On Burnt....

Berries scorched in the embers of jaw
And the licking fire lighted the shrine
That lay unattended by the musical preacher
Like the privacy magazines in my dad’s drawer!

You taught me the art of flute
To limit the music to the pores and lips
Lest neighbours would envy
The luxury of my jewelries
Like as a growing girl I won’t be allowed to play
Lest all the myth of puberty flew away

You wade across to seize the lotus stems
And you never see the water bleed
It is when images turn white apples
And frosted pines struggling to penetrate the sky
wriggles…
you being your self
and the silhouette of your kisses
like uncles and aunts known for ages.

From Lodzki

I am not a poet
I sally into it for the books carry it
And brings under my specs to strip the structure…

I have eyes coated thick
With the ink that I rub over my thesis
No dinner at colleague’s parlor,
No pen, books or filler
Subtract me from the locus
My eyes tuned to the hallowed yell of
A repulsive woman
With whom I rationalized a living over
T H I R T E E N y e a r s

But she has been a window
On my prim body
That once by chance I went through
And determined to miss her …So

I lost my phones in quick succession
As I spread it through…

She came with roses
Early morning when I made with my wife
A quick sip of lemon tea and the remaining…
For so T E A people we are…

Come up
And she walked all the pores
Of the stairs
An appointment appointed to my surprise
To kiss me all over below the sunsets
To which I never answered.

That day though demurred

Is a pre-doctoral asset
Of a connection just felt
Over lectures and boring iron rails
That benched my seat to the rest.

I can never be a poet
With my wife lost in the Polish Maples
And I in the conflict of politics
Politicizing a hand on research

Researching nothing
But the date to get back
To pay her bus fare
Who would ardently follow me
In the absence of my eyes

Or else write poetry
Waiting for me to pen within
Or
Under…