Angels dont cry

TOPPLE OVER BROKEN BRIDGE He survived multiple open-heart surgeries, died many times & revived to tell of heaven.

Half a heart he made babies write poetry of broken cities, dried water beds he found opportunities on deserted waste land.

With dried tears he built a monument through the kinder side of sad strangers whose soul crawl on torso in war torn miles.

Time is precious, ears cocked by the telephone pole he reflect on blunted dreams, wrecked and rusted.

Propelling him to dance on oil spill seas -lace with dismay. No shoes.

He learn to laugh at himself, cry over dead heroes sniff and swallow much pain of being immigrant‘s son

OUR FOOT PRINT’S HISTORY

Sometimes it‘s the moment we are faced with. The line. that fine line between life and death that we realize the weight of our existence.

How significant our tiny contribution is to the vast eternity, how big we all are though we feel so singular and alone.

When life backhand us into submission even the butterflies applaud with fickle wings.

Death in its Stone Age uniforms lurks ready to calculate our days registering its wrath for each error before embarking like gust of anger it‘s the music in the willow gives death its secret codes its vengeance pass like ancient breeze over those rich who sleeps well, in soft beds of history here we lay on grainy bed of sand that erase the history of our footprints.

AFTER THE BODY IS BOXED AND BURIED After the funeral come the resolutions— time for empty air, time for self war.

After the body is boxed and buried its time to move on—going in circles not sure what‘s next —when there‘s no one to care for stalking the threats of carpet edges where anger bubbled like a volcano and who is to blame, who is at fault salty tears drip down walls filled with memories Peel the paint on its way down to the core, it hurts Agony floats through the doorways to the kids rooms, under the beds—in the drawers In the garage, a car with fingerprints.

A strange breeze more potent than death itself with its power, its unhinged jaws, its clasp a curtain dance, birds sings life goes on.

Life goes on.

ONLY THE MOON KNOWS Only the moon knows the nights I wander the corridors of home without light.

He watches me pour myself glasses of spoilt milk, baptise my brain in it then lie like a stalk of broccoli on the kitchen table.

Without care, without habituation to clothing, drunk from my fears.

I close my eyes, and arch four legs on heated burners.

The demon stays withinthe moon closes his eyes with the chiffon clouds as I sizzle in the night of lilac dreams, as I float free, dreaming of paradise , and the soul of a nightingale, I circling like a hub-cap within a wheel, circling without tangible end — or, I could separate my textured vanity, confess all my sins and negative thoughts, then tilt my slanted salvation so I would hear the church bells above the sirens.

I am nothing but a fried, animated blimp.

The sun didn‘t recognize me in the morning.

My mother‘s spirit could buy the sprouted wings and the feather trail woven into the clouds (dry of rain) Swinging across the sky — a pendulum with my name

THERE ARE NO SEX IN HEAVEN There are no sex in heaven heaven is a holy place Sex is not. There is nothing holy about two or more participants eating the same flesh like crows.

If sex was holy, people would have sex publicly like shaking handswalking or running to catch a bus.

There is no modesty in the transactions between strangers. It‘s that unholy.

Body parts should be under the cover of clothing. Concealed.

It‘s a lionized act of brutal ecstasy Consensual is legal, taken by force Is prison sentence, there‘s my reasoning. no correctional facilities in heaven because sex is not holy heaven is.