Scarecrow Self

Trapped in a pool of its melancholy

nostalgia its sole reflection

time is the only wind that

ripples the surface and

spawns self-same currents,

—as if this were

a heady matrix of absence and desire

when its but a fool’s plaything

to chime away shallow suffering—

of a Scarecrow Self

who battles the days and night

lone sentinel of windswept barrens

learning endurance

and its place in the world.

Some Sudden Lines

If only my days

Would lead to your nights,

Speak in common tongues.

Seeking intimacy,

Beyond love, each other,

We draw into this square

A tide of the world.

You turn it around--

Wanting it topsy-turvied,

I, only to set it right.

And so we continue

Our quest

For a perfect understanding.

Questions that ‘Love’ Throws Up (in the air, regurgitates, tosses around, et al)

Love seems queer

Autoerotic

Reveling in the sameness

Of the other,

Is difference a point of departure?

Janus-headed

A turnaway and look elsewhere,

Or a g-spot of arousal

Powering the eternal

Sado-masochistic self?

What is love?

One moon sighted by two pairs of eyes;

A night framed by a window;

Playful abuses bandied around;

A high on hormones;

A new wound to cover

Pus of the oozing old one;

Union of the solution of

Attention deficit disorder

And the stalking syndrome;

Plato’s search for two halves

Of the one whole?

Is it a hallowed name, or

All the revered words

(Trust and laugh, feel and touch)

Put in the simmering cauldron

Producing wafts of heady nausea,

A pendulum like chime

Between two extremes

Leading to a puking fit,

Carving out a dent

Like words etched on a tree

Eroding the heart

Than a healing seal?

Love is a much-fucked slut

Raped by many pens,

Burdened with bastards

Claiming her legacy.

So I added yet another paean

To the litany,

A friendly detoxifying

Homily.