Life on the Slow Lane

A detached life is a thing of

meritocracy: None inherited it,

and no father was cruel enough

to pass it in primogeniture. Think:

It is about earned solitude,

wishing the unwished, submitting

in caution until all surprise is lost.

A detached life is a gift, not holy

like the smooch of the Virgin on Joseph's

consolatory cheeks, not unholy

like the thought of masturbation

on an arid August morning. It defies

divinity, borders on the blasphemous,

yet is such detached not to do it

with any sacrilegious intent. The detached

life is not aware, and the whole effort

of cognizance is directed towards reserving

the numbness. However, it is no lethargy:

the detached is in constant struggle to

connect, to hang onto, to dangle from;

living it is no virtue. There's nothing

virtuous or moral about liking to detach 

or discontent thereof. It is a matter 

only realized when reflected, and the 

reflection is the illusion of attachment. 

I too, am connected now.

to the Apple

For you we were
from heavens banish'd,

and with only just sex
I am content -- but that is
not what i look for.

Yes, they know me,
and yes, I know them back.

An Elegiac for the Sight of New York City from Jersey

for Charon, and a preemptive mournful cry for Alperen Elibol  
On the day he died
they served no dry rice
and I decided that
I would stop eating
corn flakes for breakfast;
the captain's children looked
unhappy - never were too happy -
and the rest of the city
decided 'twas a good day
to sleep in. Not a tear was shed:
no drum-rolls, no bangs, no whys,
no exclamations that scrape
the ears -- only whimpering
reservation. I took a look
at him, and at my father, a dry
man in his dry years with a dried
out brain, and the notion that
everything was meant to dry
and no wetness reserved, not
for the crying eyes, not for
satisfied vaginas, not for seaweed,
not even for the lilacs. I was wet
but only merely, and on the day
I took a look at my hands,
and the death that lied between
the lines of my hand -- within
the palm, troubling the cells.

On the day he died, everyone
took a look at death, none cared,
as if death was a parent that would
come and pick you up and you
were the lonely boy at the
school's playground waiting
shamefully for your parents
to pick you up, who are so very
loveless and so very biological.

On the day he died, or passed 
away, for those of you who are
politically correct and fundamentally
wrong, the museums were closed --
young girls' lips and laps alike.

On the day he died, he did not
cease to be, and I realised that
never was existing such a hefty
task. Life on the other side of
Styx was no different than the
animated. I could not keep it. I cried.

Couronne Cinquain de la Société

They do

take what you love the most away

only to leave you with

a memory

of grief.

No one

ever stood a chance, nor detest

the confiscationists,

of whom many

were blind.

It is

not the eye that demands, but the

intestinal movement

and the stomach

skirling.

Take the

advice if you will, and get laid

before time gets to you,

and beds too old

for crunch.

Hail me,

for I am the Saint of things lost,

of the dreams abandoned,

and I will not

ring twice.