She came by the pond
Grey hairs under red hat
A shivering ladybug
Camouflaging bleakness
Her last lingering hope
Violated yet again.

Pockets full of rocks 
Rain-splashed
Faced-slapped
Breathing autumn colors
She dives in graciously
An abyss of daylights deep.

The pond is stale and quiet
Gulping rocks and dreams
Ladybugs a la carte
Dive out the levee 
One after another
As spiders ready to bite.

You always 
strike us
slightly unintentionally
then you fade away
leaving traces 
memories
- of sparkling eyes
- of shining faces
among unfinished lives
a glimpse 
of happiness
- in a click.


One day
I'll to catch you
inside a recycled jar
and forcefully 
squeeze out 
your blinding 
butterfly colors
burning and melting
inhumane hearts
into fashion 
accessories
- in a click.


With your blood
I'll lighten up 
the horizon
- no sparkle will ever fade
- no face will ever darken
and as you choke 
on your last breath
I'll squeeze out
the last color of life 
then retreat peacefully
into the abyss 
of my memory
freezing happiness
- in a click.

Everyday we hold on to a rope
braided by nameless
bare-footed, bare-chested
underage, underfed, con artists
who stood naked in the rain
under a blinding golden light
looking at the galloping horses. 
But then our mirror cracks
and with our impotent nakedness
we try to pull the breaks but
while we accessorize
the galloping horses disappear
and trapped we remain
in the Wheel of Time
that same golden light 
blinding us - all over again.

At Myrtle Avenue
the half-empty train 
weighs of project anger
while the half-full glass
reveals soaked faces
wandering aimlessly.
She shouts fiesta - fiesta
but nobody in the mood
to shake off the gloom
of their tired groins.
Saturday morning
too early for action
they'd rather miss 
- yet another train
it's not like catching it
- would change 
the color of their skin.

At Gates Avenue
two lamps hang over
 - sheepishly
as he draws endless graffiti
then joins the ride 
- feet apart
 transported by loud music
pretending to carry the weight
- of the majority's liability.
So let the rhythm carry
 - the social grief
Let the graffiti blind 
- those who look away.

Frescos at Chauncey street
mock - believers
blind - nonbelievers.
They saw her brittle hands
struggling to push away 
his heavily breathing belly.
At Broadway Junction 
he'll jump off and disappear
NYPD will turn over her arms
a disposed needle 
- on the ground
will reaffirm suspiciouns
her fault - of course.

At Cleveland Street platform
the little boy is not angry
 - NO.
He just stopped being a child
while everyone was 
- too busy chasing
that same American Dream
that failed him.

And so angry legs continue to
walk in - walk out
too early for death threats
- or sex talk
on the phone - or off it
- but the rain has stopped
and a rainbow has popped.

Tourists jump off at JFK
high on holiday bargains
dangling 'I ♥ NY' trinkets
New Yorkers continue
to ride the J Line
 - in anger
day in - day out.

In overcrowded spaces
Sweaty hands part away
The city holds too many faces
For the hearts to sway.
Doors - genitals - swelling
In humid asphalt heat
Selfishness bubble withholds
The kick of that summer beat.
Too ripe for this game
Many bogus gossips ago
Made a pact with my tide
To pop any bubbles
Made on the go.
Escapism just as good as any
Therapy of get-up-and-go
Self-prescription is healthy
If suspense is your foe.
Spilling  - bubbly - swinging 
In the hammocks of the rich
Mars marvels at the stars
Tingling with reassurance
Venus eyes the pond 
She won't pop the bubble
Of this strong of a bond.

In bright daylight
We are all butterflies
Exchanging compliments
Swapping presents
Flying our best route
To life or just office
A mediocre suffice.
Behind walls
We are all shadows
Of crouching tigers
Replaying stories
Rethinking friends
Indulging in thighs
Not of our own
But thrown 
To the mercy 
Of closed doors. 

Left in tatters - breathless but ripe 
Overpowered by mimicries of life
She's bending left-and-right
A lonesome warrior 
Currently in flight. 

Looking for buttons, pins, amenities
Porcelain, jade, and glass, fragilities  
Under the sinful sky - she finds
A plentitude of banalities.

In the dark - touching edges 
Of chairs, tables, shoe-holders
Impeccable equilibriums 
In her room - ever so dim
She gently caresses 
Every sharp brim. 

On her knees - she bends to life
Embracing her unborn progeny
She indulges one last time
This epiphany of stories 
Unwritten - unknown - untold
Of the sharp edges of our world.

you too
if chained to a bed
in a room with no view
and an ugly drape
you too
would complain
about cream cakes
and the EU.

she too
was there in 68’
when Prague got the flew
and medicine was few
and far between.
she too
when the sky was blue
had a pair of walking legs
less wrinkles 
and a vertical view.

you too 
would laugh less and obsess
bury your husband 
next to your mother
whom he hated
ever so intensely.
you too
would have punished him so
if he’d left you 
lying flat horizontal
for 19 lone springs.

you too
would have wished 
every day - for death 
to come take you away
if you only knew 
the world was flat again
and those with a vertical view 
are yet to apprehend.

A mini skirt
flirting its way
passed a homeless shelter
suede ankle boots
their blue soaking
handheld
they found each other
last night.

East Village
awfully quiet
wet pavement
carries the baggage
of a rainy night
mild drops
like hope on odd days
aspiring to even out
expectations
with the ground level.

A frail hand
tightens its grip 
on the trolley
face down 
hiding from the sky
a hug would crinkle
her withered soul
into glass cut pieces
thinner than 
her forehead wrinkle.

Another scout drop
eagerly joins 
the stream 
of many
gay, straight
mostly wet.

On a rainy day in New York
we all shoot 
still life 
in drops.

America,
Mothers are on their knees
Weeping.

America,
Childless women are choking on Anti-depressants.

America,
Fathers are struck by heavyweight
Paralysis. 

America,
At 6 she saw all her friends
Die.

America,
Twenty is not a number in 
Newtown.

America,
Burying young dreams is not
Democracy.

Burying the guns is.

We walk the streets of life
Believing in better souls than we
But when oysters open up
It’s smelly business and pee.

We walk the streets in shame
Silly – oh silly we
Still hoping on a sunny day
Worthy oysters will pass our way. 

We walk the streets, we sway
Each in our lonely shade of grey
One day we’ll forgive humanity
So we can all live - we pray!

There shall be no charge
For negligence or farce
Smelly oysters will remain 
Forever unnamed.

Until then, 
Under a dying tree
Over biscuits and tea
We reinforce this living fiasco
Silly – oh silly we!

We all want to slap boredom
in the face
farting – fuming
splash of muddy rain today
hits the scars of yesterday
the sun shines again
and the sex is plain dry
so we all watch the sky
instead.

Blood red
is the colour of my shoe
as I dismiss
your gentle-man-hood
you gradually slip 
and melt 
into my custom made
pot of grease
stinking of anxiety.

But you come out of it
looking straight into my bust
and I know
you might 
– only just –
set me off balance.