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Schrödinger wave equation of cancers and miracles

i thought i never wrote love poems,

or poems on wars, or

poems on how the few people

have destroyed the planet, while i see

the limited enlightened ones

posting memes on internet

about how things used to be , and

how things should have been. because  

bukowski. because plath. because rumi.

i thought i wrote about my dreams

of slashed out wounds, spurting blood

in tandem with technolicious beats

of my never-present hyper-reality,

or about the sewers, undergrounds,  

and the occult madalas, by the side

of a river , larger than the walls of our

self-created penitentiaries.

and then i realized, just like this one

every poem written so far

is always a love poem, a war poem

and a political poem at the same time;

and we all are in this together,

like a schrödinger wave equation; with the

coupled quantum state of cancers,

and occasional bleeps of unexplained miracles.

©Sudeep Adhikari

silent horror movie

a sort of stanford prison

experiment goes inside my head,

non-stop. my ghosts

imprison me,

and the unconscious bullies

of my moral mortuary,

keep electrocuting my decaying bones.

the shortest distance between

you and yourself

goes through all the hells

you have spawn in silence

mirror neurons misfire. i watch

myself, and all i see is the scariest

silent horror movie.

©Sudeep Adhikari

The Poet

The poet must sing a thousand songs before dying a thousand deaths.

A thousand symphonies soft, the music must play on.

Long after a human will is broken beyond repair.

Long after the voices have all been tucked away.

Long after a ship is lost at sea.

The poet must sink to a thousand ocean bottoms.

When the voice in your head says the hell with it, fight.

When the marrow in your bones says the hell with it, fight.

When the depths of your soul screams the hell with it, fight.

For this is when it finally reveals.
©Matthew Jose

Sun Bleached

If I write a little each day I feel good amidst the turmoil.

If I drink a little each day I feel good amidst the turmoil.

When I don’t do these two things I become like a wheelbarrow gathering rain or a well past his prime soprano singing off key notes through chipped teeth.

You see, tangled souls can’t be straightened, but with time and wisdom gained they can become less marred by the bulge.

If you’ve ever seen a starfish washed ashore, sun bleached and abandoned, then you would know this already.

Time is the master.

Time cleanses us all.

©Matthew Jose

The House on a New Year’s Diet Battle

In the family, television room a battle waited. Age battled in every room, including coffee-table art books, philosophy, outdated software books. Photographers were standing nearby and debating, as if Ansel Adams and Edward Weston reincarnated.

Nine recent National Geographics, a few recent Readers Digests, Living the Country Life, Horse Life, Oregon Life, various university alumni and defense lawyer journals all waited. They waited along with the others but the war was upfront. They knew the house was living the life too well.

The latest award winning films, The Iron Man 2 and The A-Team revised were kneeling on bottom shelves, oak stumps.

Walls of stacked monitors and peripherals were built. British Malteasers sat on a tree shelf to disrupt the soldier’s path. An enemy mine or battlefield of chocolates.

In the pantry armies of canned chicken, albacore tuna, chili con carne, chards, spinaches, green beans and other vegetables and bottles or cans of vinegars and oils. Also teas, pots, coffees and coffee makers were waiting, brewing.

A turkey carcass sat refrigerated. So many migrated beers for the soldiers to relax. So many condiments maybe as useful salves.

Around the corners behind the head of the dining table stand liqueur bottles surrounding the stacked wine bottles, which surround the tall cabinet as a short evergreen borders. They encircle  the seasonal non-native oranges and the other non-native British chocolates hiding.

Classic rock debated with jazz. LP’s debated various cassettes, pre-recorded and pre-copied media. Music debated with newer media, the grand-children of the not easily portable albums. Grateful Dead, Dave Matthews, Phish and Pearl Jam quarreled. The classic jazz musicians Duke Ellington and Count Basey debated the moderns Dave Brubeck and Herbie Hancock.

The games behind a coat closet, building towers and buying monopolies and drawing a wall for their opponent or a bridge for themselves. Jenga jumped on the monopoly. Then Pictionary fought for the kings and queens of the card decks. An anonymous Viking built more walls and bridges and strong-armed Candy Land.

Wrapping paper and tinsel lay on or

near the tree and bodies and bullets.

 January 2010

©Nicole Taylor

Gelling in Family Christmas Preparations

Loneliness gels away from here,

away from this. Warmth gels here.

Familiarity gels here.

My nephew Erik is eating Chinese food

for breakfast, except for sliced and gelled sauce.

“You can’t have Chinese for breakfast,” says his father, my brother Chris. They debate over lunch food and lunch time. His son ignores his father.

Nathan says the Santa on top looks misplaced. A small cloth Santa sits atop the fir tree with needles among the blanket and water bucket. Also in the tree is a large gold colored smiling sun, and a blue and white swirled teardrop in memorial of dad. Chris sorts and checks individual ornament boxes in, from a larger decorated box. Mom tells Erik’s brother Nate that Santa came twice one year, once while visiting in California.”  Oh yeah,” says Nate who is almost 14. I wish mom remembered my childhood as well, or the childhood of any of her children.

Mom talks of new and old trendy Hallmark ornaments for her grandchildren. She wanted a 3 frog ornament or one Napoleon Dynamite ornament. She tells us Tom, my sister Eleanor’s 15 year old, didn’t like the Napoleon movie.

Mom asks my brother, How is the cat around the tree?. She is fine now. I hope she doesn’t drink the tree preservative. The cat is a 6 month old barn cat named Smokey. The cat is fine but the tree is crooked. It leans left.

Is it a political or gay tree? Not a straight tree or an informative newspaper here. I thumb through the classifieds, local and life sections.

Mom asks me, Did you see the one outside?.”   I glance at the wooden cabinet near the dining table. I admire the silver reindeer and other decorations.  I see an attractive reindeer family near the many tall old firs.

She finishes her coffee and toast. She offers me tea with milk and sugar. No coffee left in pot.

Hi, says my sister-in-law Irene prepares eggs and toast. We discuss a recent poetry reading event I attended at her law school.

Erik begs and later steals part of her toast while the cat rests on the young golden retriever.

Mom offers me a DVD,  money, and coffee and holiday fair coupons. I walk home and pet their neighbor’s cat. I get a ride halfway home from Erik and Chris, buying lights and supplies.

Loneliness gels away.

December 13, 2005

©Nicole Taylor