Tentative Titles for an Unwritten Book of Poems.

1. Where the hell did you find this book : Vol 1
2. You can't prove anything : Vol 1
3. You know what? : Vol 1
4. What erases ink? : Vol 1
5. Now you know what I did last Summer : Vol 1
6. As good as pen erasers and fake pockets : Vol 1
7. This book doesn't have a name, Fuck Off : Vol 1
8. Nothing rhymes forever : Vol 1
9. This one time, : Vol 1
10. Ridiculously long title that everyone will misquote forever : Vol 1
11. Shoddy rhymes by a budding alcoholic : Vol 1
12. This book is just full of book names : Vol 1
13. Hey look, my pen works : Vol 1
14. So you think you can read poems : Vol 1
15. Orange rhymes : Vol 1
16. Slouching Towards Boredom : Vol 1
17. Bastard Children of the Universe and other Poems : Vol 1 
18. Oh well whatever never mind -or- help me, I can't stop quoting Nirvana, Come as you are : Vol 1

. . .

Extras.

All is fair in love and war
let's talk about those
not touched by love or war
not burning red or being distressed
withering slowly maybe, at best
bystanders in crash and burns
grey suits on sidewalks
corners in crowd shots
silhouettes against stray windows
backs of heads in waiting queues
dark shapes in back seats
bulk numbers in stock surveys
those we don't watch
those who don't see and don't care
All is not fair
and they are not in love or at war
they, like the rest of everyone
just are.

let's talk about you and me
being extras in screenplays.

. . .

Quote Unquote

Things I wrote and set afloat
paper notes in paper boats
about rain coats and rain quotes
Things I rewrote to out vote
Misquotes and foot notes
about turncoats and scapegoats
Things I overwrote to denote
anecdotes and key notes
about undercoats and overcoats
Things I wrote
that kept me afloat
as I typewrote
things on to paper notes.

. . .

Dropping by sites during Midnight Frost.

Whose posts these are I think I know.
This site is in the beta though;
they will not see me stopping here
cause I'm doing this incognito.

My Google log must think it queer
for the hits without any reason clear
between fast rap and brazen drake
the most boring night of the year.

It gives me a captcha to take
To ask if there was some mistake.
the only other sound's the bleep
that jay-z songs on censors make.

I have files to go before I sleep.
Yet I choose to sit here and weep,
like a weirdo creep,
like a weirdo creep.

. . .

Rebel Yell.

Basic math gives a simple reckoner
the who of it doesn't matter at all.
push enough people into a corner
and someone will break a wall.

. . .

Single shot of hard reason.

Worried wrecked lonely
happy bored or tired
can't at all be treated
with a cocktail
alcohol isn't the
shaken not stirred solution
to your latent feelings
what you are feeling
is latent alcoholism.

. . .

Return and Refund.

I saw you today
in your brand new jacket
this is not your coat
the lapels, too broad
the buttons, too big
the cut is all wrong
too hard, too long
no doubt made for someone
desperate to look strong
honey
its arrogance
is an ugly color on you
and it's not even that cold.

. . .

Evasive tactics.

I don't deny
that I owe you an explanation
all I can say is
thank you for being big enough
not to ask
and
sorry for being small enough
to not tell you.

. . .

Moving On.

These thoughts
are not mine to dwell
Some stories
are not mine to tell

. . .

Abort.

stop. turn around.walk away.
in fact, run.
as fast as you can
faster if possible
get in a car
zero to hundred
in a couple of seconds
or get on a plane
get out of here
put a lot of miles in between
maybe a few time zones
go anywhere but here
and go now
before you get caught
because
this
is a trap
and this
is fair warning.

. . .

Us Vs Them.

You are still as impressive
as you were yesterday
but today
you joined
in my head
the list of people
who, in my head
don't get it.
I can't blame you for that
well,
not outside my head.

. . .

Calm.

I've been warned enough
about the oncoming gloom,
nobody ever seems to talk
about the calm
after the storm.
That is surely where
the answer would be,
if there is any.
The lack of free advice
on this seemingly important front
makes me think
the storm isn't the villain in this story,
it's just a distraction you see
from all the nothing happening.

The ongoing calm
now that, is truly scary.

. . .

Easy.

I should.
It would be easier
if I did
and I would
if I could.
shouldn't be this hard
to take it easy.

. . .

Silence Please.

I don't see any reason
to ever leave this library
in becoming a recluse
is it good or bad though
to choose a place
full of dead people talking.

. . .

The Running Gag.

I laugh all the time
at how my life thinks it's so funny.

. . .

Vodka Tonic, Whisky Sour.

It wasn't you
it wasn't even me
it was the vodka
and the whisky.

. . .

As I pass by.

Constricted spaces
crooked alleys
bright colors
bleak shadows
transient affairs
captured and locked
in all their contrast
in a photograph
framed and sold
The India of tour guides.

 . . .

Fleeting.

I would really like
to memorize
the feel of your hand
in mine
however
never having learnt
how to forget
on command
I'm afraid
the memory
burnt into my head
will haunt me
long after
you
will have forgotten.

. . .

Fixated.

I catch you
looking at me
again and again
until I realize
I'm the one
staring.

. . .

To put it mildly.

I was romanticizing life.
they didn't get it.
so we fought.
for hours and hours
about nothing and everything
over hushed tones and over raised voices
in tangents and in tail spins
with clenched fists and creased foreheads
amid irritated strangers and concerned friends
while not making sense and not breaking trends
we fought and fought
our heads hurt and our throats sore
our hearts hurt and our thoughts sour
over and over again
we fought
to no conclusion.
In their defense
on a technicality,
I might have been romanticizing death.
but still, I maintain
they didn't get it.

. . .

Self Aware Cigarette butt.

I'm not burning anymore
there is no smoke
heaven is a sparkly glass ashtray
this must be a joke.

. . .

Welcome Home.

I will build you a house
like it's meant to be
where nothing is a coincidence
or just is.
where you can read along every line
thoughts meet at every corner
the windows won't just look in or look out
but also look back
I will plan with precision
and lay every brick down with intent.
knowing me,
it won't be symmetric or beautiful
but it will be earnest and it will be for you.
This much I promise.

. . .

The night is way too young.

Holding a bottle of bacardi
been mulling things over
too many people at this party
and I'm too sober.

. . .

Round and Round.

It is a spiral
not up, not down
but to the middle
the long way round
round and round
slowly but surely
we will get there
except of course,
if it isn't a spiral at all
and we are running
round and round
in circles.

. . .

Empty.

Drained
to the very last drop
wearied
of any lasting hope
the mere thought
of wanton intent
every single cent.
All of me,
Spent.

. . .

Ultimately.

In the grand scheme of things
I know that I know nothing
and this knowledge gets me nowhere
because there is nowhere to go.

. . .

No Air.

My window is open
so is my door
papers flying
like there is a breeze
but no air
and I can't breathe.

. . .

We're Okay.

We are young but not young enough to be carefree
We are old but not old enough to be responsible.
We can see change so close we can almost touch.taste.
We are restless to leave but afraid of letting go.
We are not the future anymore.
We are the present.
We have our whole life ahead of us.
We just figured out it is way more tricky than we thought.
We may have time but our time to make mistakes is running out.
We heard this was normal. those who made it insisted.
We can't understand how anything this nerve wracking is normal.
We wonder where those who don't make it are sent.
We had a lot of lessons in the art of growing up.
We feel cheated and uneducated and unready.
We get frustrated and insecure and frustrated with being insecure.
We know it's not the end of the world, only some days we hope it is.
We feel alone in crowds.
We would much rather be alone in our rooms.
We are young enough and angry enough and naive enough to put the world on hold
and dance to our favorite songs
and laugh at our problems
and trivialize our fears
and crib about salt shakers
and other things that don't matter
with people who do
and it's okay.
We're okay.

We've got to be.

. . .

Whirlwind.

Caught unaware
in the high spirited resonance
of restless nonconformity
not knowing a lost cause
I search for stability
inside a whirlwind.

. . .

Sunrise.

Let's watch the sunrise together
as a perfect night,
too dark and too beautiful
disappears around us
into the light.

. . .

Introduction.

This isn't some childish desire
to stay a mystery
or that I like ambiguity.
This is a guessing game
with the odds stacked against me
I'm going to need a lot of luck indeed
to fill these gaps in me
half as well
as your imagination does.

. . .

What we have.

embers
of forgotten times
that burnt a lot brighter.
quiet
after an animated conversation
having run eachother
out of breath
and out of words.
stolen glances,
unsaid words,
and careless shrugs.
A battle
against the force of habit
longing
for the memory
of a time
when
I had you
and
you had me.

. . .

In my dreams.

My imaginary friend
who I used to pretend
held the other end
to the conversations in my mind,
hasn't lately been around
because now, all of them,
these conversations in my head
have me, it would seem,
sprawled at the edge of your bed.

. . .

Masochism.

There is a sadistic pleasure
to be derived
from denying yourself what you want.
In hitting rock bottom
and out of spite, staying there.

. . .

Apathy.

You can think it's not good
or good enough
and that's okay.
Who even are you anyway.

. . .

Good Morning.

If two roads did diverge in a wood,
I'm sure someone would have
raked, paved and painted both
to charge for passage at either end.
because when morning arrives,
with its well pressed suits and ties
In reality's harsh weather, poetry dies.

. . .

Disintegration by parts.

This part I don't like.
Cataloged for future reference,
my slow demise.
An act of free falling,
frame by frame.
For you; From what's left of me.

The part I do like,
will come soon enough.
Rising from my ruins
with no grounds to be bound to,
like the best things do.
For no one; From nothing.

. . .

Limbo.

Hoping to force change,
I pushed myself over the edge
but gravity defied me
and yet again, nothing happened.

. . .

Black.

I'm lost in space and
it's all around me, black.
I look in the mirror and
my fears are showing, black.
I laugh out loud  and
my tears are flowing, black.
I dance bare foot and
my toes are bleeding, black.
I fall free, too fast and
hit too fast, the bottom, black.
I burn brightly lit and
there is nothing but ashes, black.
I sleep to certainty and
everything fades to black.

. . .

Exclusive.

Friends and family
can show up support and cheer.
but when push comes to shove,
It's only you in the battlefield
with your demons.
You are inside your head here,
After all.

. . .

The break up math.

You left

and took with you,
all your additions.
That's fine.
What's yours is yours.

It's my subtractions
that bother me.
What's mine,
still resolutely yours.

So, life didn't go back to zero.
and I live now, in negatives
chasing phantom warmth
between cold sheets and bare walls.

. . .

XVII-2

I want to read a lot of Neruda,
then write a lot like Neruda.
The thing is,
I've read Neruda before
that didn't make me want to read more,
or write at all.
guess what's changed

. . .
xxx

Something about Summer.

sent me reeling,
into words, more words,
as I tried to put
a finger on that feeling.

. . .

Lies. but not all of them.

Maybe you already knew
Maybe you haven't a clue
either way, it's true.
I confess I do. I lie.

If any comfort,
It's not just you
keeping you company,
I lie to myself too.

. . .

Aren't we?

The Universe made us.
All its children.
then became indifferent.
All just bastards.
Frankenstein's monsters
running around in chaos,
trying to convince ourselves,
otherwise.

. . .

Communication Gaps and Rude Humans.

Life came to a standstill,

when there was a rumor at the mill,

about a parrot at the zoo,

which could not only talk, but talk back too.

People went in droves, to see

with own eyes, truth to the story.

Stood around the cage they asked,

in chorus, What's your name?

It only asked right back, 

What's your name?

Disappointed, they left.

Bereft, The bird idly thought,

of communication gaps and rude humans.

. . .

One Ticket Traveler.

If I got off here in the middle,
at some rusty old station,
The train would still go on,
to find its destination.

For, I'm just a one ticket traveler,
Status, Confirmed;
From Station;
To Station;

Going along laid out paths,
to mapped out places,Where,
countless souls have gone before,
countless more will follow after.

One ticket travelers, like me,
have got no thrill.
They've seen this tale unfold,
they know the drill.
Yet, for weary cues they wait,
watchful still.

Like they don't already know
the end of the story
is sealed in bold
right in their itinerary.

May be Frost had it right all along.
I've just been travelling wrong.

If I got off here in the middle,
at some rusty old station,
The train would still go on,
to find its destination.

For I, no more a one ticket traveler,
can only find by myself,
if there is, for me,
waiting in the woods,

A road, not yet taken.

. . .

When I see you.

By no means,
does my heart skip a beat,
when I see you.
As a matter of fact,
It picks up a beat or two
and thumps hard, as if trying,
to break out of my chest
and tell you first hand,
All the things I won't.

. . .

The last time.

The last time I lied,
was because I didn't want to get out of bed.

The last time I cried,
was watching The Incredible Hulk.

The last time I laughed,
was a particularly bad knock knock joke.

The last time I saw you,
there were butterflies inside my chest.

. . .

A Reason.

not to stand still,
in a world that works in circles.
or never fall apart,
and pick up the pieces when you do.
to make the middle seem worth it.
to move on and keep moving.

to go to sleep at night.

to wake up the next morning.

. . .

Keeper.

Like everything else, this was trivial.
knowing that, I kept it at heart.
Secret. Safe from the world.
Hoping one day, I'll meet someone,
with the same reverence,
for the elegance in things trivial.
When you have to swear, not to laugh,
so you get to hear, a secret or half,
You are already not worth the cause.

. . .

Financial Crisis in a Nursery Rhyme.

Smart guy Bob,

started a small shop,

for little boys and girls

to eat lollipops.

They ate and ate,

He started charging more.

They ate and ate,

He built another floor.

They ate and ate,

He kept building floors.

They ate and ate,

Until one day, he said no more.

To the great dismay,

of little boys and girls,

Smart guy Bob,

shut down his shop.

They say, to this day,

he sits on the highest floor,

counting his lollipops.

. . .

She said. He said.- A One-Act Play

EXT. BALCONY - NIGHT.

Unnamed female lead comes onto the the balcony. <duh!> but only after Unnamed Male lead throws pebbles at it from the the garden below. <again, duh!>

UNNAMED FEMALE LEAD

Would you go with me,Romeo,

to the end of the world?

UNNAMED MALE LEAD

Why the fuck would anyone go,

to the end of the world?

How the hell do you even know,

where's the end of the world?

If you do know though,

Shouldn't we maybe tell people?

instead of using it,cheaply so,

as yet another romantic ploy?

Also,don't call me Romeo.
and I think your neighbors 

called the Cops.
This was a terrible idea. 
We are over.Bye.

Unnamed male lead exits.

< THE END. > 

. . .

Now Playing.

New ink.Old book.
Summer rain. Coffee shop.
Winding walks. Piling work.
Library. Yeats book.
Crap food. Cheap beer.
Late days. Long nights.
Aimless thoughts. Cold showers.
Rushdie. Angelou.
Fight club's second half.
A guy who runs,
to Beethoven's Ninth.

. . .

Window in time.

When I cross my hometown
not stopping to say hello,
too busy with my new life,
One lighted window,
of my old dorm room
takes me back in time,
to when I used to sit
amid bored nights,
On the other side
and stare at the blur of life
over the freeway right outside.
Now,as I whiz past it
without yet saying hello,
can't help but pause and wonder,
Is there somebody
staring out my window?

. . .

Never stood a chance.

Had you got to me little by little,
I could have stopped it,may be.
Thank you for coming. 
Good bye. The end. Full stop.
You came at me full steam ahead,
hitting me like a train instead.

. . .

No.

I won't clam down or take it slow.
'cause very soon it'll be time to go.
I want more,I want to explore.
trust me, I'm not an alcoholic,
but sometimes what you need,
is to drink wine out of the bottle.

. . .

The first step.

Want I can deal with,
not pay any heed.
What do I do now?
I am helpless. I need.

. . .

Embittered Atheism.

What more proof would you need

to see beyond all doubt

that there is nothing else,

no grand design, no divine being,

than the fact that we have no purpose.

If we did have a destiny,

if there was a plan, isn't it a pretty fatal flaw,

that none of us can clearly see

whatever the hell we were supposed to be.

. . .

Souvenir

When you leave a place,
you take something with you,
a piece of it, a souvenir,
to remind you to remember.

When you look at it and reminisce,
what you really miss,
is not the place, but the piece of you,
that you gave in exchange.

. . .

Things fall apart.

Guess it's better late than not at all,
but I should have learnt this one,
right when Humpty fell off that wall.
Things that break stay broken.

Doesn't matter if I regret or repent.
no matter how much time I spent,
to put it back together and pretend,
It's all whole and nothing happened,

The cracks just stare back and mock me.

. . .

Dreary deduction.

The tight clenched knot in the middle of my chest,

told me what could always make me feel the worst.

Get to me first and foremost.

Regret was a strong contender.

I considered guilt for a while.

But what won out ultimately,

Causing the heat in my face, 

my pulse to race, and my head to drop down,

was what I knew all along,

but for good reason, too ashamed to accept.

It was, as if reiterating to me how shallow I am,

embarrassment that got me first and best.

. . .

Written drunk; edited sober.

Drinking in broad daylight,

it isn't right,

but that's not enough a fright,

try hard as we might,

to save the vodka for the night.

We craftily hide,

drinks at our side,

and take it in stride,

when people, eyes open wide,

say, it's still bright outside!

No message here, to sink,

no chain of events, no missing link,

no greater good, of which we think.

no edge, no view from the brink,

no one cares, we've got a drink.

Don't bother with thought,

do another shot,

drink a lot, drink till you're hot,

smashed as could be got,

sober poetry, this is not.

In the end watch closely,

see it all go off key.

As words escape me,

I let everything be,

and drown myself in whisky.

. . .