Suddenly the sunbeam disappeared. I believe a cloud is passing over the house. Sunbeams disappear for two reasons alone: clouds hide them or it is night. And being morning, most probably a cloud is passing.
Maybe soon it will rain and I will be able to watch the rain from the window. Life is so beautiful: that circumstances allowing one can watch the rain. Mine is a water sign and I imagine that now and then a planet up in space melts and flows down in front of me. Happy notion. I pick it up and approach the window. I open the pane and look out at the cars, the arid asphalt, the weary labourers. Why do these labourers get tired? I used to get tired myself sometimes and the sweat would flow, but then I turned my back on it and for years I rested. Sweat of the brow is hateful; shameful in fact. Disgusting: rising from sleep to make oneself sweat. A car goes by leaving a light cloud of dust behind it. A cat asleep on the corner opens then shuts its eyes. I close the window and slowly make my way back.
I am Destiny’s son
loyal by his side
(I never wander long)
Life is as remote to me
as Destiny is intimate:
an ache sweet and serene
Tomorrow the village market day
I will go to the spring
where you slip away to fill your jar
everyone at the market and me by the tree
we maintain twenty metres no more no less
and this before you catch on a stone or two
and before a foot slips and a jar slips
leaving me ahead
on our way to the spring again
by twenty metres and a slight smile.
Knowing a father’s belt has snap-
ping metal teeth, one does not
have to think of kneeling.
One kneels. One kneels
to please before the word is
heard or the leather tongue
slides drily through the loops.
You said: I’m still here. I just don’t know what to say. But two weeks later, you were gone. And now I sit, words turned stale upon the page. Seems I’ve been here for months, rending sentences into syllables. Senseless. Torn and patched in vain.
I’m still here and you’re still gone.
You said: I don’t want to die. I just don’t want to live. But we didn’t want to hear, for fear your fear would unmask our own. We left you to your silent pain—let it erode the edges of your reserves, like waves, ceaseless, beating the shore—bruising, breaking your brash, butch swagger. Leaving fragments and splinters of you.
Bewildered, bipolar & blue.
United Nations Relief and Works Agency rubbish
Pebbles Sand Bulldozer
Cars cars cars
Restaurants restaurants restaurants