Walking Fast

The schoolmates, having grown up from the past,
Streets ahead vast, they hold hands, walking fast.

Old white man in a straw hat at boarding
With his last pot of honey, walking fast.

Swells of round hips can push a path through crowds;
If asked, she’d say the key is walking fast.

Cities are crawling over the thick jungle
Earthen crust never masters walking fast.

Peeling from glass, the café sign flutters
At half-mast; still the queue is walking fast.

This is where your ‘can’ becomes a ‘must’ –
How dastardly that time was born walking fast!

Fern says: never fish for hope in airspace,
The lines you cast are walking, walking fast.


A lumbering predator
Cornered by prey
In a dark room
Lined with wire.

Stone feet pick between
Spindle-sharded grass;
The appetite dulls, I say:
I’m not hungry.

Hysterical rabbits
Spin flustered clouds
Of babbling acids
In moisture-muddled air.

Pinwheels of red
Darting in darkness;
Their wild whizzing fears
Frighten them dead –

They are still screaming
Long after I leave.

The Fervent Lie

We are the road
Pinched tight and hanging
From the fingertips of fate.
We are the ever-churning circle.

We run the mountains;
We crush the borders,
We live, we die
And we deny

We are a road
Pinched tight and narrow
Between fingers squeezed in hate.
We are an ever-turning circle.

We will be nothing else.

Only So Much

Sadness in the eyes is all-consuming.
There’s only so much that
One pair of hands can do.
A pair of eyes can do so much
Just tuning in, tuning out
Likewise with the ears, the nose
And the skin with which to feel the silence.
But the world is not measured
In eyes, in ears, in skin
In lemon drops on the tongue, it is
Causal chains, like inedible pearls
Concrete on every street all-consuming.

Vacuum Cleaner

A vacuum cleaner stands
between me and my life’s work.
It is swaying crocodile-like,
hungering for all that is small and
crunchy in its maw
like bones, like brains
like blood and obligation
states and nations.

It hungers for quickly crumbling dust
and I am waiting behind
a never-moving line
of one.


The flowers that don’t bloom
hang their heads in disappointment
to the one that does
all of the blooming, pink as blood
in human cheeks.

The lone leafy star is watched from afar,
trembling in the gentle breeze
to be yanked by
all its roots, for all its glory
by human hands
by empty lands.

Thinking in Print

I am working on a puzzle
People do not seem to like.
It is old, yet unknown,
Hammered and sewn.
I am working on the screws
That bore deep into teak-wood
Deep into tradition and the
Layman’s intuition.
I am working on the stitches
That staple fast the scraps
The silken to the leather,
And mountains on the map
Are shifting from their designated places.
I work on making unfamiliar faces.