Friday, June 25, 2010


to me
in rhymes
& talks to me
in simple sentences;
it talks
to me
through pain
& kindnesses,
& empathy;
it screams
from balconies
& basements;
it talks to me
from children
just learning
how to ride
two wheelers;
it talks to me
through tears
of scraped elbows
cut faces
broken bones
after a spill;
talk to me
weary from
the worn heels
of broken men
& stiletto ones
of women
and angels
of the night;
it talks
to me
from jail,
from madhouses
from burnt
& gutted cars,
from white
Rolls Royce's
& the yachts
of the rich, fat,
& idle;
it is trees
& lemons,
circus arcs
& pilgrims,
it talks
through inquisitions
& boredom,
honing a magic
that only blue jays know;
it does not weep
nor laugh
nor pray;
it does not allow
or deny,
it just
coming, coming,
to a theater
near you,
in you,
at you:
Mr. & Mrs. Death,
appearing nightly.