The Ravens

The ravens see the thick
flutter of the saris as they
flap their sickly wings now
in the thinning breeze, the
bloody sea signals its big
thigh clinging silence,

High above the silent clouds
as the hot sun begins to
shimmer within the distant
fields which hear the scurry
of little feet and this heavy
string of black smoke and a
lost ghostly silence ringing
near these white turrets,

Where the small kids with
their barefeet stood, so
slow and sinking was the
sun as the crows cawed
and the winds flowed by
those ravens' soarings.

Suspension

I know the bottom of this
windy hot freeway, it seems
to sputter in these suspended
napkins with its silent skies
and fluttering towers,

It is only here where the
drifting drivers perish and
they measure their white
alien smoke which cries
out to these worn-out engines,

Whose worn-out portion now
is a fortress of exhausted space,
where cars whiz by dirty ribbons
of an unseen ignition, which
hears the oblivion's twistings

With its sinister crowds milling
about as they block the road
with their vulnerable poison
and their nervous light.

November poem

The blue jays are forming a line for pecking at butter from a dish,
they are hungry little buggers afraid of the shadowy strains of the wind,
and the big screams of those bratty kids,
I can see that old swimming pool now,
it waves to me--as it just sits silently,
it knows about these secrets that the blue jays are afraid of,
that they guard anyway.
Now under the dark shadows of the trees,
you see it's just the blue jays forming a line
for pecking at butter from a dish.
And I've seen this before when I'm tired
and annoyed of being only with human beings,
you see it's just an old story,
and I'm tired of re-living it,
it's like seeing these blue jays forming
a line for pecking at butter from a dish.
And it's exciting--seeing them just scatter away,
as if Batman was really here to stay,
and the butter remains still in the dish.

Walking

I'm walking on the carpet,
I see a man raking leaves,
------------------------- Someone violently blows his nose in a nearby bathroom hidden,
It's very still,
I'm walking on the carpet,
------------------------A black car pulls now out of the driveway,
An engine of a distant airplane rumbles above,
------------------------The world seems to have a soft muffled quality about it,
I am walking on the carpet,
-----------------The black car is moving silently away towards the exit of the property,
A bird hoots at a distance,
I see a picture of some saint on the wall,
----------------------------This is consciousness, it's just not the body or the mind,
English cannot handle this concept really,
-----------------------------I can no longer see the black car,
I'm walking on the carpet,
-----------------------------The man who was raking leaves is gone,
The man who blew his nose is in his room
-----------------------------and he is now hopelessly paranoid,
I am sitting in the muffled stillness,
-------------------------And the echo of the hooting bird hovers still in the air.