you cannot tell me

gnarled old handsand kerosene feetcheck comes once a monthonly lasts for a few daysa bony old catand cracked windowpanesend of time, end of daysonly the strong will survivecall it justice, the American waycall it the great liecast off, used up, and spentthrown to the sideexcess baggage, human garbagealready dead, waiting to die…baby crying and coldroaches…

the winter wind whips downbetween the buildings like a knife…pulling tattered coats tight hunching.and i can hear Shantideva whisper,his hand on the ladel…his body the meat of the soup,his blood the broth…‘these are my children! ‘….they walk in long staggered lines,refugees from the bombing…hungry scared children clinging,afarid to lose sight of…what’s left of their families.nothing…

childrens’ voices crying out,different sounds, different languages.all the same language.millions of hands reaching fora hand searching for a bridge.hunger, need, and the emptinessthat drives, that prays, that bleeds.all the same language.kindred souls wrapped in fallen leaves,that crumble, and return to dirt.millions of eyes turned inward,under the same sky, looking for tomorrow.all the same language.millions of…

That follows.The branch tornFrom the tree.The trill of the birds,The nest abandoned.Tiny prints in the dirt.I am the shout,The distance andThe echo.The damp spot onThe borrowed thought.I am the horn,The axe handle,And the wagon.I am the tongueThat climbs the trellis.I am the shadowBeneath your eyes.The broken thingsThat form your lips.The taste of your dreams,And your…

the ‘need’ to possess.we strip our senseswith fake morality.we quench our fireswith our limited concepts.we wound our very lovewith the image we present.we defile our truthwith the lies we settle for…we choose fear over freedom,and so break our own wings!

after months, and years,he stepped out on the street,and fought back the urgeto run…. to run, and runto where nobodyknew his name, orhis face… to where hecouldnt even smellthe time he’d lost…and he walked slowly,and with dignity, neverlooking back, to the car…a series of deaths…and a match litin a distant window…a small gust of windthat…