once

at one point, i thought i had a rebellious soul, but acquiescent demeanour. 

at one point, i trusted and believed in others.

at one point,  hope fermented within me.

at one point, i  intuitively buried the pain of others.

at one point, i predicted a future, the background a pedestal.

at one point, i offered guidance and moved between multiple spheres.

at one point, i gazed at madness from the outside.

at one point, i projected responses.

now i'm haunted by loss.

sleeplessness

insomnia i must make of you a friend
instead of erasure, you shall become my constant shadow
lurking deep beneath my eyes
because of you, i have sacrificed alertness for perpetual lullness--
dullness of the mind
i am reduced to inanimate thoughts limping
flailing, agitated, warring

Holiday's "Strange Fruit"

When I think of protest songs, Billie Holiday's "Strange Fruit" comes to mind. This protest song par excellence, articulates the horrors of lynching in particular and racism in general. She translates her bitterness, abhorrenc , and pain with such depth that we can't but read them faithfully and share her sentiments. I wanted to share Holiday's powerful performance of Abel Meeropol's equally powerful protest poem "Strange Fruit."

"no sleep for the wicked"

 muttering notes easing to the edge of my bed
genuflecting in submission to memories I do not own
i'm that which is absent
walking endlessly in silence
and when i do call, no response
still, i can't sleep

abbrev.

facing decaying brick walls and i remain fixated with the I/you binary:

i, an abbreviated thought
you, a run-on sentence
we, a fragmented phase
no, not a phase, but a phrase
no, even that is too giving
perhaps we are a feathered hat floating on the moon
or a whisper heard when eavesdropping on the sun
probably an obscure gesture breathing in the summer air

but, there's no wisdom in this ageless and one-sided emotion
that twists, turns, and twirls--a talented dancer--
into a sinuous silence that breeds
painful privacy

this is neither calculated nor edited.
it remains a vague, if not empty, signifier.

the walls

i've been able to preserve my sanity because of the liliac coloured walls. monstrous intimacy gets lost in their monotone warmth with a hint of closure. it turns me low and slows my machinic thoughts into warped phrases, upside down commas, and then a string of silence. we merge, finally.

absence

My thoughts scintillate below the raging summer sun—they are minuscule, a flash disappearing in jagged lines. They are of you and to you they are nothing. A longing, I confess, an accidental longing, a mere coincidence of the flesh, a fragile presence. Directionless. I sit and converse with absence.