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Do Not Use Me As Deodorant, Jerry.

A lone nib of dark chocolate in

A bowl of milk

Like the coldness of neglect

That slides down your tongue that quivers

When Linda is not resting on your shoulder

Instead, I hit you hard,

Your soft belly bouncing like

Junior Mints in a toddler’s stomach

The acid

Destroys yellowed teeth then creeps to your toes

Dissolves all future aspirations because

Sudoku, Jerry, is not the damn way of life like your

Sick business of running beauty pageants in Montana

That recharge your brain cells ruthlessly shriveled

When I took Linda from you,

The light of thousands of Cheetos and olives

Gave you hope like Linda did. Oh yeah,

Linda is my wife now, here’s her number:

303-381-oh, sorry, you still have it written on a floorboard

Under a rug.

My Bad. Patch together your solid n striped life like make it all solid or

Fully striped because I cannot deal with you when doses

Of your yearning for love override

Chapped lips that crack

And crack until tourists from Rome come to see the new

Grand Canyon of the East

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He Lost His Virginity to a Ball of Wool

His grandmother used to knit slippers

year round for all the grandkids

and –

during that entire summer he spent with her

he got ideas, finding himself home alone

he stared at the basket of wool on the floor

for hours, imagining the softness of each ball

before fingering himself a hole and defiling his favourite.

A large grey mass of fabric which he humped and threw away.

After that, he no longer considered himself a virgin.

And the slippers he got each Christmas

made him uneasy.

Precision Bombing, like Painting Your Nails

with a Bunker Buster Named Quincey

WHAT IF WAR COMES?

he yelled

like a chimney spout

full of soot.

Right to your house?

I asked.

Then I guess you’re

goners.

And he could tell

I was mocking him

which meant that he

was still there

in the outstanding

cable bill sense.

As I thought

about that chimney sweep

in a William Blake poem I had read

many years before.

And how no one escapes the prison

of anything if they don’t

want to.

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                               WUTHERING HEIGHTS RETURNS

Once again today I remember him after many years. Heathcliff, my infamous hero! I would not have forgotten him easily. He is Infact my own reflection. My own soul. I am literally an ophan like him. That’s why I love him so much. Is it an unforgivable crime a man be an orphan? Is it our mistake be born as an orphan?  Don’t we have a right to be loved? Don’t we have a right to express our feelings and emotions? Dear readers all of you know why and when Heathcliff  began to think about revenge. Isn’t it?

Look at me you all. I am crying….. My eyes vomitting  pools of blood! I know you people don’t believe me. You readers think that as I am a story writer I can imagine even if I am the King of Utopia!  But the truth is different. All the salty tears containing red corpuscles, pouring over and over again on my shirt incessantly. Now I am wearing a red shirt! Earlier it was pure white.

If you don’t afraid I would disclose one secret. Do you? Ok. I trust you all.

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I like a stream and tree in the mountains.
The objects make me always heal and purify my mind and it makes me
think of life.

Sadness, bitterness, unhappiness was under the water
but they are leaving now with the running water, maybe already gone.
Mean while, I can see positive hope and delight and much of the love I receive in the sunshine pouring on the rock.

I’m basking in the sunshine.
I feel that no good thing never dies.

Life is still beautiful……………….