Living A Day (in haikus)
Morning
Meaningless days pass with wind, the shrill cries of birds in empty trees, the dead leaves echo me.
Afternoon
In a far away country, you sit and remember me sporadically, perhaps. Winter days always end abruptly.
Evening
Violins feed on long silences; I walk into the sunsets alone, blank. Mists await cold still nights.
Long Night
Miles Davis blows his horn. The notes sing of my belabored breath. The candle flickers in starlight.
Knife slicing onions, sharp tears, Lovers declare old-fashioned fidelity till death. Earth just knows seasons change.
I sit outside, band-aided fingers; this air is more transparent than glass. Cicadas confirm in high pitch.
Early Morning
Sleep draining out mind's noise. Dreams drift in and out, hulking ships. Sun is climbing the horizon.
2001:12:07 19:30 Atlanta
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Class Haiku
Shared cities, classes;
we, migrants who have intersected today
move on into the drifting snows of incoming winter
In response:
Sashi,Sashi! He is the man. Can I buy him a frying pan?
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Map Tracing
On the map,
my fingers of their
own volition trace
where you were when
you left me and went on
your own road.
Perhaps they remember
you more than I do.
It surprises me that this memory of touch is greater than that of memory of knowing. A friend told me the other night when I was down and blue, that I appear to be riddled with bullet holes, through which sunlight pours into my emptiness. Perhaps to light within me maps of places where we were once, you and I when we were still: We.
Spaces have just remained the same, it perhaps still is 700 miles as the crow flies from me to you. But inside all the hollow spaces that I now live in, it's another infinity, even another time.
And of that Stone Age are these heliographics My fingers obsessively trace on various clear maps, As if they see something I don't.
And when I try to remember you, in fragmented images That flutter like feathers or migratory seeds on barbed wire fences. I sense in my open palms, try to touch those dances which our bodies knew how to without our minds deciding.
And sometimes in flashes of rolling thunder I see how my fingers held your waist as they danced with you, in that far away country, maked on the map of my soul; Which sometimes these fingers trace over again so surely for they surely know.
On maps, on the walls.
2001:12:02 11:30 Atlanta
I wrote this when my fingers wandered to that lake shore city on a picture of the earth at night that was taken from space as the sun was setting over the Rockies.
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