of gravity.

Sauce on the white collar

 Best friends mirror your behavior
Work friends too
Conversations and expressions repeat
Routine's sauce stains your white collar

The other employee tries to pour it on
So that sauce drips on him
Just the same way it did you
Then you can rapport together

Like clueless teens fascinated with the false coincidences
For much of your lives have been simulated to be the same
You never cut the carpet to check what's under there
sauce and coffee stains have changed it's tone aswell

The dry cleaners can go only so far
After all they are all collective medal winners
Drinking out of their hobby race trophies
The way you and your twin do

Sit across from each other
On a train to nowhere
Menu has been limited to three items
The server's spiel time has tripled

As he recites the benefit and chef's attention with each
Put on humbled faces of false kings given privileged treatment
But it's just a little fried paste and a lot of that routine sauce
Even the beer is corn based trash you taste as if connoisseur

The end of the corridor

 The emptiness of the gymnasium echoes an invitation.
I follow you to where there are fewer and fewer people.
Wearing the clothes that don't fit.
The clothes whose colors put us off.
All the time we are attempting to make it to the end of the corridor.

We go there seeking a destination, a wooden door with glass panes.
Looking out to a future planned and curated.
Then looking back into the glass.
And seeing the sweeted image pressed to the glass.
Is it lascivious free loose and alluring?

Here I am in the wrong clothes.
Getting the wrong advice.
Trying to improve myself when I've had enough.
The empty gymnasium echoes encouragingly.
Only a few stragglers left in the space short on time.
But still enough to stop by and tell me I'm doing it wrong,
On their way out.

Kirfa of my life

 She is my canela.
Cinnamon flow with who I eloped.
She sits on the edge of me and my hope.

Its a lake near my essence but is it me?
She is my sail for shade and seafaring.
When on wave, when the sun is overbearing.

The tongue longs for white chocolate.
The body for milk caramel sweets.
I can abide life without these.

She is the sweet spice my kirfa and sage.
She has been with me for 13 years.
I hold her closer than my personal baggage.

She eases the distilled trouble of the mind,
irons me out with hot tadka pan.
She is my kirfa, my different kind.

She is the Kite that lifts me higher.
She is the cool stopping me from frying.
She is my wife Maira.

leverage over the universe

 As soon as I get leverage over the universe
As soon as I can prove myself to myself
As soon as I conquer every one of these obstacles
Maybe then I can be something to the world

break through the concrete and steel
As if I myself was the wrecking ball and not the wall
As soon as I make a hole in this sky
A blotch on the blue chip art

Maybe then my words might go deeper
Might reach higher
Than some silly social app thread
trend for a second then go dead