Poetry

Solar Eclipse


Moon.

Encompassed within the gravitational force of your love,
I spin in circles.
Or is it you
shyly spinning around me?

Who is acting on who?
Are we equally subject to a force beyond us,
Spinning,
Dancing,
Entranced?

When darkness stretches across the horizon,
you shed light upon earth.
We share the spectacle of each other’s contours,
peaks and trenches.

Under the fullness of your explosive luminosity,
I am blinded to an unfathomable number of stars.
Their distant calls from the abyss, muted in your competitive glow.
In presence of your light,
I cannot face your dark side, which cannot face me.

Over days, your presence wanes,
your darkness grows.
Days become apprehensive,
out of fear that you will not return,
of the loneliness under an abysmal horizon.

Abandoned, I try to forget you,
but your rhythm haunts my harbors,
fingers combing through still sand shores.
Love’s tides roll in on the tempest,
it’s ebbs and flows erode my being.

You think you have left,
but you merely lurk behind the clouds
on a mischievous trajectory
to intrude into my daylight.

Neither simply light nor emptiness,
you are a stain in the sky.
An inversion of sunlight,
a vindictive hole
that has colonized what light I had left.

What is left of me?
a delicate sandstone arch,
hollowed out by the forces of love,
standing hold of the earth
under the light reflection of your iron indifference.

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Hate is Love’s Indigestion


Image

I.

Hate is love’s indigestion. It is love that has spoiled and gone sour. No matter how much rumination, it is bitter rejection.

Hate burns from the center of one’s being. A furnace of destruction. It destroys because it hangs in suspension, trapped above the bowels and below the throat. It swings like a fanatic pendulum, pulled in every-which-way. Hate’s torque unhinges one’s being. Sick and agitated, the whole body quakes. It’s muscles pulsate, it’s stomach walls lacerated. Blood and acid kiss, walls wrench.

So nauseating is bitter love. Self-preservation requires it.

II.

Love is not a tasty morsel. The hubris of the tongue, to taste so! Love is inedible, eternal motion. It cannot be captured by the body, for bodies are captured by it.

Hate is only the symptom of the disease of Self. To emancipate love, one must emancipate one’s Self–to empty a stomach-full of pretensions. “I,” vomited. Self prolapse into the flesh of the Other. Inside-out, outside-in. Starfish becoming plural in their destruction. Trans-generation.

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Continental Drift


When continents drift, mountains will crash.
Ablaze and distorted, the subduction of one feeds the callousness of the other; but
Beneath the volcanic surface of disdain lies a dying yet persistent love.

In the violent eruption from its abuse, this fragile kernel of love survives “me”.
The earth’s skin tears and the ocean’s water breaks.
From love’s cracks bleeds new continents to chart, new territories to traverse.
Rafting on rivers of red rock, we embark into new epochs of self, born-again from the gifts of the earth.

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Leech


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

You. Leech!
Sucking my eyes dry,
so cozy in the nurturing crevice of my lids.

My eyes bleed for you.
My horizon drips red,
the world, the future, opaque.

An effluence from permeable flesh,
rage seeps from my pours,
yet you escape it fattened and free.

Abandoned.
My eyes, caked and poisoned by rage,
witnesses to your concealed fangs.

 

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